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If he agrees, that is. No signed wedding certificate means the deal is still in limbo.
If I were smart, I would have driven him straight to the courthouse and gotten this set in stone. No backing out.
But there’s more than just getting his signature on a piece of paper.
Wai Po made sure of that.
I know this fake marriage scheme is ridiculous. I keep waiting for Charlie to tell me that Dash asked him to go along with it for long enough that my baby brother can find me some professional help.
But Dash doesn’t know about this, and Charlie has literally shipped his life to my house over the past few weeks.
Just to test that this is real, I reach over and poke him.
“Huh?” Charlie blinks himself awake.
“We’re at my house. Are you ready to come in?”
“Wha—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head to wake himself up. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Charlie unfolds himself from the car, and we each claim a bag. He doesn’t bother arguing with me this time, and I hope we’ve cleared up that nonsense never to be dealt with again.
No stereotypical gender roles in this household.
Although I might give him the job of reaching for things on the top shelf, just so I don’t have to bother with dragging my step stool out every time.
“This is it.” Wow, I could sell used cars with that enthusiastic pitch. The front door lets us into a small entryway. On my long list of construction projects is knocking down one wall here to open things up a bit more. “Swear it gets better.” There goes that saleswoman again.
When I glance up at Charlie, he’s smiling back at me.
That’s when I remember the job he just left—and assume he was good at.
Salesman.
Yeah, I’m not impressing this audience. Hopefully, my house can speak for itself. I have tried to make my home a comfortable space. Nothing like what I grew up in. I chose the furniture and decorations not because of their price tags, but more because they gave me a good feeling.
The whole place is one floor, and we need to cross through the living room to get to the guest bedroom. I’m pushing open the door when I realize I lost Charlie over by the coffee table. He reaches out a hand, sifting through the books I left sprawled across the surface. A collection of history books and memoirs, all holding facts and experiences related to a single country.
“Are you planning a trip to Taiwan?” Charlie glances toward me, fingers still resting on a title.
“Maybe. Someday. That’s where my grandparents are from,” I say, like it isn’t a big deal. Like I didn’t spend a chunk of my life wondering. Like I didn’t just learn a year ago when I finally tracked down my grandmother and she told me.
The books, with their stiff, barely touched pages, mock me.
I’m not a historian. None of my interests deal with memorizing facts from textbooks. But after my grandmother died, the authentic ways I could learn about my Taiwanese heritage shrank.
The problem is that I don’t want to have to learn the information.
I want to already know it.
The way I know how to hot-wire a car without setting off the alarm and how to climb out a second-story window using a drainpipe.
The way the smell of fast-food fries and boxed mac and cheese reminds me of dinners as a kid.
The way I know which streets in New Orleans to avoid after dark.
Endless Lamont teachings I never remember learning. As if I always knew them.
I wish my Taiwanese heritage was the same. That the knowledge was an essential part of my DNA.
