Everyone is looking at me now.
The woman beams and gestures to the camera. “I’m Isabelle fromWed at First Sight.And I have great news for you!”
“Wha—?” My mouth falls open and stays that way while my mind scrambles to wrap itself around what is happening.
“Dear Laura, I’m thrilled to tell you that you’ve been matched!” Isabelle exclaims.
Denise, remarkably unperturbed, gives me a hug. “Congratulations!”
Wait…I narrow my eyes. “Were you in on this? Is this who you were texting earlier? Is that how they found me?”
She hangs her head in fake remorse.
Isabelle speaks again. “Congratulations, Laura! You’ll be getting married in two weeks.”
My brain stutters.
She claps her hands in feigned delight. “Yay! We’ll be in touch soon with all the details. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies.”
“You, too. Bye!” I wave, my mind still immersed in a thick, numbing fog.
Isabelle turns to Denise. “And thanks again for helping us make this a genuine surprise for Laura. She wrote in her letter she loves surprises—and we took note!”
“My pleasure,” Denise says, winking at the camera.
The crew melts away, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
I stare at Denise, wide-eyed. “I’m going to marry some random guy on live television.”
“Can you take some time off work?” Denise asks, ignoring my distress.
“I have two weeks of overdue vacation…”
“Excellent.”
Still dazed, I shake my head in disbelief. “This is insane.”
“Just go with the flow,” she advises. “It could turn out to be the most fun thing you’ve ever done.”
Absently, I nod.
“To insanity!” She raises her glass. “And your future bohemian husband. Can’t wait to see his tattoos!”
I clink my glass against hers, reminding myself that this is my chance to get even with Mom, Dad, Aunt Mei, and Mike. All four in one fell swoop.
There won’t be another opportunity like this.
I’m seeing it through.
CHAPTER FOUR
LAURA
The smell of Szechuan spices thick with chili and garlic fills the air. My mouth waters as my mom lifts the lid off a bubbling pot of mapo tofu. I nearly drool at the sight of the rich red sauce glistening in the light. Across the table, Aunt Mei scoops rice into bowls, her bangles clinking softly with every movement. Dad is already peeling an orange for dessert, though we haven’t even started eating.
Mom’s sharp tone cuts through the cozy hum of the kitchen. “Laura, pass the scallion pancakes.”
I slide the plate over, biting my tongue. Mom has this uncanny way of packaging requests like demands. It always bothers me, but I never dare to bring it up. Especially because, when she speaks Mandarin, she’s perfectly polite. Linguistic subtleties tend to get lost in translation. And, seeing as I’m the only one in the family who was born in France, it doesn’t feel fair to lecture the others.
