“What’s with the outfit?” Aunt Mei asks, waving dismissively. “You look like a banana.”
“Why, thank you!” Antoine inclines his head. “Mei, right?”
“What were you thinking dressing like that?” she piles on.
Dad jumps in before Antoine can respond. “What do you do for a living?”
My relatives lean back, arms crossed, eyes on Antoine.
“Monsieur Yang,” he begins. “May I call you Zhou?”
“No,” Dad grits.
“All right then, I’ll stick to Monsieur Yang,” Antoine says. “According to the rules of this game—I mean, this show—we’re not allowed to disclose our occupations until after the honeymoon.”
“How convenient!” Mom exclaims.
Antoine shrugs. “Not my rules, Madame Yang.”
“Are you ashamed of your job?” Aunt Mei asks him.
The question is obviously rhetorical, so Antoine doesn’t answer it.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Dad flashes a palm at me as if to say he isn’t done yet.
“Let me guess.” He sized Antoine up. “Bartender? Dancer? Gigolo?”
“Dad!” I snap.
“No, wait, I know,” he goes on, ignoring me. “Unemployed!”
“Dad, stop!”
Mom casts me a withering look. “You did this to yourself, Laura.”
“And let’s be honest,” Aunt Mei adds. “It won’t last. The sooner you end this farce and break up, the better for everyone involved.”
Antoine’s expression remains neutral, while I want to scream and crawl under the nearest table.
Someone speaks behind us. “Mind if I steal the happy couple?”
Gigi, Antoine’s brother’s fiancée, flashes my folks a dazzling smile. In her simple dress and tasteful acrylic earrings—kudos to the designer!—she looks like aVoiciad for affordable elegance.
Thank you, Gigi!I owe you one.
She points toward Henri, who’s waving at us from a few meters away. Antoine gives my parents and aunt a curt nod. I turn around, and we beat feet before they can throw more insults at us.
Henri, his tie loosened and a glass of wine in his hand, grins at his brother. “I see you survived the interrogation.”
“The Yangs are a tough bunch,” Antoine says with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
“Are you younger or older than Antoine?” I ask Henri.
“I’m his baby brother.”
Antoine scoffs, “Baby. You’re thirty years old.”
“And you’re thirty-four. So?” Henri fires back before turning to me. “Anyway, what do you think of your husband’s tux?”
