The kiss wasn’t real. No feelings. Or rainbows. Or butterflies. Realistically, I should be grateful he had the wherewithal to try to conceal my stalking. He was being a good friend, helping me in dire straits, right? Why am I so disappointed?
“I’m not reading into it.” I might be.
“Are you sure?” he asks slowly, like he’s expecting me to confess my obsession with him right here, right now.
I hate that he sees me in such a pathetic light. “Relax. I’m not. I may be in the market for a soul mate, but even I’m not naive enough to think it would be you.”
He watches me for a moment, his expression stony. “Good.”
“And your kiss leaves a lot to be desired,” I add for good measure. I fold my arms and glare out the passenger window. It’s a lie, of course. It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had. But he can’t know that, lest his ego explode.
His stare burns through my profile, like he’s waiting for me to crack and admit his exceptional talent. “Excuse you. I’m a great kisser.”
“I’ve had better,” I say, suddenly very focused on the lint from my cable-knit sticking to my jeans.
“You’re lying. In fact, my skills have been corroborated by highly reliable sources.”
I shrug. “Sorry, Metcalfe. It is what it is. Maybe you’re just out of practice.”
When I don’t relent, he sighs and squints at the windshield like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “Anyways. We can’t do that. Ever again.”
? chapter twenty-two
WE DON’T TALK about the Kiss.
We don’t talk about it on the treacherously snowy drive home. We don’t talk about it as we hoof it up the stairs. We don’t talk about it while Trevor makes us a nutritious grilled chicken dinner. And we definitely don’t talk about it while we watch The Bachelor, him seated safely in the armchair instead of his usual spot on the couch.
Even days later, Trevor still takes painstaking efforts to avoid looking me in the eyes, like I’m a human solar eclipse. He’s also extra broody and grump-tastic, with his clipped one-syllable responses and general skulking about the apartment.
Meanwhile, I’m still struggling to understand what the hell happened in that lobby. Have I really had a lifetime of rusted Honda Civic–equivalent kisses? Because comparatively, Trevor’s kiss was like being behind the buttery leather wheel of Mel’s Tesla. Is it humanly possible to kiss someone like that—the fervent, suppressed passion of our breath colliding, him claiming me entirely—with zero authentic emotion spurring it on?
It’s taken every morsel of self-restraint I have （which isn’t much） not to crumble like a rainbow chip cookie and demand a detailed explanation. But I don’t. What if the answer is simpler than I want it to be? Maybe it’s exactly as he said: an unexpectedly effective way to avoid attention. And if that’s the case, where the hell do I go from here?
It doesn’t help that my followers have doubled down on the room-ance thing. Now that they’ve seen Trevor’s annoyingly handsome, perfect face on video twice, it’s game over. In fact, no one really cares about my exes at all. And I’m left to wonder （in a Carrie Bradshaw voice）， do I really care about them, either?
Did I really go to Daniel’s work with the intent to stage a run-in? If so, why did the reality of seeing him turn me into a fleeing gazelle at the sight of a lion at the watering hole? In fact, has this entire endeavor become so all-consuming because I truly want to find love with my exes, or am I merely basking in Trevor’s assistance?
Luckily, I have Crystal’s bridal shower to distract me from emotional ruin. We spent the morning pampering her and ourselves at the spa with manis, pedis, and facials. Now we’re at our childhood home for the shower. Originally, Aunt Lisa, the eldest sister on Dad’s side of the family, offered to host. But ever since she hosted a Lunar New Year celebration last week, which allegedly resulted in a permanent radish stain in her brand-new carpet, she refuses to entertain more than five adults in her home at a time.
Mom is a ball of anxiety when Mel, Crystal, and I arrive, clutching a trembling Hillary over her boob. Hillary is one fierce abomination of a creature today in her white cashmere sweater, snarling at every woman who dares get within a two-foot radius of Mom.
“Just put her upstairs,” I tell her, reaching to grab her myself. Hillary practically foams at the mouth when my hand grazes her pointed left ear. Mom turns, shielding her like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.
“We just have to make sure we keep her away from the women,” Mom says casually, like it’s totally normal for a dog to be a misogynist. She flashes Mel a fake smile over my shoulder before heading upstairs to administer Hillary’s daily dose of joint inflammation medication.
The kitchen is at capacity with Dad’s side of the family. Grandma Mei stands at the island, meticulously arranging the food, clad in both a leopard-print blouse and a leopard-print apron. She’s always been extra. Vibrant prints, random pops of fluorescent, the brighter the better. With her turquoise eye shadow and mauve lip, she’s straight off the Crazy Rich Asians movie set, sans rich.
My family always says I look like a younger, happier version of her, minus the weathered skin creased between her eyes, giving the illusion she’s perma-scowling, even when she’s not.
Everyone cheers when Crystal enters the kitchen. Before Mel and I follow her in, I direct her to the mudroom to remove our coats on account of the sweltering heat emanating from the steaming pots on the stove. It reminds me of chaotic summers working in the restaurant as a teen. The staff, even those who aren’t literal family, feel like family. On any given day, no matter the time, everyone can be heard singing and tossing loving yet scorching burns back and forth in a mix of English and Mandarin, all while working diligently to prepare massive vats of delicious food.
“Explain the family dynamics to me,” Mel requests on our way back to the kitchen.
“Okay, so Dad is the second eldest. He’s the favorite, to the dismay of the aunties and Uncle Michael, who isn’t here. See, they all work at the restaurant, except Dad, and he still gets preferential treatment.” I point to Aunt Lisa and Aunt Rachel, who are hovering around Mei as she chops water chestnuts. “Those two have an unspoken rivalry going on. They like to one-up each other with material possessions. Like when Aunt Lisa got a Louis Vuitton tote, Aunt Rachel had to get two.”
Mel gives her best attempt at a laugh, a far cry from her typical enthusiasm for juicy gossip. Now that I think of it, she’s been uncharacteristically quiet all day.
“You okay?” I ask.
She fusses with the ruffled collar of her blouse. “Yeah. It’s just . . . you’re really lucky to have such a close extended family. On both sides.” I don’t know much about Mel’s extended family, aside from the fact that she isn’t close with them.
“You’re always more than welcome at our family gatherings,” I pledge.
“I’m fairly certain your family doesn’t want some rando at their holidays.”
“You would be wrong.” I nod toward Dad, who’s barreling around the corner to give Mel a high-five greeting.