Drew CHAPTER 67 DREW CHAN

February 13

I have been to many Chinese New Year dinners, all of them awkward, but compared to tonight, the others were a 1950s-television-family gathering.

Today I was dressed in a red button-up and slacks, with a fun Pollock-like tie I’d painted myself, and no glasses: a.k.a. full Drew. And Drew had brought non-company-sanctioned Chinese New Year gifts: a Zhōngguó jié wall hanging I’d knotted myself and red envelopes filled with some of my creations (paper stars, moons, and a sheep for Chloe).

My heartbeat was in my ears as I rang the doorbell—the first time I was arriving without Chloe by my side. Maybe try to think of tonight as the first night, I told myself in an effort to keep my brain from toggling between Drew and Andrew. I didn’t have that problem with Chloe, but I didn’t know what it would be like back in this house again, where I’d grown accustomed to being someone else.

Chloe opened the door with a weary smile. I gave her an everything okay? look and she sighed dramatically. Stubborn as an ox and a mouse, she mouthed to me, which made me stifle a laugh because it was the perfect use of her parents’ zodiac animals.

I pulled her into a hug, careful not to drop the gifts in my hands, and she surprised me by kissing me on the mouth, assuredly, before helping me with what I was carrying. Despite the weariness, she seemed to be moving more freely than before, a weight lifted.

Her parents did not come out to greet me.

“Are you sure it’s okay I’m here?” I whispered as we made our way to the kitchen.

“Like I said, they haven’t said much. But that also means I was able to tell them all about you.”

I raised a questioning eyebrow. She gave me a tight-lipped smile. Shit. (How could they not be excited about their brilliant, beautiful daughter dating a college dropout who painted moons between fake-boyfriend jobs?)

“I got you,” she whispered in my ear before giving my side a squeeze. “You got this. We’ve got this.”

The kitchen smelled like home, with beef broth simmering on the stove, kōng xīn cài sizzling in a wok, and made-from-scratch dumplings lining the table. It looked like home too, with red decorations hung from every crevice.

The Wangs smiled and waved, but no hugs and no break from bustling around the kitchen. I hopped in and lent a hand, trying not to let their reaction (or lack thereof) bring me down. If Mr. and Mrs. Wang appreciated my help or noticed my dumpling skills (yes, there had been a class), they didn’t express it in any way.