Page 39 of Not That Into You

For human companionship? Friendship? Money? All good options.

“Where do you live?” Cameron’s father asks.

“Hell’s Kitchen.”

By the look on all their faces, I might as well have said we lived in a seedy hotel in Jersey City.

“Why—”

Before Grace can finish her question, Cameron interrupts. “It’s a nice apartment. Pre-war. And close to friends.”

His family doesn’t look convinced.

“Where are your parents from, Monica?” his mother asks.

Cameron puts a supportive hand on my thigh, sending a tingling warmth up my leg. “Mother...”

“What? This is the first time you’ve brought a woman home. You’ve assured us this relationship is serious. We just want to get to know her.”

Checkmate. His mother clearly isn’t convinced of our undying affection. Although in fairness, if Cameron were my son, I’d have questions, too.

“My parents are from Dayton, Ohio.”

His mother’s eyes widen. “Dayton? Ohio?”

It’s not exactly Paris, France, but I don’t think she needs to look quite so horrified.

“Where are they from originally?” his father asks.

Cameron stiffens next to me, while I take a deep breath and smile. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that question, and I know what he’s actually asking: What are you? Because I clearly don’t look like them.

Cameron squeezes my leg. “Dad, she already told you.”

Placing my hand over Cameron’s to reassure him, I take a deep breath. I’d rather address the question of my ethnicity head-on than deal with whispered comments and sideways glances.

“My father grew up in Ohio, while my mother was born in the Philippines.”

Aside from a brief lifting of their brows, his parents’ reactions don’t waver from their default setting of mild displeasure. His grandmother, however, leans forward and says in a loud voice, “You’re Hispanic?”

Feeling magnanimous, I decide to assume she’s ignorant of geography rather than being intentionally obtuse. “No. Asian American.”

“You don’t look Chinese.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing because... no shit.

Cameron reaches behind me to put a hand on his grandmother’s shoulder, likely to keep her from inserting her foot even further into her mouth. “Monica isn’t Chinese.”

“Oh. But I thought?—”

“How’s the soup?”

Cameron’s grandmother looks down at her near empty bowl. “Too salty.” She looks up at Cameron’s mother. “Amanda, I thought you hired a new chef?”

Mrs. Stanhope smiles tightly. “I did.”

His grandmother huffs and reaches for her wine.

As the others turn their attention back to their soup, Cameron leans toward me, so his mouth is close to my ear, sending a shiver up my spine. “I’m sorry.”

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