Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  The doorbell rings.

  “He’s here.” My heart dances, and my breath is short. It’s only been a dozen hours since our date—and even less time since we’ve texted—but I can’t help my body’s reactions.

  I get to see Mat again.

  Hugging the notebook to my chest, I run to the door and fling it open.

  A supercute Thai boy stands on the stoop. But it’s not the boy I was kissing last night.

  Instead, it’s Taran.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I gape. Am I dreaming? Why is he here? There’s no way Taran’s my date this morning. Maybe, by coincidence, he just happened to show up at the same time that we’re expecting Mat.

  Taran steps over the threshold, offering me a bouquet of flowers. They’re gorgeous, bright blooms of yellows, purples, and pinks. I must really be in shock if I’m only now noticing this gift.

  “Hi, Winnie.” He flashes his dimple. “You look nice today.”

  I don’t, not by his standards. My jeans are ripped, while his are freshly pressed. My hair’s up in a ponytail, and I know—from painful firsthand experience—that he prefers it down. But my head’s spinning so much that I accept both the flowers and the compliment.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I’m your new boyfriend,” he says, his cheeks a dull brick. “That is, I’m the person you’re practice dating.”

  I turn very slowly to Mama. She’s risen from the sofa, her hands clasped in front of her. She studies me. Not Taran but me.

  “Mama?” My voice echoes against the vaulted ceilings. “Is this true?”

  Shaking herself, she walks forward, takes the flowers from me, and begins to arrange them in a vase. “Yes.”

  “What about Mat?”

  She shrugs. “He’s no longer interested.”

  “Like hell,” I blurt, although I never curse—or even speak without respect—around my parents. “He was interested last night—” I cut myself off, realizing my mistake.

  Mama’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t comment on my admission. “Mat’s taught you everything he can. It’s time for you to date someone new.”

  She knows. The awareness is in the rigidity of her spine, the betrayal in her voice. I’m not sure how. But someway, somehow, she knows about the kiss from last night.

  Or, if I’m being honest, kisses, plural. Not just in our corner booth at Lowcountry but also walking to the car. Up against the car. Inside the car. Once I gave in to temptation, it was impossible to resist him. My willpower was a sandcastle constantly swept away by an onslaught of waves. I didn’t stand a chance.

  I skim my fingers along the speckled notebook, attempting nonchalance. But inside, I’m trembling, cracking, falling apart. A puff of air would knock me off my feet. What was I thinking? Lowcountry is my uncle’s restaurant. He may not have been present, but he had eyes everywhere, in the form of his servers, the hostess, the bartender. I doubt Uncle Pan asked them to spy—that’s not his style. But all it would’ve taken was one stray comment to him about the lovebirds…and a subsequent phone call to my mother.

  “Mama,” I say as calmly as possible. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

  “We’ll talk later,” she interrupts. “Believe me, we have a lot to discuss.” She shifts her gaze from me to Taran. “For now, your date is waiting. Go on. Go eat some pastrami sandwiches. Just…maybe not like the movie.”

  …

  I poke at my Reuben sandwich. The rye bread balances on top of thinly sliced corned beef, piles of sauerkraut, and slathers of Russian dressing. No Swiss cheese, because I’m not a fan. Any other week, this might be the perfect Sunday brunch.

  The deli looks remarkably like the movie set of When Harry Met Sally. Are all delis more or less the same? The long metal counters lined with swivel stools, the flashing neon signs that spell out words, even the delicious smells of rich meats and fresh bread that saturate the air and our clothes.

  I half-heartedly pick up my sandwich and take a bite. I managed to slip into the bathroom before we left for the deli, in order to send Mat an SOS text. I can’t remember the exact words I used. Something along the lines of: “Help! Mama found out about our kissing!! Now she’s sending me on a date with Taran!!!” But I do remember the effusive exclamation points.

  He hasn’t responded. Either he’s still sleeping…or he’s not very happy with me.

  I cram another piece of corned beef into my mouth, even though I’m the opposite of hungry. I need this date to be over, like, five minutes ago. Should I fake food poisoning? Nah, don’t want to give these yummy sandwiches a bad name. Maybe just a stomachache? I’m not up to a fake orgasm, but if I find a way to incorporate lots of screaming about my Reuben sandwich, will Mama forgive me for kissing Mat?

  “Winnie, are you okay?” Taran asks.

  I swallow. I’m not being fair. Taran’s been a wonderful date so far. Gentlemanly, entertaining. He’s kept up a steady stream of conversation since we left the house, regaling me with his adventures as a Thai kid in Kansas.

  The most awful incident concerned a school photographer who argued with him about retaking his class photo. The do-over should’ve been a clear-cut case, since his eyes were closed. But the photographer maintained that his eyes were simply small.

  I laughed in sympathetic outrage—but then, in spite of his engaging stories, my mind must’ve drifted.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really distracted.” I stir the paper straw in my iced tea, watching it disintegrate. “It’s just…how did this happen?” I gesture between us. “You. Me. This date.”

  He leans forward and grabs one of my fries, being careful to touch only one. I stare. He can’t still be hungry, since he’s already finished his burger and the accompanying fruit salad. More importantly, this is our first date—and a fake one at that. Awfully presumptuous, isn’t he?

  “You said the only way I could date you was to be part of your mom’s schemes,” he explains. “I told my mom, which was just as awkward as it sounds.” He grins boyishly. Put a hundred girls in my position, and I’d bet half of them would fall for him at this precise moment, grabby fries and all. “She called your mom. Lucky for me, they had already met at the party at your house. At first, your mother politely declined, but this morning, she called back and said she changed her mind. So here we are.”

  “But this isn’t what you think,” I protest. “It’s not real dating. Mama will make us reenact every rom-com made in the last thirty years, and we’ll have to record everything—down to the distance between us—in this notebook.” I nod toward the composition notebook, which is snuggling up with the salt and pepper.

  “Sounds fun,” he says impishly.

  I wrinkle my forehead. Is this guy for real?

  “Listen, Winnie. I like you,” he says. “I’ll enjoy hanging out with you, no matter what the circumstances.”

  “But dating me is pointless. Don’t you see? The moment our feelings become even remotely real, she’ll just replace you with someone else.” Just like she did with Mat.

  “So we’ll pretend.”

  “I have been pretending.” My voice rises. Cracks. The couple at the next table glance at us. Maybe I’ll pull a Meg Ryan yet and convince them to order my sandwich. “It was a miserable failure.”

  He steals another fry. It takes all of my effort not to slap away his hand. “Are you talking about Mat? Because you two sucked at faking. Pro tip: you can’t look at each other like that if you’re trying to hide your feelings. You and I just met, so what we feel for each other isn’t nearly as deep. I’ll do a much better job pretending.”

  “But why?” I shake my head. “Why would you want to date someone if you feel so little for them?”

  He reaches for another fry. I push the whole plate toward him, because that seems nicer than telling him to stop. Once he has the whole pile
, however, he just ignores it, proving my initial theory. He’s not actually hungry.

  “You’re a nice girl,” he says finally. “Pretty. Easy to be around. But the truth is, I’m not actually interested in you.”

  I grab my plate back. The fries are pretty much contaminated, but I can still eat my Reuben. Who knew relief could make you so ravenous? “Oh, good. Now I don’t have to let you down easy.”

  He eyes me as the sour sauerkraut and sweet and tangy Russian dressing explodes on my tongue. Yum.

  “You could pretend to be a little disappointed,” he says.

  “Why? I’m not hurting your feelings. You said yourself that you don’t like me.”

  “I might have been interested,” he says evenly. “If you weren’t so obviously into someone else.”

  Huh. I didn’t realize my attraction to Mat was so apparent. But it’s hard to argue with the observations of a newcomer, so I just take a gulp of my iced tea. “If you don’t like me, then why did you go to so much trouble to date me?”

  He slouches in his chair. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s my parents.”

  “Try me.” I let go of my straw, and sure enough, there are bits of paper in my mouth. Ick. I wipe my tongue on a napkin, thankful this isn’t a real date. “I’m the girl whose parents are making her fake-date, remember? Pretty sure I have a fair shot at understanding.”

  “You’re right.” He looks up, a new light in his eyes. “I mean, we’re at a deli. Because of some movie that’s, like, twice as old as we are. And I was supposed to order a pastrami? Or something?”

  I grin. “Have you really not seen When Harry Met Sally?”

  “Nope. Sounds old.”

  “It is. But the story’s also really cute. We’ll have to watch it together sometime.” And who knows? Maybe we will.

  “They want me to marry a Thai girl,” he blurts.

  Ah. The statement is more surprising than my classmates might think. Even in the suburbs of Chicago, there just aren’t that many Thai people around. So when my parents and their fellow immigrants came to America, many of them accepted that their children probably wouldn’t grow up to have Thai spouses.

  “I know.” He winces. “We were living in this tiny town in Kansas. Good luck with that, right? There weren’t even any Asian girls at my school, let alone Thai. My mom resigned herself to taking photos of me with my falang homecoming dates. None of them knew what a sabai was, much less wore one.”

  He stirs the ice cubes in his glass, almost violently. His straw hasn’t disintegrated. Am I doing something wrong here?

  “But then we moved to Chicago, and she was so damn hopeful. I overheard her telling my dad that her dearest wish might actually come true. I might marry a Thai person. She even cried.” He stops, the background hum of other people’s conversations filling the silence.

  “Maybe it’s silly,” he continues, not looking at me. “But she’s done so much for me. And I just wanted to make her happy, if only for a little while. Even if our dating is fake.”

  My heart squeezes. I reach out and pick up his hand. “It’s not silly at all, Taran.”

  He lifts his head. Our gazes tangle in a moment of true understanding.

  I’m not sure how long we sit there, holding hands. But the next thing I know, I hear a strangled cough next to our table.

  I turn—and look right into the face of Mat Songsomboon.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Aw, crap.” Damn. Did I say that out loud? I totally did. Some thoughts—scratch that, most of my thoughts—are better off locked inside. Especially now, when Mat’s appearance has fried my brains like the eggs cooking on the nearby grill.

  “This isn’t how it looks,” I blurt. “I can explain.”

  Said every cheater caught in the act ever. Could I seem any guiltier?

  Chib-peng. Chib-peng. Chib-peng.

  Mat clears his throat. And looks pointedly at my hand, still encased in Taran’s. “What isn’t how it looks? You holding hands with him?”

  Cheeks blazing, I snatch away my hand, glaring at Taran. My ability to think may have temporarily gone up in a cloud of smoke and grease—but his hasn’t. He could’ve extracted his fingers if he wanted to help me out.

  But by the way he’s smirking at Mat, helping me is the last thing on his mind.

  “So you got my text. I didn’t say where we were. How did you know to come to the deli?” I wince. The words—unnecessarily defensive—leave my mouth before I can stop them.

  Mat stiffens, giving me his aloof, superior face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he hated me—as I did for four long years. The problem is, I do know better. And I know that this expression only means that he’s hurt.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he says quietly. “When I found your necklace in the Jeep this morning, I thought I could kill two birds—return your necklace and see you. Your mom said I could find you here.”

  He holds out his hand and drops a delicate coil of gold onto my open palm.

  The necklace slithers against my skin. But before I can thank him, he turns and walk out of the building.

  For a few seconds, I just stare. And then a couple of my brain cells finally connect, and I push myself to my feet. “I have to go after him,” I mutter, not sure if I’m telling myself or Taran.

  My date crosses his arms, snickering. “This I’ve got to see.”

  Really? I shoot him my blandest expression, the goodwill he’s built up evaporating in an instant. But I don’t call him on his insensitivity. I have more pressing matters.

  I throw a couple of bills on the table (courtesy of Mama), tuck the necklace carefully into my pocket, and hurry into the parking lot. I come up behind Mat just as he’s arriving at the Jeep. Mataline’s still wearing her bib and brandishing her mallet from last night. The silly costume makes me feel even worse.

  “Mat,” I say hesitantly, not sure what he’s angriest about. The date or the hand-holding? Maybe both. “Let me explain.”

  “You don’t like PDA,” he says coolly. “Well, I don’t like public drama. If you want to talk, we’re not doing it here, where anyone can hear.”

  “Fine.” I swallow my pride because I’m the one who’s in the wrong here. He just brought me my necklace. I was holding hands with another boy. “Whatever you want.”

  Emotions flicker through his eyes. If we had stayed close these last few years, maybe I would’ve been able to read them. But as it is, they’re as opaque to me as the waves of Lake Michigan during a turbulent storm.

  “Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s go inside my car.”

  …

  By the time we climb inside the Jeep, however, the momentum has been disrupted. I was desperate to talk before, but these past few seconds have blocked my throat and sealed my lips. I have so much to say that I don’t know where to start—and how.

  The leather seats squeak as we settle onto them. I don’t need a ruler to measure the space between us. He’s squashed against his car door, and I’m jammed up against the other—but the distance separating us is infinite.

  The harsh rays of the sun are bisected by the car’s roof, softening the light and creating an atmosphere that’s mellow, even romantic. If only the air weren’t saturated with so much tension.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  How long can we sit here without speaking? Will we be here all afternoon, changing positions in an attempt to find comfort, each ensuing squeak a substitute for our words?

  I’m sorry.

  Squeak.

  He’s only a friend.

  Squeak.

  I like you, not anyone else.

  Squeak, squeak. Squeak, squeak.

  But these sentiments belong to me, not him, so it’s up to me to break the silence.

  “You’re mad.” Maybe not my most inspired opening, but at least i
t’s a start.

  “How would you feel if you were in my shoes?” Mat asks, his head lowered.

  “Not good,” I admit. “But it’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, I think the situation’s pretty clear,” he says. “I walk into a deli, and you’re on a date with another guy, holding his hand. True or false?”

  “True,” I say, because there’s no denying the facts. “But you know it’s a fake date. I texted you—”

  He grips the steering wheel, since it’s right in front of him. But then he slowly releases his fingers, one by one, as though reminding himself that Mataline’s not his target. “I guess your reservations about PDA don’t apply to Taran? ’Cause last I checked, a deli is a public location. You weren’t even in a booth. Or did you just not want to touch me in public?”

  “That wasn’t PDA.” I struggle to find the right words. “There was nothing romantic about me holding his hand. He’s not interested in me. He said so himself. And I’m certainly not into him.”

  At least, I’m not anymore. We both know that once upon a time, I was crushing on Taran. I have a jalapeño-vinegar-soaked shirt to prove it. But that was before. Before Mat and I reached our new understanding. Before we kissed.

  “He told me something about…his mother.” I stumble, not wanting to betray Taran’s confidence. “I reached out, took his hand in a gesture of friendship. End of story.”

  “Interesting,” he says in a tone that conveys the opposite. “Because I wanted to talk to you about my mother. Only I didn’t get the chance.”

  I look up. Really? Last I heard, he hasn’t spoken to her in nearly a year. “What happened?”

  “She called the house this morning, wanting to reconnect. Apparently, you told my dad that I missed her?” He moves his shoulders, managing to inject anger, disgust, and indifference into one simple gesture. “Well, I don’t need a pity phone call. So I didn’t take it.”

  “Oh, Mat.” I reach out, intending to touch his shoulder, but he jerks away.