Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,62

trudging through three blocks of snow to the Chinatown reception.

“That was a pretty church,” Darren said. “I love the mosaic windows.”

He was trying so hard I could see his effort, but I could only manage a rumble in my throat that vaguely sounded like mm-hmm.

He halted, pulling me to a stop beside him. “Mei, I’m really sorry about your grandma. Do you want to talk about anything?”

Yes. Everything. I would never make up with Nǎinai, who died thinking Xing and I were terrible. Xing would never make up with her, and he didn’t care. There was too much, so I just shook my head.

The restaurant was even redder than the church, decorated with wall scrolls, paper umbrellas, and lanterns. A red wall displaying golden phoenix and dragon statues served as the backdrop, and in front, on a dais, sat a sweetheart table for the bride and groom, most likely to downplay my parents’ absence.

I retreated to my table with Darren close behind. In the center, between candles, a paper snake and rabbit—Xing and Esther’s zodiac animals, respectively—stared back at me. I hadn’t realized Esther was two years older than Xing. Yet another thing my parents would disapprove of.

The newlyweds entered the reception hall to a round of whistling and feet stamping. Esther had changed into a traditional red qípáo with gold stitching, but the conventionally skintight dress appeared a size too big, allowing her a larger range of motion. Maybe it was so she could dance. I smiled with hope that I would get along with my new sister-in-law.

On top of the embroidered silk, Esther was weighed down by chain after chain—the more gold, the more miànzi for her family. Not enough prestige and the groom’s family won the right to bully the bride. Not so much an issue here—the bullying was already at a maximum, and I was the only Lu present anyway—but perhaps the tradition had evolved beyond its meaning, like how American brides wore white regardless of their sexual history.

I watched numbly as Xing and Esther kneeled, their hands over their bowed heads to serve hóngzao guìyuán chá to the Wongs. The idea of my future tea ceremony with Mr. and Mrs. Wong’s smug expressions on my own parents’ faces made me choke on my shark fin soup. Except . . . we wouldn’t even make it that far.

I barely noticed the first four courses. But since it was the typical Chinese wedding banquet with ten rounds of the most elaborate, expensive delicacies (again, it was all about that miànzi), I had six more to get myself together.

I recognized the next course, swift nest soup, from stories I’d heard from Nǎinai. Her point had always been how delicious and rare the dish was, but all I ever heard was how the nests were made of solidified bird saliva.

I shoved it aside with a pinky (for minimal contact), then pushed Darren’s away as well. Under the table, I broke out my hand sanitizer.

He tilted his head at me. “What is this? Do you not like it?”

I shook my head at him and mouthed, Just trust me. Who knew what kinds of diseases were floating around in there?

The elderly guest next to me leaned uncomfortably close, shaking a judgmental finger. “That’s the most expensive dish. Don’t be rude.”

“We’re allergic,” I lied.

Her face brightened as she reached over my arm to swipe my bowl.

The next course wasn’t much better: sea cucumber. As I pushed the luxurious booger around my plate, the guests clinked glasses amid laughter and chatter. So rè’nào. But all I could do was imagine Yilong here, screaming, How can you all celebrate after Nainai just died? Murderers!

Xing and Esther began making the rounds, coming to our table first. I stood so fast my chair almost tipped over, but I caught it in time. Esther smiled hesitantly at me, and it made me feel better to know she felt the same anxiousness that was making my palms sweat. I pulled her into a hug, partly because my hands were clammy and disgusting, but also because it felt like the right thing to do.

Her gold necklaces felt cold against my warm cheek, and her flowery perfume overwhelmed my nose. Jasmine. My mother’s favorite. How ironic.

“I’m sorry about everything,” she whispered in my ear.

I squeezed harder and felt some of the tension leave her body.

“You must have ginormous expectations of me, the girl Xing left his family for,” she said. “Those are pretty big shoes my size-six feet can’t fill.”

I