We walk to the line of cars, where most of the Li family has gathered, chatting and loading bags into their various vehicles. James hurries here and there, telling anyone who will listen that he’s waxed Sultry just for this trip. Mushu is leaning against a Volvo.
“There’s a bit of a problem,” she says when Shang and I get within hearing distance.
“Yes?” Shang says.
“There doesn’t seem to be any room in the back seat of your car.”
“How did you know this was my car?” Shang says.
Mushu slides her gaze deliberately to the car before saying, “This car, just like its owner, is giving dad vibes.”
Shang laughs and says, “Okay. But what do you mean there’s no room in the back seat? There’s— Oh.”
The back seat of his car is stuffed with bags piled on top of one another, plus a huge cooler taking up all the remaining space.
“We ran out of room in the trailer,” one of the aunties calls out. “You don’t mind, right, Shang?”
“I may have suggested it to them,” Mushu says helpfully.
Shang sighs. “You didn’t think to suggest they put stuff inside Sultry?”
“James was smart enough to keep his car locked,” Mushu says. “Otherwise, yes, it would’ve gotten filled to the gills with Chinese barbecue pork and frozen wontons.”
“Smart guy,” Shang says.
“So,” Mushu continues, “I’ll go ride with the aunties. They all want to matchmake me with their sons, apparently.”
I frown. “I’ll go in the trailer, too.”
“No,” Mushu says. “Go with Shang. There’s no more space for you in the trailer.”
“What?” I say, but already she is walking away, waving a careless hand behind her.
“See you there, cuz!”
I watch her go. It’s slowly sinking in that I’m going to be in the car with Shang. Alone. On a five-hour car ride. I gulp, and though we are outdoors and there’s a pleasant breeze around us, the gulp is painfully audible. “Um . . .”
“You can put your bag in here,” Shang says, popping open the trunk. “Uh, thanks.” I yank my bag next to the car and struggle to lift it. “Let me help.”
“Nope,” I snap. I need to show him that I am more than able to handle this entire trip, never mind one stupid bag. One stupid, oversize, overstuffed bag. I’m normally a light traveler, I want to wail. I bend my knees, my quads straining as I grasp the bag with shaking hands, and lift. After a lot of very unattractive grunts, I somehow manage to pull it off the ground and onto the lip of the trunk. But as I shove it in, I hear a rip. “Oh no.”
Shang winces. “Sounds like it might’ve gotten caught on something.” He reaches over and easily lifts the bag one-handed. “The fabric’s a little torn.”
“That’s okay!” I say, trying not to let my face fall at the thought of my precious Samsonite bag all torn up. Maybe I should’ve accepted Shang’s help. But no, the whole point of this trip is to show them how manly I can be, and haven’t I proven that by lifting a bag I can easily fit my whole body into? I open the passenger side door and slide in. This is a work trip, I remind myself. So what if you’re alone in a car with the most beautiful man you’ve ever come across? You are a professional, and this trip means everything to your father. Behave professionally and bring, uh, honor? No. Equity? Yes. Bring equity to the firm.
Then Shang gets in as well and as soon as the doors shut, the nearness of him is overwhelming. I can feel every molecule of air spinning between us, can hear the sound of his breathing, the rustling of his clothes as he reaches for his seatbelt. He occupies the space in a way that is impossible to ignore, filling all of my senses.
When he finally turns the engine on, the sound of a podcast floods the car, and my shoulders unknot a little. Ambient noise, that’s good. That way, Shang won’t be able to hear the weird, neurotic thoughts speeding through my head. I try not to notice the way he turns the wheel with one hand while the other is—ack!—placed on my headrest as he backs the car out of the parking space. He’s totally going to catch me stealing glimpses of his forearm. Why is one-hand steering so freaking sexy?
The thing is, I’m not sure why I’m so nervous around Shang. Sure, he’s devastatingly handsome, but so are plenty of other men; we are in California after all, a state teeming with avocados, matcha lattes, and hot guys. Maybe it’s because there is so much riding on me impressing him and his family, on striking just the right note with them. Yes, that’s it. When it comes to romantic relationships and past boyfriends, I’ve never had to work hard to impress them or their families, simply because I’ve never really cared about a guy that deeply. But with Shang, it’s about a deal, it’s about making and preserving connections—guanxi—and that’s so much more important than any romantic relationships.
I force myself to focus on the present moment. The narration coming from the stereo catches my attention. “What podcast is this?”
Shang spares me a quick glance. “It’s not a podcast. It’s an audiobook.” He hits a button and it stops playing.
“An . . . audiobook?” The word is so alien to me that it comes out sounding like a foreign language.
“Yeah, you know, like a novel, but in audio format?”
“I know what an audiobook is, I just . . . have not come across an actual person who listens to them.”
“That’s because you’re a finance bro.”
My mouth drops open in mock annoyance. “I am not a finance bro!”
“Oh, really?” Shang gives me a skeptical look. “What was the last thing you did on vacation?”
“Ski trip in Aspen.”
One of those dark, thick eyebrows rises.
“Okay,” I say. “Maybe that is a tad finance bro-y. But that’s only because it was a company trip.”
“The fact that you even go on company trips just screams finance bro,” Shang says.
“I do tai chi! That’s, like, the antithesis of finance bro.”
Shang side-eyes me as he merges onto the main road.
“Okay, my mom does tai chi and she makes me do it when I go to their house for our weekly meal.”
Shang snorts.
“You’re not any better,” I grumble. “You’re a—whiskey bro? Is that a thing?”
“Oh yeah, that is definitely a thing. And I’d like to say I am not a whiskey bro, but I’ll leave it up to you to decide.”
I ponder this for a bit, a smile working its way over my mouth. “Okay, let’s see. What audiobook are you listening to? Let me guess: How to Be the Manliest Man Who Ever Manned?”
“You know, I think James is actually listening to that one.”
“James probably only listens to podcasts about how to be a good alpha male.”
“Okay, you’re probably right there. Anyway, I’m listening to a novel, not a nonfiction book.”
“A novel?” I narrow my eyes.
“A novel is a work of fiction, usually between seventy to ninety thousand words in length. It has a plot, which consists of a conflict that the protagonist is trying to resolve.”
“Okay, smart-ass,” I groan. “Wow, thank you for mansplaining what a novel is to me. What would I do without your wisdom?”
“Listen to podcasts about how to be a good alpha male, probably,” Shang mutters.
There’s a slight pause; then, as one, we both devolve into peals of laughter. What a surprise it is to be laughing with Shang. He’s come off so buttoned-up this whole time that I wasn’t sure that he even knew how to laugh, but now that he is, I’m realizing what a delightful sound it is, boyish and low, with the slightest tinge of surprise that makes me want to make him laugh again and again.
