I tried to relax by reminding myself there was a money-back guarantee: If the operative did not achieve the mission of providing a boyfriend worthy of parental approval, as vague as that was, I could ask for a full refund. Heh, “operative,” like he was James Bond, except he would be nerdy, well-mannered, and loyal—a.k.a. “guāi,” as the website promised—and an Asian parent’s dream. The operative’s attractiveness was also assured to be high enough to promise cute babies, but not movie-star high as to invoke worries of future cheating due to endless opportunities.

Now that our plates were full of sides, my father stood over the turkey with a knife in his non-dominant hand and a fork in the dominant one. Hover right, left, above, poke the turkey.

Andrew looked to me for a moment, and I read the question in his eyes: he wasn’t sure whether or not to jump in and help. To be honest, I wasn’t sure either—my father liked to be the head of the house, but he also clearly had no idea what he was doing and wasn’t a fan of embarrassing himself.

I smiled blankly at my supposed beloved.

“Shǔshú,” Andrew said, standing slowly, “you’ve been cooking for days, and I’d be honored if you let me do some of the work. May I serve you and Ǎyí? I probably can’t carve it as well as you would have, so I hope you’ll forgive any mistakes. But you deserve to rest and enjoy the evening.”

Barf. It seemed way over the top to me, but my father was on the verge of humping Andrew’s leg. Worth every penny, wasn’t he?

As Andrew cut into the turkey and produced gorgeous, symmetrical pieces—was that in his training?—my father cleared his throat.

“So, Andrew, tell us about yourself.”

“Yes, Jing-Jing has been strangely quiet about you!” my mother exclaimed dramatically. “You know, we were shocked to learn about your existence.” Just as shocked as I had been when I’d made him up under dire circumstances two months ago.

My parents folded their hands on the table and waited expectantly.

I swallowed hard and tried to telekinetically remind Andrew what was at stake: my freedom from Hongbo Kuo. Disgusting, chauvinistic Hongbo, whom my parents wanted for me for all the wrong reasons, and who wanted me for even worse reasons. If it weren’t for Hongbo, there’d be more money in my bank account and Andrew would be at some other poor girl’s house this Thanksgiving weekend—and I meant “poor” in both senses of the word.