He couldn’t even sell the compliment, choking on the words as they came out. Amateur. He should’ve just pretended he was talking to his beloved Sheila, to which Jing-Jing had devoted an entire paragraph on her form. And, sadly, Hongbo didn’t know Jing-Jing well enough to know her hatred of flowers, especially roses. They’re cliché, a waste of money, and a half-assed effort from someone who barely knows you, she had written. Nailed that square on the head, hadn’t she?

Jing-Jing sat there, frozen, her eyes downcast, so Hongbo threw the bouquet on the table, smashing my sandwich in the process. As classy as the Lamborghini T-shirt beneath his freshly pressed blazer. Yikes.

Hongbo was holding back whatever was on his mind, and not very well; his teeth were clenched so tight his jawline fluttered like a hummingbird.

What the hell was going on here? Hongbo obviously had no interest in Jing-Jing (I’d seen better liars kicked out of Rent for Your ’Rents on day one), yet something was driving this pathetic courting (if it could even be called that). Why bother, when this was all their parents’ idea? He should be on our side, not theirs.

“Thank you so much for the flowers, Hongbo,” Jing-Jing said, her voice small. This was not the girl from the application who had angrily typed (in the sixth paragraph) about the misogynistic, philandering, sorry ass of a human who was necessitating my paycheck. “They’re lovely,” she continued, “but I can’t accept them. It would be rude to my—”

Before she could finish, her mother rushed over and scooped up the roses. “Aiyah, you shouldn’t have, Hongbo. So generous you are, just like your parents. Such fee-lan-therapists.”

With disgust, Hongbo corrected her: “Philanthropists.”

Mrs. Wang flushed all shades of red but recovered quickly. “I just heard about your parents’ latest donation to the church, which was larger than any other donation ever given, a record they also previously held. Amazing! They’ve donated so much that everything should be named after them, but they’re so humble and always refuse the recognition.”

Right. Jing-Jing had mentioned in her application that the church was the pillar of their community, and Hongbo’s family, as the biggest financial supporters, were like gods (but second to the real God, of course).

“Number One donors and Number One bachelor here,” Mrs. Wang finished with enthusiasm.

Mr. Wang clapped Hongbo on the back. “We just invested a large chunk of our savings into Number One stocks. Do us proud, yes?”

Jing-Jing’s raised eyebrows told me this was unexpected.

Even though all the attention was on him, Hongbo wasn’t even pretending to listen. He was staring at me.

Realizing she wouldn’t get anything out of Hongbo until she addressed the five-foot-eleven (hopefully great-at-art) elephant in the room, Mrs. Wang gestured to me and said, “Hongbo, that’s Jing-Jing’s friend. Anthony. I mean, Arthur? Adam.”