by Anna Yen
Inside, it was obvious which people were the tacky nouveau riche of Silicon Valley and which were the local city dwellers: the former were dressed, or rather overdressed, in high-priced fashions that probably hadn’t even made it into the retail stores yet, and the latter simply wore jeans. Mark, Kate, Daniel, and I fell into the much smaller “we’re just working folk” group—people who were in oh-so-passé professions dressed in conservative work attire.
The car conversation was loud on the way home—from the front seats Kate and Mark debated the pros and cons of prenuptial agreements, and in the back seat Daniel waxed poetic on his opinions about globalization. Then, rather suddenly, my boyfriend asked me if I had any vacation time. I wished we were alone because Kate and Mark’s voices were loud, making this private moment feel un-private.
“Yes, of course. Whatcha thinkin’?” I asked. I was trying to sound casual, but my heart was beating fast. My first romantic getaway!
While Daniel shared with me his wish list of vacation spots—“Hawaii, Bali, Costa Rica. Oh, what about New Orleans? I’ve never been there!”—I was overanalyzing. I think there was something different about his tone just now, although his facial expression didn’t seem particularly head-over-heels. My excitement tempered and Daniel saw it in my face. I wanted this trip to mean something to him—something more than just a vacation, something about us.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Sophia, I know you think you hide your feelings well, but you wear your heart on your sleeve. What’s wrong?”
“We haven’t talked at all about our future!” I complained. “Can you tell me where your head is at?”
Suddenly Kate and Mark stopped debating and the only sound in the car was the humming of the engine. The painfully awkward silence felt like it was dragging on forever, but only a few seconds elapsed before Kate loudly blurted, “Blah, blah, blah, blah . . .”
Kate to the rescue.
I could see in the passenger-side mirror that Kate was wearing a horrified expression and I couldn’t help but laugh. “‘Blah, blah, blah’? That’s the best you can do?”
“Oh my gosh, you guys. I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Daniel chuckled. “Sophia and I can talk about it later.”
But when later came during our phone conversation that night, I wished it never had.
“I’m not looking for a serious relationship,” Daniel said.
I sat in my bed looking down at my hands and holding back tears.
“I’ll be finishing school this summer and starting a new job in the city. I can’t commit to anything right now. I’m really sorry.”
“So were we just having fun, then?” I asked as Mom’s evaluation of Daniel as bad marriage material passed through my head.
“Well, no. I care deeply for you, but I just want you to know I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“Have you been seeing other people?” I asked, jealousy already overwhelming me.
“No, of course not. It’s not like that. We’re exclusive. I’m just telling you that marriage is not in the near future.”
“Oh,” I said. I looked down at my hands again, my disappointment deepening. “I am ready for that type of commitment, Daniel. I mean, not married with kids right away or anything”—lie—“but I’d like to find the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. So I need to think about this. Is that okay?”
Daniel’s voice sounded sad. “Sure, of course.”
A few days after Thanksgiving I had created an online dating profile and soon was having lunch with a guy I’d met through an Internet service, a fireman with a young daughter who lived with him.
“But wait, don’t you have to work something like thirty-six-hour shifts? Does she stay with your ex-wife when you’re working?” I asked.
“Well, my wife lives in the house as well,” the fireman said, spearing a french fry with his fork.
“Oh! That’s very progressive of you. And you mean your ex-wife, right?”
“No, we’re still married.”
“Separated?”
“No. It’s inevitable, though. We’re having a lot of issues, and—”
“Well, maybe that’s because you’re out dating OTHER WOMEN!” I said loudly as I stood up.
Moron.
My next date was with an engineer. I could tell from our first phone call that Mr. Engineer was very socially awkward, which I overlooked because his online profile indicated the man had potential. He suggested we meet the next day at a trendy restaurant-bar in San Carlos called Town, and I agreed to a drink but explained that I had dinner plans. On a scale of one to ten, he was a seven, so not bad at all. But after introducing himself, he asked if I minded paying. “I forgot my wallet.”
The guy seemed genuinely embarrassed about it, so I agreed. After all, I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.
When the bartender came to take our drink orders, Mr. Engineer said, “I’ll have a glass of the cabernet. And a filet mignon to go.”
What?
By the last day of that same week, I’d booked an early December trip to Italy for Daniel and me. After my run of bad dates, I was so thankful for my boyfriend that I decided the trip, or the airfare at least, would be my treat, because the thought of any more online dates horrified me. Besides, I’d hatched a plan: I’d kill Daniel with kindness and make him fall in love with me. Kate didn’t approve whatsoever, and even threatened to tell Audrey. But she hadn’t met the guys I’d just gone out with.
The week in Italy flew by without a single argument. It was amazing how much those days changed me; for the first time in my life, I felt like an adult who was making her own decisions, paying her own way, and in a real relationship. It felt great! But more thrilling than the statue of David or the Ponte Vecchio was the comfort of knowing that someone—Daniel—could love me, diabetes and all.
It began to rain on the last afternoon of our romantic holiday; Daniel and I raced through the old cobblestone streets and ducked into a wonderful small restaurant that held only six tables. Unlike the touristy places we’d eaten, the menu here was all written in Italian, and no one in the place spoke a word of English. It was the most memorable day of the trip—we sat there drinking and laughing with the restaurant owner as his brother, the chef, brought us plate after plate of authentic Italian fare. The carbohydrate-filled dishes were diabetic nightmares for sure, but I had insulin for that, so my running mascara became my bigger concern. I remember so clearly Daniel’s smiling face as he sat next to me, soaking wet from the rain. We held hands underneath the table and kissed passionately after the owner left to tend to other guests. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.
As Christmas approached, life seemed like it was right on track. I had a boyfriend, first of all. And I’d become a valuable contributor to Grant Vicker’s team at Sterling, Rich—something I had never imagined. It had been more than a year since I first walked through those huge glass doors, and I had nearly fifteen IPOs under my belt to prove it, with more lined up thanks to Grant’s thriving business. I remembered my goal on my first day at the firm—to find a husband. This will do nicely. Sterling, Rich was working out nicely, just not in the way I’d expected. “Go to college,” my mom had always said. “Make yourself just smart enough so a more successful man will marry you. A doctor or lawyer, perhaps.” Somehow, somewhere, I’d forgotten that goal.
“Dad, please be gentle with him.”
“I’m going to shoot him in between the eyes!” Dad joked. It was the first time Daniel was meeting my parents, and I was racked with nerves. I would have preferred for Daniel to just honk when he was outside, but he wanted to introduce himself to Mom and Dad despite my warnings. I knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant—it never was when it came to my dad and boys.
I looked pleadingly at Mom. “Help me!”
“Your father is very protective, Sophia. You can’t fault him for that,” she sa
id with a chuckle.
“Dad, just remember. His name is Daniel. Not Brian or Erik or . . .” My dad liked to call my ex-boyfriends by the wrong name. He thought it was funny. Anyone else would call it passive-aggressive.
“Got it. Daniel,” Dad said to me as the doorbell rang.
Let’s get this over with—quick!
We raced to the door, pushing and shoving each other, and were it not for my tight, long dress, I would have gotten there first.
“Hello! You must be Brian,” Dad said.
Shit.
“Hi, Mr. Young, I’m Daniel,” he said before awkwardly waving to my mother.
I was glad my dad’s “joke” went unnoticed, but Dad turned to Mom and said in Mandarin, “Idiot doesn’t even realize I just offended him.”
Daniel hadn’t taken three steps into the foyer when Dad handed him the star for our fifteen-foot Christmas tree, which we’d just finished decorating that morning. It sat squarely in our foyer and was tall enough to almost reach our second-floor skywalk. “Can you please put this on the top of the tree for me? I’m too old to climb up there,” Dad said.
“I thought you called the handyman to come do that for us,” I said, glaring at Dad.
“Well, I did, but since Daniel is here, and the ladder is out, I figured he could help.”
Daniel walked to the base of the ladder and looked up. “Uh, um, sure. Sophia, hold the base for me.”
“Please,” Dad said to Daniel sternly while Mom stood in the background saying nothing.
“Yes, please, Sophia, will you hold the ladder for me?” Daniel asked, and I swear I heard him gulp. Daniel climbed, or rather shook, up the ladder and did as my father asked. When both of his feet stood firmly on our marble floor again, he said to me, “We’d better go.”
Daniel said a quick goodbye and walked—ran—out the door.
Well, that went well.
I spent the duration of the short drive to the law firm’s holiday party convincing Daniel that my dad didn’t hate him.
“Yes, he does,” Daniel insisted.
“No, no. He’s just like that. But next time you see my parents, maybe just try to talk to them a little. Compliment my dad on the house—he loves that.”
“You want me to kiss his ass?” Daniel hissed.
Yes. Yes, actually I do.
The fact of the matter was that my dad didn’t trust any man who was within one hundred feet of me, and the only thing that would change that was Daniel waiting on me hand and foot. My dad wanted me married off but only to a man he knew could handle me and take care of me. He made it his life’s mission to test each guy I brought home to make sure he was worthy. But Daniel wasn’t raised with Chinese filial piety. I stared out the car window and struggled to reconcile my desire to be with Daniel—to be an adult—with the comfort of being Daddy’s girl. What does a woman madly in love do in this situation? A woman who knows that her relationship with her boyfriend could forever alter her relationship with her parents? Which should she choose?
I choose Daniel.
When we arrived at Sterling, Rich’s holiday party, I got my first real glimpse of Daniel in his tuxedo—without a judgmental Young family member in the way, at least. He looked as handsome as ever. “We made it,” I said. Daniel’s hands were freezing but firm on my bare back.
“By the skin of my teeth,” he said, laughing.
“We look prrrrretty amazing,” I noted with an air of satisfaction.
“Come on, Ms. Amazing.” Daniel lowered his hand down my back to give me a pat, then hooked my arm in his and led me into the party. “Kate and Mark are over there. We have an open bar to investigate.”
The alcohol was flowing, but still the lawyers couldn’t stop talking about work—or about Scott Kraft’s recent visit to the office. “He was in to see Austin Sterling,” people whispered, circulating rumors that the firm’s founder had hand-selected Grant to work on a secret Scott Kraft project. Daniel and I, however, ignored everyone and sweated through our formalwear, dancing to every song the DJ played. There was no one who navigated the dance floor better, no one who dipped me so effortlessly to the old-timey jazz songs, no one who could anticipate more readily when I needed a drink or a tiny mushroom filled with goat cheese. No one whose hands felt better on my waist when he was guiding me through the crowd. I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought of breaking up with Daniel over my need to control the definition of our relationship.
When the DJ ended the evening with Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” Daniel sang every word to me, holding me close, tilting his head back and forth like a Vegas impersonator. I laid my head on his chest and pressed my cheek into his lapel as Elvis crooned.
“Wise men say,” he warbled, the bass thumping through the room, “only fools rush in.”
That night I lay in my own bed playing over and over the image of Daniel during that last dance. I fell asleep thinking about his eyes. They told a story, but I didn’t know which one.
Chapter 5
Thanks to the multibillion-dollar valuations that investors were giving to every smart—and, quite frankly, stupid—idea that came across their desks, the New Year further fueled America’s period of “irrational exuberance” (as former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan would say). But no one in Silicon Valley complained about the Nasdaq soaring to all-time highs; the stock market created a whole new generation of rich people. Camrys became BMWs and every night was another lavish party with open bars and high-priced entertainment. Being in the San Francisco Bay Area was living what many would consider “the good life.”
Don’t be such a party pooper, Mr. Federal Reserve!
But by May, people could no longer ignore the signs that this party period wasn’t sustainable and that a slowdown was imminent. Sterling, Rich clients rushed to take their companies public before a true stock market correction, while other companies simply crashed and burned. In either case, Sterling, Rich no longer just hummed twenty-four/seven—it throbbed, thundered, and nearly burst at its seams. What little work-life balance I had before now seemed like a distant memory; I survived that summer by feeding off the law firm’s adrenaline, free coffee, and the free cafeteria that was added downstairs so employees never needed to leave the premises. Sleep was often defined as a few precious minutes under my desk, I’d missed family dinners and Ava’s second birthday, and Daniel had to come to the office if he wanted to see me at all. The stress of being torn between work, my family, my boyfriend, and my health weighed heavily on me, but blood sugars be damned! I was high from the facts that an important man like Grant needed me, that my coworkers respected me, and that for once in my life I wasn’t the cute one, the sick one, the Chinese one, or any other “one.” I didn’t let any of that define me at Sterling, Rich. What defined me was that I was Grant Vicker’s paralegal. Super Paralegal in my own mind.
The setting sun blinded me as I stuck my head into a cocky sixth-year attorney’s office. His name was Tyler and he sat three doors down the hall from Grant; he was the most senior attorney on my boss’s team, so we’d worked together on a handful of transactions. We were in the middle of one that required his attention, so my dropping in wasn’t unusual.
“Nice Chinese haircut number twenty-two,” he said, referring to my fresh two-inch trim, compliments of the firm. Someone must have pointed out to Austin Sterling how worn down and grubby his staff looked, because we’d recently received a firm-wide email announcing that masseuses, manicurists, and hairstylists would be on-site every other week and encouraging us all to sign up.
I contorted my face and asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s only so many hairstyles a Chinese person can wear because they all have straw-like hair.”
“I don’t have straight hair, Tyler. It’s wavy. I just blow-dry it.”
He wasn’t listening, though, and I didn’t want to give any further attention to his idiotic comment, so I continued, “Did you review the PacketTrap shareholde
r agreement I drafted?”
He looked at me, wearing an annoyed expression. “In the future, if you want to speak with me, please make an appointment. I’m very busy.”
“Tyler,” I said, my tone becoming lower and more serious, “it’s a yes-or-no question.”
“I’m a sixth-year attorney, Sophia. I went to Harvard Law School and have a dual JD/MBA. You really shouldn’t take up my time with those questions, even if it’s a quick and simple answer you’re looking for. I will get to it when I get to it.”
I almost started laughing. “Yeah, well you’re also the idiot who maintains lame hair theories and bought a hundred-thousand-dollar car with a manual transmission that you don’t know how to drive.”
Take that, you shithead.
I walked away before I said anything I might regret.
Later, when Grant asked me about the PacketTrap shareholder agreement, I responded nonchalantly, “I can’t be sure because Tyler says I’m not allowed to talk to him.”
“What?” Grant chuckled incredulously.
“Oh, sorry. That’s not entirely true. He said that if I wanted to ask him anything, I needed to make an appointment. And just to be clear, Grant, I’m not doing any such thing. He has no idea who he’s dealing with.”
“Obviously not,” Grant responded, looking entertained. “Still, I’ll talk to him. He’s just overwhelmed with work and stressed about making partner.”
I walked out of Grant’s office, grumbling about Tyler’s bit about “Chinese haircut number twenty-two.” I wasn’t trying to get my coworker in trouble; I was treating this like a regular bitch session with my boss, whom I was very comfortable with. But I’d forgotten he was also a former law clerk who’d reviewed civil rights cases under Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall.
“What?” Grant asked with obvious anger and concern.
