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She glances down at her drink, and I wonder if I’ve accidentally asked something hard, something too personal. Then she says, “Yeah.” And that’s it. No follow-up or anything. God help me, this must be the worst conversation I’ve ever had. I swear I’ve had better conversations with my own reflection.

Still, I try my best. “How do you like it here so far?”

“Um, it’s nice. Kind of humid. LA’s hotter, but it’s a dry heat, so it’s not as bad.”

The weather. We’re literally talking about the weather. Which is good, because it’s boring, and therefore safe. I lean into it. “Well, during the rainy season, it gets really rainy.” Wow. Great job, George. Really smooth. At some point in my life, I should probably learn how to talk to pretty girls. But this is fine, because I don’t want to impress Sharlot. Right? Right.

The corners of Sharlot’s mouth tremble like she’s fighting back a smile. “Never would’ve guessed that the rainy season would be rainy,” she deadpans.

We look at each other and I could’ve sworn that like me, she’s trying not to laugh. I almost burst out laughing stupidly, but then I remind myself that this is creepy because catfishing etc. The mirth dissipates and the moment is over. Phew. I mentally rifle through the messages she and Papa/Eleanor have been exchanging and pounce on another safe-ish subject.

“So, you like to cook?”

She looks taken aback by this, as though I just asked her what color bra she’s wearing. But then she recovers and says, “Yeah.”

Okay. I was kind of expecting her to give more than a one-word answer, but maybe it’s on me to try and find out more.

“Um, what kind of food do you like to cook?”

Her upper lip twitches and I swear she sneered at me for just a split second. That’s definitely a look of contempt. But then as fast as it appeared, it’s gone, and I wonder if I imagined it.

“All sorts,” she mumbles.

Oh my god, this is painful. “You mentioned you really like making bone broth stews?” What are these words coming out of my mouth? Who cares about bone broth stew? What a fucking weird thing to say: BONE BROTH STEW, like I’m some weird serial killer who collects the bones of his victims to throw into the slow cooker with Chinese herbs.

That contemptuous look crosses her face again, and I can’t blame her. “Yeah, bone broth stews…love making them. With, like, ginseng and shi—stuff. Very nutritious.”

I nod, wondering what to say that wouldn’t come off weird. There’s very little I know about cooking and if I have to say the wordsbone broth stewone more time I’m pretty sure I’ll spontaneously combust.

“And you,” she says, “you said you like to do…finance? It has to do with your family company?” She gives me a polite smile, her eyebrows rising.

My stomach drops. Here we go again. This is the reason why I don’t have many close friends or any serious relationships.Because the Tanuwijaya name precedes me. My dad and aunts and uncles have always instilled in me and my cousins a “healthy” dose of paranoia. “You be careful, George,” Eighth Aunt started telling me when I was three years old, bending over slightly so she was towering over me, “you are the only male heir of the Tanuwijaya clan. There will be many, many people throwing themselves at you, pretending to be your friend, many pretty girls wanting to be your girlfriend. Do not trust them.” I had nodded and then promptly wet my pants.

The worst part is, technically it doesn’t even matter that I’m the sole male offspring in my generation; my family is progressive enough to not let gender stand in the way of meritocratic nepotism. Second Uncle’s firstborn, Luna, is primed to take over as the company’s CEO because she’s very clearly the most capable out of all of us. But the patriarchy is entrenched enough into Asian society that as the only boy, I get a lot of attention from the media, our competitors, and our business partners alike. If any of the other cousins aside from Luna make a mistake, they’re largely ignored. If I make a mistake, I get to see it splashed across every news outlet and every social media app—sole male heir of tanu corp crashes lamborghini. That had been me and my classmate, Ramtaro of Halim Group Corp., and I wasn’t the one driving nor was it my Lambo we were in. But it had been enough to teach me a lesson—better stick to online gaming where I can be completely anonymous.

It’s not Sharlot’s fault that Papa thought that telling her I want to join the family business—something completely untrue,by the way—would be a good thing. Benign. Right. That’s what we’re aiming for.

“Sure. Sort of. I guess I just like math.” I mean, math is okay, but nobodylikesit, okay? Nobody aside from this persona my dad and little sister have taken on for me that’s supposedly going to nab me a girlfriend.

She nods. “Wow.” It’s the least-impressed wow in the history of wows. “So what is it that your family company does?”

Immediately, my walls clap back into place. “This and that.”

She stares at me, probably waiting for me to expand. I’m not trying to be an ass, so I add, “Mostly land development.” I fail to tell her that the mall we’re currently sitting in is one of the many buildings we own.

“That’s interesting.”

Is it? No, it really isn’t. She’s not even really looking at me, she’s stirring her drink for the millionth time, and so am I, because this “date” is dying a long, slow death and, god, why can’t it end already?

“What else do you like to do aside from cooking?” I say after a constipated second.

Sharlot looks up like she’s thinking real hard. Oh my god, I am on a date with a girl who has no hobbies aside from making stews. Don’t judge her, I scold myself. Of the two of us, she’s not the one who’s lying to the other person. So what if she has the personality of a stale water cracker? At least she’s not a creepy-assed liar.

“I, um…I…like to read,” she says after a while.

“Cool. What do you read?”

“Mostly books,” she says, nodding, her expression completely serious. I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not at all.