Page 30 of Well, That Was Unexpected

“Wah, you all finally arrived!” an auntie with hair even bigger than Eighth Aunt’s rushes toward us. Like Eighth Aunt, this auntie is decked out in full-body Chanel and also carrying a Birkin bag, although hers looks like it’s made out of crocodile skin. Next to her is an uncle who is in a full-body Gucci tracksuit. He waves at us, nearly blinding me with the huge watch on his wrist and chunky gold and jade rings on his fingers. Behind them are two kids who look around my age, both too busy tapping on their phones to pay us much attention.

“Hi, Third Uncle, Third Aunt,” George says. “Did you have a good flight?”

Third Uncle makes a tch-noise. “We fired the air attendant. Look what she did to my limited-edition Gucci!” He tugs at his tracksuit to show us a coin-size stain.

“Limited edition!” Third Aunt says, just in case we all missed that part somehow.

Eighth Aunt, alighting from the car, glances at Third Uncle and rolls her eyes. “Aiya, I told you, gege, please stop wearing Gucci. It’s just so…mainstream. It’s embarrassing, really. Remember the mantra: Hermès, Dior, and Chanel are swell. Gucci, Louis, and Prada are outta.”

Kiki glances at Eleanor, who bursts out laughing. “You really need to work on that last rhyme, Eighth Aunt.”

Third Uncle looks down and mumbles something about brand loyalty. Third Aunt looks at me and does a double take. “Is this…? Waduh! George! Your girlfriend, ya? Wah, so pretty!”

Luckily, before Third Aunt can say anything more, Eighth Aunt says, “You can properly meet Sharlot at the welcome dinner.” I have the sense that I’ve just narrowly escaped the jaws of a dangerous beast. For now. I gulp, feeling strangely small and helpless. I wonder if the rest of George’s family is just as intimidating.

“Come here, Shi Jun,” Nainai says, beckoning toward me. “Come walk with Nainai.”

I hurry forward and hold out my arm to her so she can hold on to me for support as we walk. It feels kind of awkward and yet also kind of lovely to be walking with this old lady who callsherself “Nainai” around me, as though I were her granddaughter and not just some random girl who’s pretending to be her grandson’s girlfriend. I never had a relationship with any of my grandparents, and seeing her wrinkled hand on my arm is making me all sorts of emotional.

“Wah, this place is so nice, ya, Shi Jun?” Nainai says, looking around us and nodding her approval.

“Yeah, it really is. Thank you again for having me here.”

“Of course. Oh, you are so lovely. I can see why my Ming Fa likes you.”

Guilt churns in my belly, turning it sour.

“How are you doing, my girl? You seem tired. Are you a bit stressed?”

I gnaw on my lower lip, wondering how much to reveal to Nainai. The thing is, the last week has been an overwhelming mess. I hadn’t foreseen just how much things were going to blow up online once Rina ran the story about George being attached to me. My ShareIt account, which was only opened a couple weeks back, went from seven followers to over twenty thousand overnight, and I swear most of these people are only hate-following me because their comments aren’t very nice at all. They’re mostly stuff about how I’m not as pretty as this girl or that girl and George could do a lot better and so on. And then there had been the prep that Eighth Aunt had put us through. She made us get our back stories straight and memorize random bits of preapproved information about each other. For example, George’s hobbies (reading SFF, gym, app design), his favorite food (rendang), and his dream job (working in the familycompany, of course. And astronaut). It’s all such a farce, and happening so fast that I’m still reeling at the magnitude of everything.

Somehow, I manage to make myself smile at Nainai and say, “I’m fine. Just a bit tired from the journey.”

A woman wearing a simple but elegant black dress approaches us and says, “Om Suastiastu.” She clasps her palms together and gives a slight bow.

I don’t recognize the words, so they must be Balinese instead of Bahasa Indonesia.

“I’m Sri,” she says, “the hotel manager. Welcome to the Grand Hotel Uluwatu. May I escort you to your private villas?”

“Don’t we need to check in?” I blurt out loud. They all look at me with a mixture of amusement and maybe a tiny bit of pity. Okay, so maybe I’m imagining the pity. Probably.

“It’s all been taken care of,” Fauzi says, patting my arm reassuringly.

Of course it’s all “been taken care of.” God, I feel so out of place. Years ago, Mama had saved up enough to splurge on a trip to Disney World in Florida. I had felt so incredibly privileged, especially when we stepped inside the resort, and everything, even the elevator buttons, had some sort of Mickey emblem on them. I had felt like a princess. Most of the people there, I assumed, were much wealthier than Mama and I. But they too had to line up at the reception desk and check in like me and Mama.

This is another whole level of wealth. From the time we left our house to go to the airport, every step of the way has “been taken care of.” I never knew that this kind of travelingexisted, and I have never felt a larger divide between my world and theirs.

I’m quiet as we walk through the amazing lobby and down the grand stone steps. Nainai clings to my arm and George holds her other arm to steady her as we walk down. She refuses to take the elevator, insisting she’s still spry enough to maneuver the steps. The resort stretches out on both sides of the steps, a cascade of rooms built into the cliff side, each one with its own private pool overlooking the beach. At the bottom of the steps on the beach level, we are led down a side path flanked with lush tropical plants. There’s a hotel employee waiting with a golf cart for Nainai, who sits down with obvious relief. Without her between me and George, I’m suddenly very aware of his presence once more. Ugh. We start walking in silence.

“Hey,” George says.

I look up.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, you?” I want to ask him if I don’t seem okay, but maybe that’s a bit too defensive. But I am feeling prickly and defensive. This place—it’s too nice. I don’t belong here. I’m a sore thumb. A squeaky wheel. The wheat stalk that’s grown too high and is about to be chopped off. I don’t know what other sayings there are, but the bottom line is, I don’t belong here, and I hate that he does, that he’s so obviously at home in places as lavish as this.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

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