Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,2

and Mrs. Wang motioned to the food, and I dished some zhàjiàng noodles to Jing-Jing before passing the bowl to her parents. Man, it had been a while since I’d inhaled that sweet-and-spicy scent. It was the smell of our kitchen after the Chan boys—ahem, men, as my dad would correct me—played a sweaty, ultracompetitive game of basketball. As the aroma enveloped me, I heard his gruff, comforting, yet haunting voice in my head: You’ve got to earrrn your noodles!

I hated basketball. And now was not the time to be thinking of him, not when I had a different, fictional (read: loving) father to be telling stories about.

More plates were shuffled around, utensils clinked, and Jing-Jing shot me a nervous grin. I gave her a reassuring smile and nod; so far this was textbook. In fact, the silence was comforting, probably because of the familiarity from my childhood and from a chunk of the other jobs I’d done for Rent for Your ’Rents in the last year and a half. But as I spooned out some kōng xīn cài and the vegetable’s garlicky sauce dribbled haphazardly onto my plate, there it was, at the back of my head, niggling like the goddamn parasite it was: You and your family have so many issues because of this very silence.

The collar of my shirt was suddenly choking me, but because touching it wasn’t an option, I forced myself to think about anything else: what I was going to paint first with my new brushes, the smell of the food before me (which really was heavenly; the Wangs had gone all out), and—who was I kidding? All I could think about was how I couldn’t breathe, how everything was closing in, and what the hell was I doing here?

I focused on the itch, which only made it worse. Mental note: ditch this brand and go back to Tommy Hilfiger despite the extra cost. Maybe if I told corporate how it had endangered my cover, they’d do the splurging for me.

Jing-Jing put her hand on mine, probably because she sensed my spinning from her front-row seat. How? I have no idea. Maybe she had a gift for this and should look into a position at Rent for Your ’Rents. When I glanced at her, she gave me a warm smile that extended to her eyes, and I found myself returning her grin.

Back on track.

Chloe CHAPTER 3

ROUND 1

Wasn’t he supposed to be the professional? Wasn’t I paying for excellence, not nerves and awkwardness?

Or… was this part of it? Maybe he was playing the doting boyfriend who cared for me so much he was nervous about impressing my parents.

I tried to relax by reminding myself there was a money-back guarantee: If the operative did not achieve the mission of providing a boyfriend worthy of parental approval, as vague as that was, I could ask for a full refund. Heh, “operative,” like he was James Bond, except he would be nerdy, well-mannered, and loyal—a.k.a. “guāi,” as the website promised—and an Asian parent’s dream. The operative’s attractiveness was also assured to be high enough to promise cute babies, but not movie-star high as to invoke worries of future cheating due to endless opportunities.

Now that our plates were full of sides, my father stood over the turkey with a knife in his non-dominant hand and a fork in the dominant one. Hover right, left, above, poke the turkey.

Andrew looked to me for a moment, and I read the question in his eyes: he wasn’t sure whether or not to jump in and help. To be honest, I wasn’t sure either—my father liked to be the head of the house, but he also clearly had no idea what he was doing and wasn’t a fan of embarrassing himself.

I smiled blankly at my supposed beloved.

“Shǔshú,” Andrew said, standing slowly, “you’ve been cooking for days, and I’d be honored if you let me do some of the work. May I serve you and Ǎyí? I probably can’t carve it as well as you would have, so I hope you’ll forgive any mistakes. But you deserve to rest and enjoy the evening.”

Barf. It seemed way over the top to me, but my father was on the verge of humping Andrew’s leg. Worth every penny, wasn’t he?

As Andrew cut into the turkey and produced gorgeous, symmetrical pieces—was that in his training?—my father cleared his throat.

“So, Andrew, tell us about yourself.”

“Yes, Jing-Jing has been strangely quiet about you!” my mother exclaimed dramatically. “You know, we