CHAPTER ONE
Grace
I havea notable number of pet peeves. Usually somewhat petty ones. Like when people leave their turn signals on for too long after making a lane change or when someone plays some fatuous YouTube video on full blast in a public place. But sometimes, it’s something completely justified. And as I’m sitting at Juniper and Ivy across from Harold the Accountant, I can’t tell which pet peeve I hate more. The fact that he chews with his mouth open or that he snaps his fingers at the server to get her attention.
“Your mother said you’re a social worker?” Harold asks, a set of narrow reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He has his phone screen lit up in his hand, and he’s reading off this detail about me, along with my age and height, as if my personal demographics have been registered online.
“Yes, and I believe she mentioned you’re an accountant,” I counter. I really don’t know much else about him, aside from the fact that, according to my mom, he may or may not have a pet dander allergy.
He nods. “I’m glad your mother prepared you for tonight.” I don’t miss that this is the second time he’s said “mother” with his nose pointed in the air.
“Hmm,” I hum. I take a long soothing sip of my wine, wondering how desperate I must’ve been to agree to this blind date. Was it desperation? Or was it more likely guilt? When my mom came to me with the prospect of an “optimal match,” along with the reminder of my continuously ticking, hard-to-ignore biological clock, I think it was my easily swayable conscience more than anything else. Although that biological clock feels more like an hourglass at this point, the grains of sand dwindling as my age remains a constant factor in my quest for what my mom considers a perfect husband.
He continues scrolling through his phone while managing to spear an oily asparagus stem and place it on his awaiting tongue. With a full mouth, the contents pushed aside to one cheek, he asks, “Then I’m assuming she mentioned my list?”
I pause mid-sip, using the moment to suppress a disgusted grimace. “Your list?”
He eyes me over the rim of his glasses, the obtuse edge of his jawline giving him an extra chin with it tucked toward his chest. “She didn’t mention my list?”
“No, she didn’t.” I clamp my teeth over my pursed lips in an attempt to hold back a sarcastic comment that will most likely come off as rude or crass. Though pleasantries seem to have left the table, leaving behind presumption on his end and impatience on mine.
He sighs as if the mere thought of having to explain his “list” inconveniences him. He taps away at his screen, a third chin appearing as his lips turn down into a frown, and he thrusts his phone in my direction. I take it from him, though I do so with a towering reluctance, and peer at the screen.
“Read it over,” he instructs, or rather demands, returning to his grilled duck.
It’s a list, all right. Bullet points on what makes the perfect partner for Harold the Accountant. Reputable job. Comes froma good family. Dresses nicely. Good cook. Of childbearing age. Decent health. Not overweight. Preferably Chinese. Is respectful to his mother, no matter the situation.
This isn’t real. I’m gettingPunk’d, right? Or I’m on an episode ofImpractical Jokers. My mom’s behind this. And maybe even my sister, Jade. They’re trying to give me a laugh. That has to be it.
“Now, I know one of the items on the list is that you have to be of childbearing age,” he adds. “And considering you’re…thirty-seven?”
I turn the phone back to him where my demographics are neatly typed, showing him where he input my age. “Thirty-nine.”
He draws in a concerned breath. A ruminant wince. “Well, as long as you’re willing to have kids right away, I can look past that.”
“That’s so considerate of you,” I say flatly, though he doesn’t seem to catch onto my sarcasm.
He smiles. It’s brusque and cursory, and by how clumsily his lips move, I can only assume he’s smiled about a handful of times since he was born. “And I know you’re only half-Chinese, but again, I’m willing to overlook that. As long as I talk to my parents first. They prefer their first grandson to be raised traditionally Chinese. Speaking the language, follow our customs.”
I need more wine.
This isn’t a date. It’s a business transaction. We aren’t asking questions pertaining to the getting-to-know-each-other variety. We haven’t once grazed over personal details that don’t define my worth. I feel like livestock put up for auction. There might as well be a bid caller at my side, answering questions to hash out a deal. Whatever happened to asking about my favorite color or what I do for fun?
Harold takes his phone back, a smug look of pride on his lips as he takes another look at his list. It’s clear he’s thought it through and most likely won’t sway from it, not that I had any plans to convince him my age is merely just a number or that the half-Korean part of my heritage is one that can be tossed aside. No one can be that desperate.
But as I consider the other prospects in my life, along with my mom’s more recent and unusual helicopter-parent-like tendencies, I can see how my standards are gradually lowering. Singledom is starting to feel like a death sentence I never thought I’d sign up for. I mean, in all honesty, in this day and age, who cares if you’re single? There are plenty of men and women who live a fulfilling life without a partner. Would it be so bad if I did too?
The short answer is, yes. As much as I admire those who aren’t on a lifelong search for their other half, it’s not the life I’d choose for myself. But the long answer? I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who wants me the same way. I want a partner. I want a family. I want all those yearly traditions I grew up with along with a noisy home and memories. I know a person’s relationship shouldn’t define them, but is it so bad that this is what I want?
I grit my teeth through the rest of the dinner. I maintain a polite, neutral air, and by the time the server has brought our check, my hand is already firmly gripping my valet ticket.
“So, your half is…112.07.” Harold is reading over the check, those reading glasses back over the oily bridge of his nose. He looks up at me expectantly, and I reach into my purse for my card. He takes it with another stiff smile and adds, “Actually, it’s about 115.07.” He tucks my card right alongside his in the leather check holder. “Tip,” he explains, and I make note of how he’s not only uptight but also cheap.
He informs the server that it’ll be a split bill when she picks it up, completely oblivious to her raised brow and wordless nod. I catch her eyeing me with disbelief, and I give her a look of equal perplexity. By the time we’re leaving the restaurant, I’m counting down the seconds until I’m in my car.
“That was nice.” Harold has his hand extended in my direction, offering a stiff handshake. I should be thankful he doesn’t assume I’d do something that requires more physical contact like a hug or, God forbid, a kiss. He seems satisfied, like he’s grading the firmness of my grip and the respectful way I don’t go beyond the etiquette of handshake rules by lingering for longer than necessary. “I’ll give your mother a positive report of our date.”
I respond with a curt nod and a pursed-lipped smile. “Take care, Harold.”
