There was something about my parents wanting to impress Andrew that churned the guilt in my stomach. Except… they were the reason I was engaging in this convoluted charade. And yes, I was aware of the absurdity, in case anyone thought otherwise.

After chrysanthemum tea and pumpkin pie from a box with a hastily scratched-at price tag on top, the awkwardness notched up. To eleven.

My father cleared his throat, then gestured to the sheets stacked on the couch. “We’re traditional, Andrew. We assume there’s no…” He blushed.

“Hanky-panky,” my mother supplied with a completely straight face. I wondered where she’d learned that phrase.

Andrew turned red as well, and, given the flush I felt in my cheeks, I guessed we were a pod of lobsters in that moment, minus Mom.

“Of course, Wang Ǎyí, Shǔshú,” he said, seemingly fighting the urge to take a step away from me. You and me both, buddy.

I bid everyone good night and made a quick exit. As I padded up the stairs to my childhood bedroom, my parents’ gaze followed me, something foreign gleaming at the edges of their crow’s-feet. Pride, I realized. Oh, if only they knew the truth.

I put on pajamas and brushed my teeth in a haze. When I walked by the circular mirror that I’d picked out in first grade, I cowered. I didn’t want to see myself. Because what if I no longer recognized who that was?

I flopped onto the bed and squeezed my eyes shut. But the vision of my parents looking at Andrew and me with so much hope was burned into the backs of my eyelids.

How did I get here? I mean, I knew how I’d gotten here—with desperate lies that fed off one another and grew until I couldn’t contain them anymore. So I’d hired a ringer: nerdy Asian James Bond. James Bong. Banh. The name is Banh. James Banh Mi, the best thing since sliced baguette with seasoned meat, cilantro, and pickled veggies.

Once I ran out of Bond puns, my mind wandered back to the web of lies I’d spun myself into.

The only way to distract myself was to focus on something equally horrifying but less painful. So I thought about every weird thing I’d said and done my entire life, like that time I met a cute guy in game theory and at the end of our conversation couldn’t decide whether to say “Lovely chatting” or “See you,” and I instead said, “Love you.” God. Whenever that memory replayed in my head and I heard “Love you” in my sad, squeaky voice, I let out a whimper. Could I be any more pathetic?

Yes, by hiring a fake boyfriend.

I was my own worst enemy.

Eventually, around two in the morning, I threw the sheets off and went in search of some cold pumpkin pie.

Drew CHAPTER 4 JUST ANOTHER NIGHT