“For the record, I liked that line,” he said. He nudged my shoulder with his. I flinched when we made contact, and he scooted away an inch. “I’m sorry.”

Not as sorry as I was.

I put my hand out, palm down. “One, two, three—fuck you, Hongbo!” I chanted. And even though we were far from a foolproof plan, Andrew put his palm on mine and we pressed down, then threw our hands and worries into the air.

Drew CHAPTER 31 SHARKY SEA

I was as ready as I could be for the Christmas Eve party to end all parties: freshly showered, deodorized, shaved, and suited up (just a regular suit, not a superhero suit, unfortunately). Most importantly, I had also received an all clear from corporate about the party. As soon as Jing-Jing and I had returned from our walk, I’d sent Rent for Your ’Rents an alert with the party details, and they had combed through their database and the internet for potential conflicts with any previous clients of mine. The chances were already low because, before I had even been assigned to her, Jing-Jing had listed her communities and family friends and contacts for the algorithm to take into consideration. But I liked to take every precaution, meaning, if the all clear hadn’t come through, Rent for Your ’Rents would have tried to contact the other client, or I would have found a way out of the party.

I was sitting on the couch, fighting my urge to twiddle my thumbs, when Jing-Jing descended the stairs in a flowy, scarlet, knee-length cocktail dress. Three pink peonies were splashed across the top half, above where the skirt flared out, and two adorable Chinese knot closures joined the two sides of the slanted collar. And, this had never happened before, I promise (and I’d never wanted it to happen), but it felt like she was coming toward me in slow motion.

I had somehow stood as she came downstairs, but I didn’t remember moving any muscles.

“Wow.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, wow,” I said in exactly the same hoarse, embarrassing way.

Everything sped up again and she smiled at me as she approached.

“You clean up nice,” she said, gesturing to my maroon button-up shirt, navy suit, and forest-green pocket square. (Maroon was a UChicago color and, with the forest green, also checked the Christmas-colors box.)

Then she leaned over and whispered, “Good performance.”

Performance? Right. Jing-Jing subtly tilted her head toward her mother, whom I now saw for the first time, peeking at us from around the corner, her eyes wide and lit up like that time at Thanksgiving when I’d complimented how strong and independent Jing-Jing was.