Ease more delicately into asking about his dating history, to find out what heartbreak could have been so formative that he’d think of it as the one and only “heartbreak year.” (Preferably when he’s shitfaced.)
“Thanks for coming, again,” Mark Winterson says as we get up after the ceremony. “Might have to leave you alone for a bit to do that room-working. You’ll be all right?”
It stings that he doesn’t want me on his arm for the whole thing, after he made such a stink about my appearance. But I gather myself and make finger guns at him. “Always be closing, right? Gotta chase that senior VP title.”
Then I worry I’m pushing my luck with making fun of him, but he laughs, genuinely. “Yeah, you get it.”
Mark Winterson takes my arm as we cross the lawn to the area where cocktails are being served, and he spots some people he recognizes. “Frank! Linda!”
An older white couple in a tux and gown turn around.
“Mark!” The man shakes a finger at him. “I’ve known this one since he was in diapers.”
“Old family friend,” Mark Winterson clarifies.
He introduces me as his girlfriend, and Frank and Linda’s exaggerated reaction of delight sets my teeth on edge. “Take care of Ruby for me for a second? I’ll be right back,” he says, and slips away.
Wow, he actually parked me with babysitters.
“What’s your background, Ruby?” Frank asks, tipping his glass of rosé up in my direction.
“In…marketing?”
“Oh, I mean—” Linda swats Frank on the chest. “I suppose we’re not supposed to ask where you’re from!”
Here we go, my body knows this drill—patient smile, stomach clench.
I’m so bored of this, my constant free-floating angst about everyone else’s confusion over my racial/ethnic identity. But it’s part of the texture of my life. It came up more on the East Coast than here, but still, you’d be surprised, depending on the composition of the room you find yourself in (or tastefully appointed backyard, as the case may be).
It comes with a low-level seasickness, knowing that one of the first things people perceive about you isn’t stable. And when you realize a surprising amount of people have opinions about what you mustactually be,or which side you aremore,and the opinions all contradict, you start to feel like you’ll always bealmostsomething,almost but not quite,that there is no option where you can beauthenticallywhatever you are. And you hear so much about how important authenticity is these days. It’s what people want, what algorithms want, it’s supposedly what sells. But I’ve spent most of my life thinking I should fold myself up and make myself neater, less confusing. That if I tried harder tomorrow, maybe I’d finally find a way.
“My mom’s from the Philippines and my dad was white.” It’s what I’ve said all my life, rote, but my heart snags, realizing the tenses are technically all wrong now.
“Oh, I love half-Asian babies!” Linda exclaims, as though we’re discussing a trendy dog breed.
“Like…in general?” I am notably not a baby.
She nods, and her silver ringlets of hair and heavy gold earrings jiggle as one unit. “Oh yes, one of my sons married an Asian woman, and the baby—so cute, these mixed babies! I love to see what comes up!”
I never know what to say when people come out withcomments like this.It’s just something I’m living with whether I like it or not, but, uh, thanks?
At that moment, I see Sandra Winterson swanning by in a lavender gown and wave like I’m seeing an old friend.
“Lovely chatting with you, please excuse me!” I sidestep away from Frank and Linda and hustle across the grass. “Hey! Sandra!”
“Oh gosh, Ruby!” She grabs two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “I think we should toast to you,” she says, passing me one. “When we were in high school, I never would have guessed you’d end up with my brother.”
My brow wrinkles. “Why’s that?”
“Oh, I don’t mean anything about you!” She waves a dismissive hand. “I mean, it’s abouthim.I feel like he’s…different, lately. Don’t tell him I told you, but I haven’t heard him talk about someone this way since…” Her smile flickers, and she seems to catch herself and reset. “Haven’t heard him talk about anyone this way in years. So—cheers!”
Sandra raises the glass and downs most of it (but, like, delicately, somehow). So I drain mine, too, wanting to be polite.
