Last Tang Standing: 2020’s most hilarious, heartwarming debut rom-com for fans of Crazy Rich Asians

by Lauren Ho

  Something in me detonated. Maybe it was yesterday’s shrimp curry. I didn’t linger to investigate. “I wouldn’t be so smug: your husband is on TINDER, and WE MATCHED!” I shouted, as the elevator doors closed on her surprised, and grossed-out, face before she could make her own exit. And I know it was childish, dear Diary, but by golly, it felt good.

  I can’t believe I used to care about what she thought about my choices in life.

  I placed the box on the floor and fished in the packed Celine bag for some tissues to plug my running nose (allergies triggered by Genevieve’s ridiculous fragrance) when I realized there was something else in there that I’d managed to forget about: Suresh’s letter.

  My heart hammering, I tore it open with trembling hands. Read the handwritten words, again and again, until my vision swam with it.

  And then I began to run.

  54

  I ran all over the lobby like a loon and finally out of the building, scanning the taxi queue, hoping in vain to catch Suresh somehow, but he was nowhere to be found. Dammit. I decided to take a taxi to his place right away; I couldn’t let off now or I’d chicken out as usual. I needed to find him.

  It was time to let him know that things between Eric and me were over and that he was the reason why, to apologize for always assuming the worst of him and clear the air, to kiss the heck out of him if he’d allow it, basically. In the cab, I read his note once more:

  Andrea, I’m not sure how to tell you this, since we’re both with other people, but I’ve fallen for you and if you’ll give me a chance I would like to show you what you mean to me. I have to leave for New York on Monday 14 November for the next six months and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I think we have what it takes to make it work, no matter what.

  You’re my North Star, Andrea.

  When I got to Suresh’s, I was so eager to see him again that I didn’t even care that I was raising a ruckus; I just started banging on the door.

  The door flew open and a bleary-eyed, unshaven, and wild-haired face that belonged to neither Suresh nor Anousha peered at me. “Who the fuck?” the man said. “What do you want? Whatever it is you’re selling, Auntie, I’m not buying!”

  I squinted at the degenerate still in bed so late on a Monday afternoon. He looked vaguely familiar. It took me a few moments to realize where I’d seen him before. “Chandran? It’s me, Andrea. From Catan with Suresh a few months ago.”

  “Oh.” Chandran squinted at me. “Sorry. I thought I’d seen you before, somewhere. Wait, let me put in my contact lenses. Come in.”

  I waited in the living room, wondering what was going on. What was Chandran doing at home? And where was Suresh? I’d assume he’d come straight home with his stuff from work. But the house was strangely still, and when I peeked into Suresh’s study, his personal laptop and all his inks were gone.

  When Chandran came back I begged him to tell me where Suresh was.

  “I don’t know, man,” Chandran said. “He didn’t say. I just got here two nights ago and the place was already like this, all packed up. I have the worst headache. It must be the jet lag. Y’know, I was in San Francisco for a Catan championship and …”

  I tuned out as he droned on and on about a new point system or something, and tried calling Suresh; no luck, it kept going to voicemail. I texted him, the same “We need to talk” pleas, the same “It’s important” platitudes, to WhatsApp and all the other platforms we used. None of the messages were read. I checked the Read receipts and realized he hadn’t actually looked at his phone in over an hour.

  Shit … could he have left for New York already?

  “… And my sponsors are saying I’ll need to stay in the global leagues if I wa—”

  I blew up. “Enough with the Catan already, Chandran! The world doesn’t revolve around your dumb board game! This is important.” I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Tell me the truth, you human wombat! Where is Suresh?!” I released him, panting.

  Chandran sulked. “I told you, I don’t know. I have a spare key. I always crash here when I’m in town.” He brightened. “Didn’t you know I moved to Estonia two months ago? It’s great, it’s like, there’s a whole community of Catan and Dominion and Minecraft players there, including a Church of Catan, haha …”

  I left this font of information.

  I asked the others to call him: Linda, Valerie, his friends from work (Mong, Kai), Ray, Chandran, Faisal. Nothing. It was as though Suresh had dropped off the face of the earth. I checked his personal Facebook, his personal Instagram, Twitter, even his LinkedIn, for traces of his hide. Nothing. Not that I had expected much, as he didn’t really have an active presence … except …

  “Ping!” I looked at my phone. A notification from Instagram—and a post from The Last True Self!

  Suresh had uploaded a photo of himself (his face obscured by a smiley-face emoji) on a plane:

  On my way to the Big Apple. One step closer to TLTS graphic novel! See you in New York. #midcareergapyear #crushingit

  Suresh was already gone. Can’t believe he was already on his way to America. I imagined him at Comic Con being surrounded by adoring comic book groupies, some of whom had to be hot Brahmin women from the right families. And maybe they played Catan.

  I dashed away the tears falling down my face. I had lost: it was too late.

  55

  Friday 18 November

  7:00 a.m. Woken up by alarm and was confused until I recalled that I was due to fly to KL in less than two hours to visit my mom so that I can reveal how far I’d chosen to fall from her ideals. Oh God.

  12:35 p.m. Arrived at my mother’s condo in Bangsar and knocked on the door, having discovered I’d forgotten my keys. She answered, dressed in a sleek long-sleeved jade cotton-silk top on gray linen slacks, looking fully operational, even if she still had a sallow undertone to her skin.

  I decided to dive right in. “Hi, Ma, don’t yell, but I’ve resigned and I’m not getting married,” I said in a rush. Why not just face the music all at once? I would no longer be a prisoner of the tyranny of anyone’s expectations, even if it meant I might not live to see another day.

  She surprisingly refrained from yelling at me. “So I can see,” was all she had to say.

  I slumped onto a bar stool at the kitchen island and waited for her to begin the onslaught.

  She stood and looked at me for a long time while I avoided her gaze. I felt her taking in the state of my unkempt hair, my bloodshot eyes, the cloud of tobacco and alcohol stink that must emanate from my pores, the weight I had gained from McDonald’s and Nando’s deliveries.

  “You don’t look too good,” she observed in less harsh terms than she would normally use. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve made a mistake,” I began. I looked at the countertop, biting my lip as I fought to control a surge of tears. “I’ve made many mistakes, and now I think I’ve lost the one good thing in my life.”

  “You’re not talking about Eric Deng,” my mother stated matter-of-factly. It was her way of asking an open-ended question.

  I took a deep breath and plunged right in. I told her about Suresh: who he was, where he was from, and what had happened between us; I didn’t hold back on the details. It was the first conversation that we’d ever had about a love interest of mine, and when I was done I was both elated at the disclosure and scared of her response. I could already hear her thoughts: My daughter, the one raised with milk from my own breasts, the last of my single children, rejected a billionaire … for an Indian comic artist/former lawyer?

  “Oh dear, what a mess,” she said with a sigh as she wearily took a seat at the bar. Suddenly she looked much older than her age, and I felt guilty for unloading my troubles on her so soon after her health scare. “Why are all my children insisting on sending me to my grave early?”

  “Mom, why do you always want us to suffer just to make you happy?” I cried, hurt by her response.

  “What are you talking about? I don’t want m
y children to suffer for my sake,” she said, affronted. “How can you say that? Do you even know what goes on in a mother’s heart when she sees her children running toward a cliff with only rocks to greet them below?”

  She reached for the pitcher of water and poured herself a glass. “On the contrary, I only want my children to have the best, and to make the choices that save them from suffering. When you told me about Eric, I was so happy for you; I could see he was mature, he had made it in life, he was stable, and he really cared about you. These are all the qualities of a sensible choice. Plus I didn’t even know there was someone else. But I’ll be honest, Andrea, even if I’d known that you were in love with this Suresh person, I would probably still have advocated for Eric because when you reach my age you will know that love doesn’t conquer everything, and that someone you respect and honor, who respects and honors you back, can bring you more long-term happiness than a hot, sweaty affair.” She made a moue of distaste, as though sexual attraction was merely a good-for-nothing afterthought.

  “Suresh is a good man,” I said defensively. He might be in New York and out of my reach, but that didn’t mean I’d sit by and let my mother malign him.

  “Maybe,” my mother said. “I judge on the overall facts presented to me. Young people are always so ruled by their passion that they forget the realities of life. You can’t live in a couple bubble forever. We grow, we age, and sometimes we grow apart. Don’t forget I was one of those young people, too, once upon a time, believing that love was all I needed. And look where it got me and your father.” Her eyes clouded over. “There was love between us, once. You know that we met at university, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. I had the vaguest recollection of some political rally or something that they attended for the heck of it; I was ashamed I knew little else, mostly because when I was younger it had seemed a little obscene to me to ask my parents how they met and fell in love, when all they did was hurt each other.

  “We were introduced by mutual friends and became sweethearts at university, although we were an odd pairing even in the beginning. My family was quite comfortable, respected, politically connected. I was raised in comfort, if not luxury, while he was a transplant from Kedah, a scholarship kid with little money of his own, an orphan raised by his uncle and aunt. But he was smart and I liked the way his hair fell into his eyes; we dated other people but always came back to each other; I couldn’t imagine my life without him, and he thought I was the only woman for him. So what if my family hated him? So what if my father threatened to cut me out of his will? Your father and I were in love. And for some time, it was enough. We were so happy in the beginning I couldn’t imagine it being any other way. I never thought that one day, twenty years later, he would cheat on me several times, the so-called love of my life.”

  “What?” I was incredulous. I had not known this. I had just assumed that they were wrong from the beginning—and when he got cancer, my mother had just accepted him, to care for him, until he’d passed on … “Why didn’t you say anything to us?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, and what happened between your father and me is our business, that’s the way it is with our generation—I saw it as my burden to carry,” my mother said heavily. She sighed. “And then our friends, those that ‘settled’ because they made sensible, family-approved choices, they’re still married, still together. So can you blame me when I hope my children make better, safer choices in life? Especially your sister, who, once married to a Muslim Malaysian, has to convert, and has to be OK with the fact that, in Malaysia, he can legally take a second, third, fourth wife if he wishes, without consulting her?”

  I had never thought of it that way; I had always assumed that my mother had just been, well, racist. “I see your point, Ma. But maybe these are the things you need to tell Melissa, so she can assure you that Kamarul is the kind of man who would never do that to her. And maybe spend some time with Kamarul before you condemn him. You and Melissa have made such progress since your heart attack, after all. I mean, you’re actually answering her texts!”

  She bowed her head and was silent for some time. “I’ll need to think about this,” she said at last.

  I hugged her. That was progress, it really was. “He’s a solid guy, Ma. Don’t let prejudice kill off any hope of reconciling this family.”

  She held up her hand. “Baby steps, Andrea, baby steps. But coming back to you and Suresh, you’re right. What happened between me and your father isn’t the rule for all love marriages. I won’t let my bitterness cloud your decisions anymore. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what’s important after the heart attack, and I’ve changed my position on some things. I loved your father, and we were so happy once. Maybe that kind of love is worth all the potential pain you open yourself to? Maybe … Ooh, I was young once, and I would have chosen a chance at love over anything”—her voice grew pensive; she was thinking of my father—“so I’ll say this, darling: if Suresh makes you happy, then I’ll step aside.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I said, awkwardly giving her a hug. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was likely too late for me and Suresh; it was enough, for now, to know that she believed in my ability to make good choices. She patted me briskly on the back but didn’t pull away from my embrace. We weren’t a very expressive family, usually. But if my mom can change …

  “Anyway, what do I know, he might be the best thing ever and you might turn out to be the Titanic. I mean, the things I found in that underwear drawer of yours …”

  I released her at once. “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What, that I’ll look for a job?”

  “Well, yes, that is still very important, but what I wanted to say is: go after what you want. I support you.”

  I made a noncommittal noise. If only it could be that easy.

  Friday 2 December

  My sister called with good news: she’s pregnant, all of ten weeks! And she and Kamarul went over to my mother’s, told her the news, and everyone involved is still alive! In fact, Ma is over the moon, although she wants them to get married ASAP, which means there will be a big, fat, multicultural, multiracial wedding on the horizon, with lots of color and potential for drama and, more important, it will be held before Helen and Magnus’s: in short, the perfect wedding to kick-start next year.

  Can’t say what the aunties will think about this, but, dear Diary, that’s my mother’s problem, not mine, mwuahahahahahahah!

  The only low point in all of this is the fact that once again, Linda will be my plus-one.

  Friday 9 December

  Amazing news! *wipes tears of joy and snot, the latter which incidentally sounds way better than nasal mucus, its proper term, from face* Water is NOT dead! Or at least he has revived! Suresh just teased a strip where Rhean, in embracing a dead Water, discharges a blast of energy through her touch. And a finger twitches …

  Is it weird that I’m so invested in a couple that exists only on paper?

  Saturday 10 December

  12:00 p.m. Another beautiful morning of me waking up to a Saturday that is entirely mine. No law firm. No man. No Hunger Games to win.

  Paradise.

  I can’t explain how good it feels to be the boss of me, myself, and I, living on my own terms, my mother having been muzzled by news of my sister’s pregnancy, so am now totally, utterly free to pursue my passions and my hobbies (whatever they may be) with no job to cushion me and my ass, my soon-to-be-thirty-four-year-old ass that is still as soft as an old pillow, even with all this free time on my hands where I could be working out.

  Oh God.

  It’s OK, it’s OK, need to learn to take it easy, #YOLO, otherwise what kind of millennial am I if I can’t take a career sabbatical? Also I’ve managed to sell almost all of my bags, which netted me a small fortune, and am renting out my spare room on Airbnb. Val helped me with the pictures and everything, incorpora
ting filters that make my apartment exude a hygge vibe (i.e., the kind of apartment where Danish uber-waifs would prance around making cloudberry waffles with Stevia sprinkles while yodeling), which I am told is very in and ill, all at the same time, which explains the 80 percent occupancy rate, so I’m not totally adrift. Le mortgage is covered and all.

  Am also interviewing for a job as head of legal at an international nonprofit working with urban refugees in Kuala Lumpur. The work is meaningful and interesting, exactly the kind I’d gotten into the legal profession to pursue. I’ve done two rounds of interviews and the chances are looking good. If I get it, I will have to move back to the motherland, something I’m apprehensive about; it’s been a while since I’ve lived there. To relearn the serpentine roads and the fractal skyline, snarling traffic jams, raintrees, and roadside vendors; the snatch-thieves, hawkers, buskers, beggars; the smog, heat, bustle, and wet chaotic beauty of KL—it should be interesting.

  At least I will be close to family.

  Family is, after all, almost everything. But not quite.

  Friday 16 December

  Linda and I were scheduled to fly to Chiang Mai for a Tang family hen party/retreat for Helen, sponsored by Auntie Wei Wei (Helen’s wedding registration is scheduled for 31 December). Linda had volunteered to organize it, promising that it would be a whole bunch of fun but which Linda had, for some unfathomable reason, booked at a silent retreat. A luxury, six-star silent retreat, but still: no alcohol, no tech, no talking. And she was going to spring this fact upon the unsuspecting bride-to-be and the wedding party (three other cousins we didn’t like, no Melissa because she’s still so early in the pregnancy) at the last minute (when we arrived, essentially).