I replayed my conversation with my mother.

Me: Just so you know, I was able to put a chunk toward tuition last quarter—I mean, semester—with my tutoring.

Mom: That reminds me, Hongbo requested you personally.

Me: For tutoring? What, for the GMAT or something?

Mom: Why don’t you see him Friday?

Me: [inaudible grunting]

Mom: His treat. Bài tuō le, Jing-Jing.

Me: No need to get dramatic. [pause] I’m not in.

Mom: He’ll shower you with money. I already told him you would do it. What’s so bad about spending a few hours with him at the library on Friday?

Goddamn it. That crafty badger.

The math tips and vocab word lists in my purse were laughing at me. The previous red flags I’d unconsciously ignored now came screaming to the forefront at full speed, mocking me and telling me I deserved Prime Strip for letting myself get bamboozled by money.

“Take. Me. Home,” I said evenly through my teeth.

Hongbo rolled his eyes.

When he didn’t start the engine, I exited the car, slamming the door as hard as I could.

He jumped out of the driver’s side. “Hey! Easy on the door!” He hurried over and blocked my way. “What’s wrong with you? Just come in, eat some steak, watch the show—you could learn a thing or two. Here, I’ll even be a gentleman and let you use this.” He pulled out a filled-out punch card that said FREE NACHOS AFTER 10 LAP DANCES. “Or maybe we’ll share. I earned this, after all.”

I pulled my phone out to call an Uber and he threw a palm up. Worried he was reaching out to take my phone, I tucked it into my armpit.

But, worse, he was reaching up to point at my head as he said, “You have a screw loose up there? Girls would give up their firstborns for a chance to be with me! Not that I’m sterile or anything—I have supersperm—it’s just a metaphor. Do you know what a metaphor is? Because I do. Obviously.”

“Oh my God, I know what a metaphor is!” I burst out.

“Well, good, because I’m asking you to be with me metaphorically and only metaphorically. Because I’m not, like, attracted to you or anything. Blech—you have the sex appeal of a cactus.”

I was so overwhelmed and angry and disgusted I didn’t bother asking what being with someone “metaphorically” meant, and I instead tried to fully convey how not interested I was. “I would rather have sex with a cactus than be with you.”

He narrowed his eyes with resentment even though he’d just said the same thing to me. Then he shook his head. “You idiot, it’s a business transaction: you do me a favor, I do you a favor.”

“How in the hell would you be doing me a favor?”