Page 22 of Well, That Was Unexpected

“What sort of books?”

“Like…novels. You know.”

I don’t, actually, but I do know that I’m done trying. Not that I was really trying in the first place, but I’m done with straining my brain to make small talk. I glance up at the clock and am relieved to find that it’s been almost twenty minutes since we sat down. It wouldn’t be completely awful of me to end this date now. It’s clear we have nothing in common, no chemistry whatsoever, and the date is taking its last sips of air and needs to be put out of its misery.

I take out my phone like it’s just vibrated in my pocket and pretend to read a text. “Uh-oh.” Okay, that came out hella fake, but maybe she won’t notice.

“What’s up?”

“Uh, there’s been a—a family situation. I need to go.” Oh my god, could the words sound any more made-up? I stand and Sharlot does too.

“Oh no.” She grabs her bag and walks out with me.

Outside of the café, we stop and turn to look at each other. I hold out my hand again. “It’s been really nice meeting you, Sharlot.”

“Yeah, I’m glad we did this. I hope everything works out okay with your family.” She smiles at me, and I think it’s the first real thing I’ve seen today. The realness in it is so disarming that I forget, just for a moment, what we’re doing. Then she reaches out and instead of shaking my hand, hugs me. Her scent fills mysenses—summer fruit and fresh laundry. And there’s something behind the hug, some sort of raw emotion that catches at my throat and leaves me feeling breathless.

“Sharlot—”

“George!” someone calls out.

The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle to attention even as my stomach drops. It’s an instinctive reaction to that voice, the voice of the matriarch who has our entire clan eating out of her hands. I turn to see that Eighth Aunt and Nainai are here.

I once saw a tweet that said something along the lines of “When will writers learn that negative emotions don’t make people paler?” I had laughed and clicked Like because the sheer number of times I’ve come across a description of a character going pale due to shock/horror/sadness is ridiculous. But now, here I am, witnessing this exact phenomenon happening before me. I mean, just a moment ago George’s skin was a very typical shade of salmon-beige. And then this group of people appear, andboom, his complexion can only be described as ashen, or maybe taupe if I were feeling fancy.

“Oh, George, what a nice surprise,” the auntie—she’s not my aunt but she’s the very definition of a Chinese-Indo auntie: huge hair, shoulder pads for days, a Birkin bag, and of course, the requisite Chanel tweed jacket. I’m half Indo, which means, thanks to Mama, I recognize all the high-fashion brands not only by their logos, but by their trademark looks. I don’t know what it is about the Chanel tweed jacket. Sure, it’s pretty, but it’s also hellishly hot. I get wearing it in mild LA winters, but inthe sweltering humidity of Jakarta, that’s just a death wish. She’s holding the arm of a white-haired old lady who’s also in full-body Chanel, though the old lady is also wearing a fat string of flawless pearls around her neck.

Next to the auntie is a young, attractive Chinese-Indonesian woman and two cameramen. I watch them with barely concealed interest. A TV crew? Or magazine? Their gear looks very big and official and very in-your-face. The one carrying the massive video cam swings round and aims it at me and George, and now I wonder if I’ve gone taupe as well. It’s one thing to be an outside observer, quite another to be the subject of that disconcerting lens. I have no idea what to do with, like, my hands and my legs and for that matter my face.

“Eighth Aunt, Nainai!” George stammers. “Hi! Um, it’s so great to see you here.” It’s an obvious lie, but both Eighth Aunt and Nainai smile with obvious affection as George gives them each a careful hug. The photographer clicks away at them hugging. “What brings you here? Nainai, let’s find you a seat.”

“We’re having an interview, of course.” Eighth Aunt—good god, just how many aunts does George have?—says this like being interviewed is something that happens every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. “This is Rina fromAsian Wealth.We thought it would be fun to do the interview at one of these cafés that you kids like to go to so much, rather than the usual high-end places.”

“I don’t know about this,” Nainai grouses. “I’d have much rather go to my usual place at the Ritz.”

“Aiya, Ma. I’ve told you, the Ritz is so yesterday.”

The reporter smiles and nods. “Yes, we’ve done a lot of coverage at the Ritz. This will make you look a lot more approachable. More relatable.”

Eighth Aunt nods, obviously pleased at being described as approachable. I wonder if she’s forgotten that her entire outfit costs over fifty grand. Nainai sniffs, looking around her like she’s not at all impressed by the beautiful mall we’re in. She’s a tiny old lady with equally impeccable makeup, and though she’s so petite, she manages to look intimidating as hell.

“Hi, George,” Rina says, holding out her hand to George. “We’ve spoken on the phone? I called to ask for an interview about OneLiner.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I remember.” Wow, George is a really bad liar. But Rina smiles and shakes his hand anyway. Then—horror of horrors—she turns and holds out her hand to me, and I have her full attention and it’s just as disarming as the camera lenses.

She smiles, reminding me of a shark that senses blood in the water. “And you must be George’s girlfriend, based on that hug we saw!”

What? It takes a second to realize what she’s referring to. The goodbye hug? The one I gave out of pity because George is some poor idiot my mom had deceived for no good reason? Belatedly, it hits me that in a place as conservative as Jakarta, hugs must carry a lot more meaning. People don’t just go around hugging each other. So Rina assumes that since George and I hugged, we must be close. Ah, shit.

“Uh.” I swear I’m usually better with words than this, but the cameras are seriously in my face, and having Rina’s, Nainai’s,and Eighth Aunt’s gazes on me is too disconcerting. For a second, I actually forget my own name.

“This is Sharlot,” George says after a painful silence.

“Oh, Sharlot!” Eighth Aunt cries. “How nice to finally meet you!”

Before I know it, she’s giving me that same Asian hug, complete with air-kisses. I manage to recover enough of my senses to return the non-hug, fully aware of the camera that’s recording everything and the shutter clicks of the other one. I almost ask her how the hell she knows who I am, but stop myself in time. Obviously she’s putting up a show for Rina and her crew. I don’t know what’s going on, but poor George looks about ready to faint, so I say, “It’s so nice to finally meet you too, Eighth Aunt.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet? Isn’t she lovely, Ma?” Eighth Aunt says to Nainai.

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