Denise receives a text message and types a reply while I do some people-watching. I feel content. If I didn’t know myself as well as I do, I’d say I was over Mike already.
“This is nice,” I say, stretching my legs.
Denise raises her glass of rosé spritz. “To retail therapy!”
“Cheers to that!” I toast with the same drink.
The first sip is tart perfection.
“Do you have anything new jewelry-wise?” Denise asks.
I pull my sketchbook from my purse and flip through the pages until I reach the latest designs. Aunt Mei thinks she can sell them, which is all the motivation I need.
“Here.” I slide the sketchbook across the table.
Denise studies the designs. “These earrings? Gorgeous. And the layered necklace—love it! But what’s going on with this bracelet? Is it supposed to look like melted spaghetti?”
“Actually, yes,” I reply with a grin.
When she’s done, I tuck the sketchbook back into my bag.
Denise sips her spritz. “It just occurred to me that the guy you described in your application may not want a bank teller.”
“Why do you assume I presented myself as a bank teller?”
“You didn’t?”
“I described myself as a costume jewelry creator who has a day job to pay the rent.”
“That’s a clever spin,” she praises me.
“I know, right? I also said I don’t care how much he makes as long as he makes art.”
Denise lets out a hearty laugh. “The funniest part is that it isn’t even a lie.”
“Nope, all true.”
She looks me up and down. “You’re really leaning into this rebellion thing.”
“Oh, I’m all in! That’s how pissed off I am at my parents and Mike.”
She cocks her head. “On the off chance you get matched, will you go through with it? Like, for real?”
“Watch me.”
She begins to say something, but a commotion behind us interrupts her. We both turn around to see what’s going on. A small TV crew—camera, boom mic, the works—sweeps through the café’s door out onto the terrace. Heads turn as the crew scans the tables, looking for someone.
“What do you think is happening?” I ask Denise, my cocktail frozen halfway to my mouth.
“You’re about to find out,” she says.
Huh?
The woman holding the mic locks eyes with me and heads straight to our table.
“Laura Yang?” she asks with a dazzling smile.
I blink. “Yes?”
