9. Have you ever felt, like Meddy, burdened by expectations placed on you by your parents or other family members? So much so that you feel unable to speak your truth? Is Meddy a pushover, or is she being selfless?
10. Do you think Maureen is a redeemable character? Would you have been able to forgive her if you were in Jacqueline’s position?
Keep reading for an excerpt from the sequel to Dial A for Aunties.
Available soon from Berkley!
I try not to breathe as the last corset hook is yanked into place. “Ow, that’s digging into my rib cage.”
Yenyen huffs a breath through his teeth and gives one last vicious tug that forces a squeak out of me. “In the past, brides would break their ribs to fit into their wedding dresses,” he says, and it strikes me that he’s not saying it in a horrified tone, but rather a wistful one, which is somewhat worrying. “How do you feel?”
I risk breathing again, and to my surprise, despite the torturous time I had getting stuffed into the dress, once I’m in, it’s actually—dare I say it—comfortable. What sort of black magic is this? I could’ve sworn I would hardly be able to take even the tiniest sip of air in. I blink at him in surprise. “I can breathe in it.”
I can’t quite see his eyes behind the round, purple-tinted sunglasses, but I’m pretty sure I hear them roll.
“Aduuuh, of course you can breathe in it, silly. Yenyen’s creations aren’t just beautiful, they’re also built for maximum comfort.”
I can’t help but smile at him. Yenyen has a tendency to refer to himself in third person, which should sound mildly deranged but actually comes off somewhat endearing. His real name is Yenzhen, but nobody is allowed to call him that. Within the Chinese tradition, it’s common to have phonetically repeated names as a pet name, and as Yenyen says, he’s everybody’s best friend, so we must call him Yenyen.
“Now, are you ready to see it?” he asks.
Am I? My heart rate rises. My cheeks grow warm. This will be the forty millionth dress I’ve tried on. I swear I’ve tried on every wedding dress L.A. has to offer, and each time, there’s been something that Ma or my aunts didn’t like. Over the last few months, as we exhausted every bridal boutique in Greater Los Angeles, their comments have seared themselves onto my brain.
“Sequin not shiny enough.”
“The lace look itchy, is making me itchy, is making you itchy?”
“Body too slutty.” （Second Aunt meant bodice. I think.）
And so on and so forth, until Nathan announced that he’d arranged for Indonesia’s premiere wedding dress designer to come to L.A. with custom-made dresses. Including—and this is the pièce de résistance—dresses for the mother and aunts of the bride.
I swallow and nod at Yenyen. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, keep your eyes closed though!” He gathers the skirt behind me as I turn slowly to face the floor-length mirror. After a minute of rustling and fussing, he says, “Open your eyes.”
I do as he says.
My mouth drops open. “Yenyen—” My breath catches in my throat. There are no words to describe this dress. I know, in that moment, that this is it. This is The One. The bodice is swathed in the softest, most delicate lace that looks like it was sewn by fairies using spider silk. The skirt is a gorgeous frothy affair that somehow remains light enough for me to move around in. The entire thing hugs my body in all the right places and accentuates my curves in a way that is at once sexy and yet conservative. I feel as though I’m wearing a cloud. Tears rush to my eyes. “It’s perfect,” I whisper.
Yenyen waves me off, but it’s obvious he’s fighting off a huge smile. “Shall we show your family?”
Here we go. Deep breath. I don’t know what I’ll do if they say they don’t like it. I steel myself, tightening my hands into fists. I’ll fight for this dress. I’ve acquiesced to their never-ending laundry list of complaints, despite many of the dresses I’ve tried on being perfectly fine. This one isn’t just perfectly fine, though. It’s actually perfect. And I won’t let them ruin it for me. I won’t. I—
“Ta-da!” Yenyen cries as he yanks open the bedroom door with a flourish.
I grit my teeth awaiting the cascade of complaints, but there are none. In fact, there is nobody around. The sofa and chairs arranged in a semicircle in Ma’s living room are empty.
“Aduh,” Yenyen cries, throwing up his hands. “Yenyen can’t work like this. You know how important a good entrance is? This isn’t just a dress, it’s an experience!”