by Pintip Dunn
“Ah. Too bad,” Bunny says. “I was hoping you could report on whether Mat’s lips are as pillowy soft as they look.”
I snort. “Clearly, planning this bachelorette party is turning your brain to mush. Because I’m never going to be able to answer that question.”
“Never say never.” She sweeps up a red gummy and bites off its head. “What about the tour with the new guy? Was he just as cute today?”
“Didn’t happen, either.” This time, I don’t even falter. I suppose, once you start fibbing, each additional lie becomes easier to tell. “He overslept.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Winnie,” she says. “I know you were really excited to spend more time with him.”
“Guess I’ll just have to be excited about your pecker project,” I say cheerfully.
I keep up the optimistic act through the next several minutes, during which Bunny is asked to weigh in on not just one but two potential sizes of cardboard penises. My sister, the Pecker Inspector. Who knew?
I’m so convincing that I wonder if I’ve overlooked my true calling. Forget being a professor of economics. Maybe my actual future lies in politics.
Finally, I get off the phone.
Only then do I let the tears drop from my eyes.
Chapter Ten
That night, I dream.
It begins as many dreams do, with the events of my day jumbled together as though they were in a blender. One moment, I’m attaching penis gummies all over Mat’s Jeep. He takes one off the windshield, his eyebrow artfully raised, and pops it into his mouth. The next moment, Taran picks up the ruler that Papa so thoughtfully provided. Instead of measuring the distance between us, however, he breaks the ruler in half and pulls me against his chest.
Here, the dream melts into one of those weird states where I know I’m dreaming but the scene is so vivid, so delicious, that I don’t want to be. And I’m just confused enough to convince myself that it’s sufficiently real, if only for the moment.
I’m walking through a lush forest, hand in hand with Taran. Dazzling flowers bloom in the bushes, and the scents of pine and moist earth engulf me. The sun slants though gaps in the living canopy, warming my skin. The leaves dance with the barest of breezes. Everything feels perfect.
He holds my hand just right. Not too hard and not too soft. Our fingers intertwine like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Presently, we stop by a set of large boulders and descend into a shallow pond. The water laps at my bare waist. I’m wearing a tiny red bikini—one that I’ve never seen, much less owned. A waterfall thunders next to us, and stray drops flick onto my skin. The water is cool and refreshing. I’m so heated that I’m surprised the drops don’t evaporate upon contact.
Taran’s hand is on the move. His fingers leave mine, and he skims them over the back of my hand, onto my wrist. My skin sizzles where he touches, but I can’t tell if it’s from excitement or anxiety. The waterfall continues to pound next to us, but I don’t notice. I don’t care. The whole of my being is focused on his hand, on those long and elegant fingers—and how I’m supposed to react to them.
He walks his fingers up my arm, all the way to my shoulder, where he pauses.
“I’ve wanted this for so long. You have no idea.” His voice sounds different. Lower, raspier somehow.
He moves his hand again, gliding it across my collarbone, tilting up my chin. Anticipation swirls in my stomach. This is it. My first kiss. The one I’ve been waiting for since I saw Adam Scheffer plant one on Ari in a darkened alcove next to the art room. But am I ready for it? And do I want my first time to be with Taran? As cute as he is, I barely know the guy.
Still, I lift my own chin, telling myself to go for it. I need to have my first kiss sometime.
But I’m confused. What does he mean, he’s been waiting so long? We only met two days ago. He couldn’t have wanted me for longer than forty-eight hours.
A pair of lips comes into view. Soft-looking, pillow lips. And I’m even more puzzled. Because Taran isn’t that tall. And dream or no dream, shouldn’t I be locking eyes with him right about now?
The answer dawns on me the moment my gaze clashes with a pair of eyes so dark that they’re almost black. Lashes so long, they evoke cries of inequity. An expression so arrogant that it can belong to only one person.
Mat Songsomboon.
My mouth drops in horror. Oh, holy hell. I’m having a kiss dream about Mat?
No. Freaking. Way.
He continues to lean closer. And closer still.
Gasping, I jerk awake just as those famed pillow lips touch mine.
Chapter Eleven
Several days later, I stir a perfectly soft-boiled egg into my bowl of hot congee, the steam buffeting my face. I haven’t quite recovered from my dream-turned-nightmare of kissing Mat. How could my subconscious betray me like that?
It’s Bunny’s fault. It has to be. She was talking about his pillowy lips, and my mind twisted that into something that I would find attractive.
Damn Bunny. Damn subconscious. Damn Mat for being way better-looking than his personality deserves.
Okay, I’ll own up to it. Much to my chagrin, even after I woke, I imagined—for a few fleeting seconds—how it might feel to kiss those lips. So sue me. He’s…passable, okay? That’s not a terrible thing to admit. Just because I can recognize an objective fact doesn’t mean that I’m attracted to him. Doesn’t mean I like him as a human being.
“You’re going shopping today,” Mama announces, sprinkling sliced ginger and scallions into my jok (what we call congee). “I’m giving you my credit card. You can charge whatever you want.”
I rub my eyes, as much from the steam dislodging my contacts as from her words. Mama, giving me free rein of her credit card? I must be dreaming.
“The Songkran holiday is next week,” she continues, “and I hear the Tongdees are hosting a party for all the young people that evening.”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “They feel badly about yanking Taran out of school his senior year. So they thought a party might ease his transition.”
She smiles, which proves that she doesn’t have the first idea that I’ve been obsessing over the new boy. In spite of our promising beginning, however, I haven’t crossed paths with Taran all week.
“I thought you might want something new to wear,” Mama says.
Now I know I’m definitely dreaming. The Songkran festival marks the beginning of the Thai New Year on April thirteenth, and the holiday is celebrated with water. Pouring water, splashing water, spraying water—all symbols of washing away the previous year’s negativity. It’s a blast. When we were younger, Mama would set up an inflatable swimming pool in the backyard and arm all the kids with water guns. The twins would commandeer the hose, but Mat and I held our own. Back to back, a water gun in each hand, we would spin in a slow circle, soaking every last person who stepped into our range.
As much fun as the holiday is, however, we don’t usually give or receive presents. Plus, I can count on two hands the number of new dresses I’ve gotten in my lifetime.
I shove a spoonful of jok into my mouth—and then pant as it burns my tongue. Mama made my favorite breakfast. She didn’t even use the packet. Instead, she ground up grains of rice in the food processor and fashioned meatballs out of minced pork. Add a soft-boiled egg, and I’m in food ecstasy.
And yet, I can tell that something’s up with Mama. I mean, I would love a new outfit for Taran’s party. (Something sleek and elegant, maybe in a deep jewel tone?) But the offer doesn’t make any sense. Is Mama feeling nostalgic? Gripped with premature empty-nest syndrome? Or maybe—
“Mat’s picking you up in thirty minutes. You’re going shopping for your second date.”
Ugh. I should have known.
I let my spoon clatter to the table. “Seriously, Mama?”
I
’ve barely seen my nemesis all week, much less talked to him. Our only communication was when I traded out the curly lashes on his Jeep for dollar-sign headlights and lots of gold bling, transforming his baby from flirty coquette to greedy monster. The decor—and the thought of his reaction—made me giggle.
I know my intention was to explore deeper, more vulnerable emotions. But after our last interaction, I couldn’t open myself up like that. Not to him or the rest of the world.
So, greed it is. That should put Mat in his place.
But instead of slinking into the parking lot after first bell or finding an isolated spot in the overflow area, Mat rolled into school as confident as ever. He smiled and waved when the decorated Jeep drew honks and catcalls, as though the whole car costume was his inspired idea. I’d be impressed at his ability to make the best of any situation if he weren’t so aggravating.
I take another huge bite, even though the jok is still hot. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” I say around a mouthful of runny egg yolk. “But people don’t go shopping on second dates. That’s just—” My mind scrambles for an appropriate word. Weird? Embarrassing? So uncool that it makes me cringe? I settle on: “Awkward.”
“Nonsense.” Mama waves a hand, dismissing my concerns like dust motes in the air. “That’s what they did in Pretty Women.”
I groan. Shoulda known. Not only is it Pretty Woman, singular, but more importantly, this means that the car ride wasn’t a fluke. Mama was deliberately referencing To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. She never dated in this country, after all. She came to the United States in her thirties, with a medical license and a fiancé. It figures that she would draw her dating knowledge from American rom-coms—especially ones that didn’t even release in this century.
“First of all, I don’t need any man—or, excuse me, boy—to take me shopping. And second, Richard Gere’s not even with Julia Roberts when she goes on her first shopping spree.” And yes. I have seen it. The movie might be old, and it’s definitely cheesy, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a classic. “I’ll be spending your money, not Mat’s. And finally, can’t forget that I’m not a prostitute. So the scenarios aren’t at all similar. They only have one thing in common. Clothes.”
Mama beams. “Good enough for me.”
I sigh. Of course it is. Why do I get the feeling that this date is going to be a big mistake? As Julia Roberts says, not just big. Huge.
Chapter Twelve
I frown at my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing, without a doubt, the most hideous sweater I’ve ever seen. A garish yellow that hurts my eyes, it’s covered with big, droopy bows, including two that are unfortunately—um, strategically?—placed. The rest is a woven disaster of apples and picnic baskets and checkered tablecloths.
How is this thing even on sale? It looks like my five-year-old niece designed it. I’d bet half of what I own (which, to be fair, isn’t much) that Mat pulled it out of the ugly sweater bin—except there’s nothing Christmassy about it. Are there ugly sweaters for every holiday now? Thanksgiving and Valentine’s and, I don’t know, May Day? What holiday could half-eaten sandwiches and a row of ants represent?
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Mat singsongs outside the heavy navy curtain of the dressing room. “You have to show me what you’re wearing. That’s part of the deal.”
I suppress a groan. This is awful. I don’t think Mama could’ve designed a worse date if she tried. Whose idea of fun was it for Mat to pick out clothes—and for me to model them?
Not mine.
And not—wait—maybe—oh, yeah, definitely—his.
His strategy, so far, has been to pick the most ridiculous clothes in this out-of-the-way store, clothes that I would neither buy nor wear if I lived until the next century. This yellow monstrosity is just the first sweater. I look balefully at the pile of clothes that I have yet to try on. Kill me now.
“Are you coming out?” Mat asks. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to go in. And I really don’t think either of us wants that to happen, since we’re no longer toddlers. I may never recover. Won’t finish my senior year. Won’t tour Asia as planned. Won’t attend college—”
“Okay, okay,” I grumble, pushing past the curtain. “Do you ever stop talking? Seriously. Must every last thought exit your mouth?”
Mat breaks into a grin as soon as he sees me, his eyes dancing. “You look like Big Bird gorged on a dumpster and threw up.”
“Lovely.” I keep my eyes trained on his chin so I don’t have to see my reflection in the mirror behind him. “Are we done now? I’ve got, oh, about a million more sweaters to try on.”
“Not yet. I need to savor the view.” He stalks around me, scrutinizing every loop of yarn, every dangling ribbon. “I like the pattern.” He snickers.
My cheeks flame. I cross my arms over my chest, even though he hasn’t so much as glanced in that direction. Either he’s a gentleman—or the sight of my body disgusts him. I’d bet the rest of what I own that it’s the second.
“I think Taran will appreciate this sweater, don’t you?” he asks.
“Who said anything about Taran?”
“You did,” he says. “We’re looking for something for you to wear to his party. And you told Kavya you’d take a bucket of water over your head if you could have five more minutes of his company.”
I stare. I did say that—almost word for word. It happened one morning at school, when I was inviting Kavya to the Songkran festival.
“What, are you eavesdropping on me now?” I ask.
He snorts. “Hardly. I was going to thank you for Mataline’s new look—but then I remembered there was somewhere else I had to be.”
That’s right. I vaguely recall the sensation of a person behind me. When I turned, however, I only caught Mat’s overly tall frame disappearing around the corner.
He was going to thank me? Mockingly or sincerely? My head throbs with all the things I don’t understand about this guy.
“This is torture,” I blurt before realizing that what I’m saying is way too vulnerable. I need to add that to my set of rules: Never admit to your enemy that he is getting to you. Ever.
“You’re telling me,” he says, to my surprise.
“What do you mean? I’d think you’d be having the time of your life, making me model these awful clothes. Make Winnie look ridiculous. Isn’t that on your bucket list? Your every wish come true?”
He looks at me for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer. “Nobody wants to spend the afternoon picking out clothes for some other guy to enjoy,” he says finally. “End of story.”
My brow creases. Huh? But Mat’s not interested in me. Not for real. Not beyond what we’re playacting for our parents. So why should he care what Taran enjoys—or doesn’t even notice, as the case may be?
I start to ask, but Mat sighs and gestures to the dressing room. “Go on, Winnie. You still have half the store to model. It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
…
The atmosphere shifts during our exchange. Mat no longer laughs at me. He doesn’t seem to derive any joy from my comical appearance. Instead, we are almost subdued as I try on the rest of the clothes—if there can be anything subdued about a bright-purple dress, complete with the fire-breathing snout of a dragon.
To my surprise, Mat has actually selected a couple of decent options in my pile of absurdity. One dress, in particular, is an emerald silk. It has a V-neck that is deep enough to make me feel striking but not so low that it would give my parents heart failure. The fabric skims my curves softly and swishes around my thighs to end a few inches above my knees.
After I put it on, I blink at the mirror for a few confused seconds. I look…pretty. Ethereal, even. That’s not an adjective I’ve ever applied to myself. When you have sisters like mine, you get used to being okay—even thrilled—with moderately cute. But how I l
ook now is in a completely different league.
This dress is everything I’ve ever wanted. So much more than I’ve even dreamed.
“How are you doing in there?” Mat calls, his voice husky. There’s nothing playful about his tone now. I’ve been quiet for so long that he’s probably just making sure I haven’t passed out.
I bite my lip. I don’t want to show him. Mama gave him the power to approve my purchases, and the second he sees me coveting this dress, he’ll veto it so quickly that I’ll get whiplash. I’ll end up wearing the yellow sweater with the floppy bows to the Tongdees’ party, and Taran will never take me seriously again.
Which might be the only reason that Papa agreed to this plan in the first place. Mama has paired me up with a guy who would never be interested in me…but who just happens to scare off every other prospect. Even I have to admit, it’s a brilliant way to guarantee that I’ll be single and distraction-free for the rest of high school.
“Winnie?” Mat calls again.
“Coming!”
With one last look in the mirror and a resigned recognition that this dress will never be mine, I square my shoulders and walk out of the dressing room.
I stop in the middle of the hallway, where the overhead light shines straight down, and squeeze my eyes shut. I wait for his vehement denial, his snort of disbelief, that I, for even a moment, would believe he would let me buy anything so flattering.
But the seconds tick by. And he doesn’t speak. All I can hear is the whir of the overhead fan, the muffled conversation of the mother and daughter next door, and the coy giggles of the salesperson as she flirts with one of the customers.
Chib-peng, maybe Mat’s not even standing here anymore. Maybe he took off the second I closed my eyes, so that he can make an even bigger fool of me.
I wrench open my eyes. He’s here, all right. A sheen of sweat coats his upper lip, and he’s staring at my legs.
