I know what he’s talking about—how badly Mom wanted me to end up with a rich white guy. It’s uncomfortable. She never said it in so many words, but a clear pattern emerged from the examples she picked out, whenever she’d pointedly say,That’s the type of guy you should be dating!
Mom had some kind of complex about being Filipino—an ugly thing I never wanted to examine too directly, like a floor stain you throw some carpet over. She’d avoid the sun, wear whitening cream, strive to stay as pale as she could manage. Sometimes when people asked where she was from, she’d tell them, “Taiwan.” (I guess, to her, that was somehow a step up?) Tita Wendy overheard once, elbowed her, and said with a belly laugh, “You’ve never even been to Taiwan!” And then they both laughed so hard, friends despite themselves, an odd couple.
But I don’t feel the same way Mom did. If anything, growing up around Mom and Greg and Tita Wendy, I wanted to be more like them. If I disliked something about myself, it was the part that looked like my dad, the part that made me “not quite the same, but close.” (Just ask Erica how close.) Being Filipino always felt like a positive thing to me. Something aspirational I could never fully earn.
And a snide comment Greg made once, years ago, about the white guys I dated in college also bothered me.Let me live! It’shard enough to find someone you like who likes you back!Even aside from the wholeI was kind of in love with you and you broke my heartof it all.
“I don’t have a type!” I protest. “He’s kind of fun.”
“Okay! I’m just saying—” Greg faces the TV again and hugs a throw pillow. “Dude seems like he’d talk to you for twenty minutes about the texture of his business cards.”
Greg’s phone starts vibrating, and he frowns at the screen. “I should get this,” he says, hopping off the couch and going into the far corner of the kitchen, by the back door.
I crane my neck to peek at him. He’s talking in a low voice, and his smile gets wider, like the person on the other end said something funny.
He’s gesturing with his hands, looking like he has new enthusiasm for life.
Is he seeing someone?
Greg ends the call and I turn back around, pretending I’ve been engrossed in my phone the whole time. He climbs over the back of the couch and lands next to me.
“Who was that?” I ask, eyes on my phone.
“Oh, just, um—my mom. Reminding me about a thing this weekend.” His hand goes to the back of his neck like it does when he’s nervous. I recognize it from when he’d lie to his mom in front of me, back when we were close.
He’s definitely seeing someone.
Does he assume it would hurt my feelings? Does he feelbadfor me? God, I hate that.
“So what’s next?” Greg asks. “On your list.”
I grab my own pillow to hug. “You seemed to think it was a bad idea. The whole list thing.”
He gives me a long, steady look. “I’ll admit I don’t love the concept. Number five seems like a bit much.”
“There’s a lot to rule out first.”
Greg goes quiet for a while, like he’s arguing with himself inhis head. He did this when we were younger. Whenever we were having a tense conversation, he’d sit there silent, like he was composing the whole thing he wanted to say—and then he’d scrap it and make a dumb joke instead.
“Do you have something to add?” I ask testily.
“If you think this is the best thing…” Those gold-flecked eyes turn on me. “I want to help your mom move on.”
Up close like this, I can see all his old familiar imperfections. Scar high across the bridge of his nose from when he fell off his bike. Tiny dent on his cheek from when we were nine and he got chickenpox, and Mom forced me to go over so I could catch it from him. Small dark mark on his hand where a firework singed him, one Fourth of July.
I glance at the version of the list that I’ve transposed into my notes app.
“Do you think I ruled the first thing out?” I chew on my thumbnail.“Be social and normal and make more of an effort with your appearance.”
“You seem social and normal to me.” His head bobs contemplatively. “And, um. Good appearance, as always.”
He doesn’t mean anything by it, but I have to smile despite myself. “Then the next thing is getting a promotion.”
“Hmm.” Greg rests his head on the back of the couch, peering up at me and smiling like this is all a joke. But that’s how he is—he holds his life lightly.
When we were in high school, his mom begged me to get him to study because he was failing everything except math. Numbers always just made sense to him. (Must be nice!I thought more than once, staying up late sweating over my pre-calc homework.)
“Is this all a joke to you?” I asked, standing in the doorway of his room when I came over to tutor him.
