Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,55
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Our tongues met, electricity pulsing through me and sending the butterflies in my stomach into a flurry. Our heads, lips, bodies moved in sync, almost as if we were choreographed.
When he pulled away, my breath came out in heavy gasps, forming puffs of fog in the cold air. He brushed my hair back with one hand and trailed soft kisses along my forehead, ear, and cheek.
A siren on the street below startled us, jolting Darren’s jaw into my nose as we turned in different directions. I yelped in pain, then rubbed the sore spot with my fingers. Luckily, his arms had tightened at the noise and I hadn’t rolled off the dome. In that moment, I realized just how precariously balanced we were.
“I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. His cheeks were flushed—from embarrassment or passion, I wasn’t sure. He brushed a kiss along the bridge of my nose. “Are you okay?”
“Everything’s perfect,” I said, and meant it.
“Maybe we should get out of here before the sirens find us,” he said reluctantly. “And before we freeze.” He rubbed his hands over my arms.
As we slid down the dome on our pìgus, I said, “So . . . there’s this wedding next Saturday. . . .”
He perked up at the word “wedding” and stopped scooting. “I like weddings. Dinner, cake, dancing—what’s not to like?” He struck a pose with his hands, and I smiled, remembering his adorable, flailing jig from MIThenge.
“Would you want to be my plus one?”
“I’d be honored,” he said, the excitement on his face matching the energy in his voice. “Whose is it?”
“My brother’s.”
His face fell, the brightness disappearing like a candle being blown out. “Will that be awkward given everything with, you know, them?”
“My parents won’t be there,” I answered as I returned to scooting, needing the distraction. “They disowned Xing years ago because they don’t approve of his fiancée. That was actually a large part of my disagreement with them, in addition to the career stuff.”
As soon as we were back on solid ground, he took my hands with both of his, squeezing once. The warmth traveled from my palms to my heart. “I’m so sorry about your parents, Mei.”
Surprisingly, it was all I needed. I had thought my situation would require dissecting each piece, brainstorming my next step, maybe even creating a ten-step plan, but those simple words and a kind gesture were enough for now.
Maybe there was something magical about the dome. MIT. Darren.
He held on to my hand until we reached Burton Conner. As we walked, I ran my tongue along my swollen lips, feeling the tenderness to remind me of our kisses, that it wasn’t a dream.
We paused at the dorm’s entrance, where the front light illuminated everything. I snuck a glance at the dark, walled-off garden to the right, the complete opposite of the bright, public spot we stood in now. It felt too creepy to pull him in there, yet I didn’t want to sneak another kiss in the open.
His hands pressed the small of my back, pulling my lips to his. The electricity sparked again, and I sank into him. I no longer cared who could see us. I wouldn’t stop even if my mother were here, hands on hips, that cold stare boring into us.
Darren pulled away first, much too soon. “Chin up, Lady Almond. It’ll get better.”
“Kiemasu,” I whispered, then vanished into the dorm like a magic act.
Voicemail from Nǎinai and Yilong
Nǎinai: Mei Mei, I’m disappointed in you. You a good girl deep down. Stop being foolish and fix this.
Yilong: Don’t throw away everything we’ve given you. Don’t be like Xing. Otherwise, you are no niece of mine.
Nǎinai: Eat your vitamins. . . .
CHAPTER 20
DR. AND DR.
MIDSTUDYING, I SCROUNGED THROUGH MY desk, searching for a fix of dried squid, my favorite brain food. But I came up empty. Of course.
When I failed to convince myself that the knot in my stomach was because I was hungry and nothing else, I slammed the drawer in frustration, sending a photo loose from the stack of papers on my desk.
My favorite baby picture, tucked into my college-bound boxes in a last-minute sentimental rush. It fluttered to the ground, catching the light streaming in from the window.
Two-year-old me, dressed in a red, embroidered, cotton-padded mián’ao and navy-blue sweatpants that said PUMP instead of PUMA. My father was holding me—no, he was clutching me to him, his arms awkward and cramped from squeezing so hard. His cheek was pressed against mine, an