by Helen Hoang
PRAISE FOR
THE KISS QUOTIENT
“This is such a fun read, and it’s also quite original and sexy and sensitive.”
—New York Times bestselling author Roxane Gay
“The Kiss Quotient is the perfect balm for any reading slump and a wonderful palate cleanser for the summer. It also might just be the best book you read all year.”
—BookPage
“Hoang’s witty debut proves that feelings are greater than numbers, no matter how you add things up.”
—People
“Hoang knocks it out of the park with this stellar debut.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A riveting, compulsively readable romance that brims with feeling and warmth.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Hoang’s debut novel is unputdownable, exceptional, and leaves a strong impression that won’t wane anytime soon.”
—NPR.org
“An absolute delight—charming, sexy, and centered on a protagonist you love rooting for.”
—Buzzfeed
“A vividly romantic tale filled with depth, humor and a universal sense of humanity.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Emily Giffin
PRAISE FOR HELEN HOANG
“Hoang’s writing has a sharp, quirky, emotional edge that will resonate with anyone who has ever tried to navigate the complicated world of modern relationships.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
“Compulsively readable.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Hoang’s writing bursts from the page.”
—Buzzfeed
“Hoang mixes sexy and tender with panache.”
—NPR.org
TITLES BY HELEN HOANG
THE KISS QUOTIENT
THE BRIDE TEST
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Helen Hoang
Readers Guide copyright © 2019 by Penguin Random House LLC
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Hoang, Helen, author.
Title: The bride test / Helen Hoang.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Jove, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018053953| ISBN 9780451490827 (paperback) | ISBN 9780451490834 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Romance fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women.
Classification: LCC PS3608.O1775 B75 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018053953
First Edition: May 2019
Cover design and illustration by Colleen Reinhart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Dedicated to
Mẹ
Thank you for loving me and teaching me how to chase my dreams.
I’m proud to be yours.
And
Johnny
I still miss you, but especially at weddings.
Love, always.
Acknowledgments
First of all, I need to thank you, dear reader. I’m honored that you’ve chosen to spend time with my words and I hope that something here resonates with you, makes you think, or makes you feel.
This book was extremely difficult to write for a variety of reasons, and I’m so thankful for the people who supported me during the process. Suzanne Park, you are the most considerate, hardest-working person I know. You inspire me. Gwynne Jackson, thank you for your kindness and patience and for always being genuine. It means more than I can say. A. R. Lucas, I’ll forever associate rainbows with you. Thank you for being there when things are rough. Roselle Lim, how is it that we only just met this year? It feels like we’ve been friends forever.
Thank you, ReLynn Vaughn, Jen DeLuca, Shannon Caldwell, and my fantastic Pitch Wars mentor, Brighton Walsh, for reading early drafts of this book. Thanks to Brighton’s Bs for always being welcoming: Melissa Marino, Anniston Jory, Elizabeth Leis, Ellis Leigh, Esher Hogan, Laura Elizabeth, and Suzanne Baltzar.
Thank you to the sensitivity readers who provided alternate perspectives on the diversity involved. I’m grateful for your valuable input.
Mom, thank you for leading by example and being you. I wouldn’t be where I am without you. Many thanks to the rest of my family for putting up with me as I wrote this book, especially when I was antisocial and wrote through all of our vacations. I love you all. Because I made the grievous mistake of not mentioning my nieces and nephew last time: Sylvers, you are super-super-duper awesome. And Ava, Elena, Anja, and Henry, too.
No acknowledgments would be complete without my amazing agent, Kim Lionetti. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner for this publishing journey we’re on. You make this even more special, and I can’t thank you enough.
Finally, thank you to the incredible publishing team at Berkley: Cindy Hwang, Kristine Swartz, Angela Kim, Megha Jain, Jessica Brock, Fareeda Bullert, Tawanna Sullivan, Colleen Reinhart, and others. This was an ambitious project for me, and you’ve all surprised me with how supportive you’ve been. I’m proud to work with you.
CONTENTS
Praise for Helen Hoang
Titles by Helen Hoang
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Readers Guide
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Ten years ago
San Jose, California
Khai was supposed to be crying. He knew he was supposed to be crying. Everyone else was.
But his eyes were dry.
If they stung, it was due to the heavy incense fogging the funeral parlor’s reception room. Was he sad? He thought he was sad. But he should be sadder. When your best friend died like this, you were supposed to be destroyed. If this were a Vietnamese opera, his tears would be forming rivers and drowning everyone.
Why was his mind clear? Why was he thinking about the homework assignment that was due tomorrow? Why was he still functioning?
His cousin Sara had sobbed so hard she’d needed to rush to the bathroom to vomit. She was still there now—he suspected—being sick over and over. Her mom, Dì Mai, sat stiffly in the front row, palms flat together and head bowed. Khai’s mom patted her back from time to time, but she remained unresponsive. Like Khai, she shed no tears, but that was because she’d cried them all out days before. The family was worried about her. She’d withered down to her skeleton since they’d gotten the call.
Rows of Buddhist monks in yellow robes blocked his view of the open casket, but that was a good thing. Though the morticians had done their best, the body looked misshapen and wrong. That was not the sixteen-year-old boy who used to be Khai’s friend and favorite cousin. That was not Andy.
Andy was gone.
The only parts of him that survived were the memories in Khai’s head. Stick fights and sword fights, wrestling matches that Khai never won but refused to lose. Khai would rather break both of his own arms than call Andy his daddy. Andy said Khai was pathologically stubborn. Khai insisted he merely had principles. He still remembered their long walks home, when the weight of the sun was heavier than their book-filled backpacks, and the conversations that had taken place during those walks.
Even now, he could hear his cousin scoffing at him. The specific circumstances eluded him, but the words remained.
Nothing gets to you. It’s like your heart is made of stone.
He hadn’t understood Andy then. He was beginning to now.
The droning of Buddhist chants filled the room, low, off-key syllables spoken in a language no one understood. It flowed over and around him and vibrated in his head, and he couldn’t stop shaking his leg even though people had given him looks. A furtive glance at his watch confirmed that, yes, this had been going on for hours. He wanted the noise to stop. He could almost envision himself crawling into the coffin and shutting the lid to block the sound. But then he’d be stuck in a tight space with a corpse, and he wasn’t sure if that would be an improvement over his current predicament.
If Andy were here—alive and here—they’d escape together and find something to do, even if it was just going outside to kick rocks around the parking lot. Andy was good that way. He was always there when you needed him. Except for now.
Khai’s big brother sat beside him, but he knew Quan wouldn’t want to leave early. Funerals existed for people like Quan. He needed the closure or whatever it was people got from them. With his intimidating build and the new tattoos on his neck and arms, Quan looked like one badass motherfucker, but his eyes were rimmed red. From time to time, he discreetly brushed the moisture from his cheeks. Just like always, Khai wished he could be more like his brother.
A metal bowl rang, and the chanting stopped. Relief was instant and dizzying, like an enormous pressure had suddenly dissolved. The monks worked with the pallbearers to close the casket, and soon a procession filed sedately down the center aisle. Because he disliked standing in lines and the claustrophobic press of bodies, Khai stayed seated as Quan got to his feet, squeezed Khai’s shoulder once, and joined the exodus.
He watched as relatives trudged past. Some cried openly. Others were more stoic, but their sadness was obvious even to him. Aunts, uncles, cousins, distant relations, and friends of the family all supported one another, joined together by this thing called grief. As usual, Khai was not a part of it.
A group of older women that consisted of his mom, Dì Mai, and two of his other aunts brought up the end of the line because of a near-fainting spell, sticking close in adulthood just like everyone said they had as young girls. If it weren’t for the fact that they all wore black, they could have been attending a wedding. Diamonds and jade hung from their ears, throats, and fingers, and he could smell their makeup and perfume through the haze of the incense.
As they passed his row, he stood and straightened the hand-me-down suit coat from Quan. He had a lot of growing to do if he was ever going to fill the thing out. And pull-ups. Thousands of pull-ups. He’d start those tonight.
When he looked up, he discovered the ladies had all paused next to him. Dì Mai reached a hand toward his cheek but stopped before touching him.
She searched his face with solemn eyes. “I thought you two were close. Don’t you care that he’s gone?”
His heart jumped and started beating so fast it hurt. When he tried to speak, nothing came out. His throat was swollen shut.
“Of course they were close,” his mom chided her sister before tugging on her arm. “Come, Mai, let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”
With his feet frozen to the floor, he watched as they disappeared through the doorway. Logically, he knew he was standing in place, but he felt like he was falling. Down, down, down.
I thought you two were close.
Ever since his elementary school teacher insisted his parents take him to a psychologist, he’d known he was different. The majority of his family, however, had discounted the resulting diagnosis, saying he was merely “a little strange.” There was no such thing as autism or Asperger’s syndrome in the countryside of Vietnam. Besides, he didn’t get into trouble and did well in school. What did it matter?
I thought you two were close.
The words wouldn’t stop echoing in his head, bringing him to an unwelcome self-realization: He was different, yes, but in a bad way.
I thought you two were close.
Andy hadn’t just been his best friend. He’d been his only friend. Andy was as close as close got for Khai. If he couldn’t grieve for Andy, that meant he couldn’t grieve at all. And if he couldn’t grieve, the flip side also had to be true.
He couldn’t love.
Andy had been right. Khai’s heart really was made of metaphorical stone.
The knowledge spread over him like petroleum in an oil spill. He didn’t like it, but there was nothing to do but accept it. This wasn’t something you could change. He was what he was.
I thought you two were close.
He was . . . bad.
He unfisted his hands, worked the fingers. His legs moved when he commanded them. His lungs drew breath. He saw, he heard, he experienced. And it struck him as being incredibly unfair. This was not what he would have chosen. If he could have chosen who went in that casket.
The chanting started again, signaling the funeral was nearing its end. Time to join the others as they said their final good-byes. No one seemed to understand it wasn’t good-bye unless Andy said it back. For his part, Khai would say nothing.
CHAPTER ONE
Two months ago
T.P. Hồ Chí Minh, Việt Nam
Scrubbing toilets wasn’t usually this interesting. Mỹ had done it so many times she had a streamlined routine by now. Spray with poison everywhere. Pour poison inside. Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub. Wipe, wipe, wipe. Flush. Done in less than two minutes. If they had a toilet-cleaning contest, Mỹ would be a top contender. Not today, though. The noises in the next stall kept distracting her.
She was pretty sure the girl in there was crying. Either that or exercising. There was lots of heavy breathing going on. What kind of workout could you do in a bathroom stall? Knee-ups maybe.
A strangled sound issued, followed by a high-pitched whimper, and Mỹ let go of her toilet brush
. That was definitely crying. Leaning her temple against the side of the stall, she cleared her throat and asked, “Miss, is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” the girl said, but her cries got louder before they stopped abruptly, replaced by more muffled heavy breathing.
“I work in this hotel.” As a janitor/maid. “If someone treated you badly, I can help.” She’d try to, anyway. Nothing rankled her like a bully. She couldn’t afford to lose this job, though.
“No, I’m fine.” The door latch rattled, and shoes clacked against the marble floor.
Mỹ stuck her head out of her stall in time to see a pretty girl saunter toward the sinks. She wore the highest, scariest heels Mỹ had ever seen and a skintight red dress that ended right beneath her butt. If you believed anything Mỹ’s grandma said, that girl would get pregnant the second she stepped foot on the street. She was probably pregnant already—from the potency of a man’s child-giving stare.
For her part, Mỹ had gotten pregnant by messing around with a playboy from school, no skimpy dress and scary heels needed. She’d resisted him in the beginning. Her mom and grandma had been clear that studies came first, but he’d pursued her until she’d caved, thinking it was love. Instead of marrying her when she’d told him about the baby, however, he’d grudgingly offered to keep her as his secret mistress. She wasn’t the kind of girl he could introduce to his upper-class family, and, surprise, he was engaged and planned to go through with the wedding. Obviously, Mỹ had turned him down, which had been both a relief and a shock for him, that son of a dog. Her family, on the other hand, had been heartbroken with disappointment—they’d pinned so many hopes on her. But as she’d known they would, they’d supported her and her baby.
The girl in the red dress washed her hands and dabbed at her mascara-streaked cheeks before tossing her hand towel on the counter and leaving the bathroom. Mỹ’s yellow rubber gloves squeaked as she fisted her hands. The towel basket was right there. Grumbling to herself, she stalked to the sinks, wiped off the counter with the girl’s hand towel, and launched it into the towel basket. A quick inspection of the sink, counter, mirror, and neatly rolled stack of towels confirmed everything was acceptable, and she started back toward the last toilet.
