The Bride Test

by Helen Hoang

  * * *

  • • •

  Khai sat down in front of his desk in his office, and he honestly didn’t remember driving here, walking into the building, or going up the elevator. He’d done it all on autopilot.

  He’d been too busy adjusting to the knowledge that Esme was safe and unharmed. The previous day had passed in a white blur. Even though logic had told him she was most likely fine, horrible scenarios had possessed his mind nonstop, and he’d been a wreck, not sleeping, not eating, watching the news in case she showed up on a gurney in an ambulance.

  Now that he knew she was okay, he finally relaxed and let himself contemplate the fact that she was not only refusing to marry him, but moving out early, too. Back there in the restaurant, he’d made the best case for staying with him that he could. And she’d turned him down—as she should have.

  Just look at him now. He’d thought he’d go through a terrible withdrawal when Esme left him for good, but he was shocking himself with how fine he was. Everything was perfectly, perversely, anticlimactically fine. He wasn’t sad or mad or depressed. He felt . . . nothing.

  As he started his computer and watched the screen come to life, mundane work tasks lined up neatly in his head—emails, projects, important shit. He was like a fucking machine. Back online, ready for production.

  When he opened his first email, however, it took him three tries before his cold fingers could type “Hi, Sidd” correctly (that would be Sidd Mathur, the M from DMSoft), and even then, he wasn’t sure he’d spelled “Hi” right. Was it just an H and an i? That didn’t seem like enough letters for such an important concept.

  Whatever, he would plow through. People said he was smart. All he had to do was focus. He was good at focusing, too good sometimes. When he finally finished the email, he checked the clock and was floored to see he’d spent two entire hours on one short paragraph of text.

  He sighed and lifted a hand toward his forehead to massage it—and accidentally poked himself in the eye. Shit. Now that he was paying attention, his head throbbed, his face hurt, and his limbs felt off, like they’d been taken from someone else and glued onto him. He was probably getting sick. It had been a while since the last time, so he was due something awful. Come to think of it, he hadn’t had a flu shot in years.

  He opened his desk drawer, got out the small bottle of ibuprofen he kept there, popped the lid off, and shook a couple of pills into his palm. At least, that was how he envisioned it in his mind. What really happened was he scattered pills all over himself, his desk, and the floor.

  When he went to clean up the mess, pills crunched under his feet and knees and slipped out from between his fingers. By the time he’d gathered the majority of the pills back into their jar and accidentally pulverized the rest, he’d banged his elbow on his chair and hit his head on the desk.

  He stepped into the hall, meaning to go to the kitchen for water, and he noticed the office was eerily empty. It was like working on Christmas.

  That was when he remembered today they had an off-site company-wide team-building thing. Fuuuuck. His partner was going to give him shit for being antisocial again. When his phone started buzzing, he dug it out of his pocket and answered it without checking who it was.

  “Yo, it’s me. How are you doing?” asked a familiar voice that did not belong to his partner.

  “Hi, Quan. Everything’s . . .” He glanced at the pill bits all over the floor of his office, and look at that, one of his shoelaces had come undone. “Everything’s fine. Why are you calling?”

  “Mom says I need to fly back from New York to see you because it’s an emergency. What’s up?”

  “There is no emergency.”

  “How’s Esme?” Quan asked in a neutral tone.

  “Fine.”

  Quan kept quiet and waited.

  When Khai couldn’t take it anymore, he said, “She’s not coming back. She found an apartment by the restaurant that she likes better than my place.”

  “How are you with that?”

  “Fine. I’m just . . . fine.” And he wished he wasn’t. If he could manage some manner of dramatic emotional upheaval and prove he was heartbroken at her loss—and therefore in love—he could keep her.

  But nope. He was A-OK.

  “Want me to come home early?” Quan asked. “We can do shit. I dunno, go pick up chicks at a tax convention or something.”

  “No, thanks.” He didn’t want to do anything that involved women for a long time, and the thought of “picking up chicks” made his headache worse, even though it meant he got to go to a tax convention.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay then, but if you need anything, you can call me whenever. If I don’t pick up, I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” Quan said.

  “You don’t need to tell me this. I already know.” Quan was the most dependable thing in Khai’s life.

  “Just reminding you. Okay, I’m gonna let you go now. Bye, little brother.”

  “Bye.”

  As soon as the line went dead, he looked around the vacant office, took a step, and almost ended up facedown on the floor. Sighing, he went down on one knee and grabbed his laces, but he tried multiple times and the things wouldn’t tie. What the fuck was wrong with him? He had to be coming down with the flu. Fed up with the entire process, he took his shoes off and carried them with him as he left the building and walked home. No way he was driving or going to a team-building thing like this.

  The trek was long and hot and weird with no shoes on, and he was pretty sure people slowed down as they passed him. He didn’t feel at all like a Terminator today, not one in good condition, anyway. When he reached his place, he was sweaty, dehydrated, and badly in need of a shower, but after the door swung open, he stood there, unable to enter.

  His entire body resisted going inside. His head spun, his heart slammed, and his stomach twisted. The house was too dark, and the musty air made him want to throw up. It didn’t make sense. He’d been in there just this morning. But he’d been too focused on possible Esme catastrophes to notice anything else.

  He sat down on the concrete steps outside and smeared the sweat away from his clammy face. This flu really sucked. He was exhausted. He could sleep and sleep for ages. But he had to shower and air out the house first. That musty heaviness, whatever it was, had to go. Maybe one of Esme’s fruits was decaying in the trash and there were mold spores floating everywhere.

  Gritting his teeth, he got up, stepped inside, and tossed his shoes to the floor, not caring where they landed. He couldn’t breathe. The air was thick and oppressive, all wrong.

  Mold spores, mold spores.

  He marched to the kitchen and yanked the trash out of the cabinet. Empty. What the hell? He searched the kitchen for other locations where fruit could be moldering away. None.

  All surfaces were spotless. The only thing out of place was a half-filled water glass on the counter. Esme’s. Warmth pricked over his cold skin in a sick wave. He didn’t realize he was reaching for the glass until he saw his hand approaching, and he stopped himself before making contact. Curling his fingers into a fist, he backed away. He didn’t want to put her glass in the dishwasher like he always did. He wanted it . . . right there.

  This suffocating air. He hurried through the house, opening all the windows and doors, but it didn’t help. His nausea got so bad he spent a few minutes hunched over the toilet, but he didn’t throw up. Bed, he should just go to bed, but not when he was sweaty like this.

  Somehow he got through a shower without wounding himself in the process and dressed in an inside-out sweater (to keep the seams off his skin) and workout shorts—he wanted layers, lots of layers, and was looking forward to his heavy blankets. But when it was time to get in bed, his limbs locked, and he couldn’t do it.

  It was official now. Esme was never going to sleep
in this bed again.

  No more naked Esme welcoming him close, inside her body, crying his name as she clung to him. No more Esme weight draped over him like a sloth in a tree, warm and soft and perfect. No more Esme smiles at night, in the morning, and every time he looked at her.

  He yanked the comforter off the bed and carried it to the living room, where he wrapped the blanket around himself and collapsed onto the couch. Fuck, they’d had sex on this couch. On the green shag carpet, too. Everywhere. And there was another one of her half-filled cups on the coffee table. He couldn’t escape her—he didn’t even know if he wanted to—and his head felt like it was going to explode.

  He covered his face with the blanket. And breathed in her Esme scent. At first, he expected his nausea to worsen, but his muscles relaxed instead. Heaven, sweet heaven. If he shut his eyes, he could almost imagine she was here, wrapping her arms around him, and sleep dragged him to a place where he didn’t hurt anymore.

  Thank fuck for the blanket. He was never washing it again.

  * * *

  • • •

  Khai woke at odd intervals throughout the night and the next day: 12:34 A.M., 3:45 A.M., 6:07 A.M., 11:22 A.M., and then 2:09 P.M. That last time bothered him with its lack of logic, and he was scowling at his phone when Quan walked through the unlocked front door in jeans and an old black T-shirt.

  Quan took in the shoes scattered on the ground, the opened windows, and Khai’s blanket-clad form on the couch and asked, “What’s going on? Did you burn a pizza in the oven or something? Why are you venting the place out?”

  Khai sat up, but the blood rushed from his head from the sudden movement, and he slumped against the back of the couch. “The air felt funny.”

  “You okay?”

  He rubbed at his aching temples. “Shouldn’t you be in New York pitching for your B-round financing?”

  Quan toed his shoes off and crossed the room to press a hand against Khai’s forehead. “I did the important stuff yesterday and rescheduled the rest. Was worried about you with the breakup and Andy’s death anniversary coming up.”

  Khai pushed his brother’s hand away. “It’s just that flu that’s going around. Go back to New York. I’m fine.”

  Shit, death anniversary. A cold sweat broke out over him, making his skin tingle as his heartbeat went erratic. He’d purposely blocked it from his mind because he hated those kinds of things, and this was the big one, the ten-year anniversary. There was going to be a ceremony, more monk chanting, and geysers of tears. His head throbbed on the verge of explosion.

  “There isn’t a flu going around. It’s summertime.” Quan frowned and stuck his hand back on Khai’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

  “It’s in the pre-fever stages, then.” Khai mumbled the words because sound hurt now.

  Quan sat down on the coffee table and searched his face like an astrologist reading the stars. When he shifted his position to get more comfortable, the water glass got in his way. He reached for it, but Khai stopped him.

  “Don’t.”

  Quan blinked and asked, “Why not?”

  “I like it there.”

  Quan stared at the water glass before fixing his eyes on Khai with a look of dawning understanding. “Holy shit, it’s hers, isn’t it? Do you know how cute that is?” Rubbing at his jaw, he added, “Also maybe a little emotionally unstable. You’re not being creepy, are you? Like stalking with binoculars and calling her at night to make sure she’s sleeping alone?”

  “What? No.” But who the hell would she be sleeping with? If Quan meant another man, that was disturbing enough to warrant lengthy contemplation.

  “Those weren’t suggestions,” Quan added. “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m not being creepy,” Khai said in exasperation.

  Quan nodded, and after a stilted moment, he dug his phone from his pocket and held it up like he was snapping a picture.

  “What are you doing?” Khai asked.

  “Sending a picture of your beard to Vy. You look kinda like Godfrey Gao right now.”

  Khai rolled his eyes and scratched at his face. How long had it been since he’d shaved? He couldn’t remember. The past days were a mess of chaos in his mind.

  “I’m not joking. Look at you,” Quan said, holding up his phone with the snapshot of Khai on it. As far as Khai was concerned, he looked less like a movie star and more like a drug addict, but what did he know?

  Just then, message boxes from Vy flashed on the screen.

  Oh momma.

  Tell him to keep it.

  Rawr.

  Khai grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Not sure if I like my sister rawring at me.”

  Quan laughed before his expression went serious. “Only Esme can, right?”

  Khai thought that over for a few seconds before nodding once. Attraction, sex, lust, and wanting all orbited around one focal point for him. The focal point was Esme.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said at Michael’s wedding, about how you’re not in love, and I dunno. Maybe you’re not, but this . . .” Quan motioned at the open windows, the cup collecting dust on the table, and Khai’s couch-ridden form before resting his elbows on his knees and leaning toward him. “This is you being sad, Khai.”

  He frowned at his brother. What bullshit was this? “I’m not sad. I have the flu.”

  Quan stretched his head from side to side until his neck audibly popped. “You know you’ve been like this before, right? It’s a predictable pattern with you.”

  “Yes, I’ve had the flu before.”

  “I’m talking about being heartbroken,” Quan said, his eyes delving into Khai’s in an uncomfortable way.

  Khai’s body stiffened. “I’m not. I—”

  “Do you remember when Mom and Dad separated when we were little?” Quan asked quietly.

  “A little. They were together, and then one day they weren’t. It was fine.” He shrugged.

  “Except you weren’t fine. You stopped talking, and you got so clumsy you had to stay home from school for two weeks.” An ironic smile touched Quan’s mouth. “I remember because there was no one to take care of you, so I had to stay home, too. I made us ramen in the microwave, and you were upset because there was no poached egg like when Mom cooks it.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.” And what he did remember was neutral and colorless, flat. He’d been told to give his dad one last hug before he left town for good. He remembered hugging a person who used to be everything and feeling . . . nothing.

  “Maybe you were too young. How about . . . after Andy’s funeral. Do you remember that?”

  An irritated sensation scratched up Khai’s back, and he kicked his blanket off, suddenly needing to be free. He wanted to brush his teeth and shower, shut all the windows, and maybe put that cup in the dishwasher. Wait, no, he wasn’t ready to put the cup away yet. “Yeah, I remember. I was fine.” Too fine. “Can we not talk about this?”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no point. I wasn’t heartbroken then, and I’m not now.” Stone hearts didn’t break. They were too hard. “I’m like a Terminator with logic programming and no feelings.” He stretched his lips into a plastic smile.

  Quan rolled his eyes. “What a load of shit. Are you going to say you don’t love at all? I know you love me.”

  Khai tilted his head to the side. He’d never thought about that before.

  “There is literally nothing you can say to make me believe you don’t,” Quan said with absolute confidence. “Go ahead. Try.”

  “I hardly ever do things with you, and we don’t have a bunch of similar interests, and—”

  “And you never forget my birthday, and you always share your food with me even when it’s your favorite, and I know anytime I need something, I can count on you, no matter what,” Quan finished.<
br />
  “Well . . . yeah.” Those were hard rules in Khai’s universe.

  “That’s brother love. We just don’t say it because we’re tough and shit, but yeah, I love you, too.” Quan punched him on the shoulder. “And why the fuck are you wearing a sweater in late July?”

  Khai rubbed his shoulder. “I told you. I have the flu.”

  “You don’t have the flu. This is how your heart breaks. It’s like you hurt too much for your brain to process, and then your body shuts down, too. You were a lot like this after Andy. Even down to the one sock.”

  Khai looked at his feet and was surprised to see he only wore one sock. “Maybe it came off in my sleep.” He dug through the blanket, but it wasn’t there.

  “Or you forgot it. After Andy, you were so out of it, we were all afraid you’d accidentally kill yourself by walking in front of a bus or forgetting to eat.”

  Khai shook his head and scratched at his beard. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

  Quan laughed. “No, it doesn’t. That’s why we were all so worried, and you seemed off ever since then. These past couple months are the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time, to be honest.”

  Khai gritted his teeth. He hadn’t been happy. He’d been in an Esme high. There was a difference, though at the moment, his mind wasn’t clear enough to figure out what it was. Frustrated, he pulled off his one sock and tossed it on the floor. There, now he was symmetrical. But a lone sock lay on the floor, completely out of place.

  Quan considered Khai for several long seconds before saying, “Are you ready for the death anniversary next weekend? Talking about him might help. You never do.”

  Khai fixed his attention on the sock on the floor. “I did. At Sara’s wedding.”

  Quan released a heavy exhalation. “Yeah, I heard about that. I should have been there with you.”

  “It’s not your fault when I hurt people,” Khai said.

  “It’s not yours, either.”

  Khai shook his head at his brother’s insensible logic and focused on the sock again. He should pick it up, find its mate, and stick them in the laundry together. It was distinctly infuriating imagining his socks journeying through the house separately. They were designed to be together.