Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
LAURA
D enise and I enter our favorite thrift shop in the Latin Quarter to the familiar scent of old fabric and cedarwood. I love this place. It’s like being transported to an alternate reality where fashion is whatever you want it to be as long as it’s under ten euros.
Denise heads straight to a rack of dresses. I trail behind her.
She begins to flip through. “My goal today is to find a dress that looks more faux vintage than something out of my grandma’s closet.”
“No shoulder pads then?” I tease.
She yanks out a velvet dress with a plunging neckline. “Try it on.”
I gauge the size skeptically. “It’ll be a struggle to get into this thing.”
“No sweat, no glory.” With a wink, she moves on to another rack.
I fold the dress over my forearm and continue to browse. There’s a man in the corner trying on a coat three sizes too big. An elderly woman is debating the merits of a scarf with the shopkeeper. A group of teenagers move around the shop giggling. They have no money even for the cheapest items on display. They’re just goofing around and getting free thrills.
Been there, done that.
Denise holds up a gold sequin top and assesses it. “Any news from Mike?”
“Not a word in two weeks.”
“And the parental pressure cooker? Still boiling over?”
I sigh. “That would be an understatement.”
“Honestly, I thought the news of your breakup with Mike would ease the tension.”
“It did for a short while,” I admit. “But they spent the entire dinner last night hectoring me to meet Aunt Mei’s friend’s half-Chinese cousin. He’s a dentist.”
Denise winks. “A single man in possession of a good fortune and in want of a wife?”
I laugh, recognizing the reference to Pride and Prejudice .
“Will you meet him?” she asks.
“Nope. Nor will I meet my mom’s third cousin’s Guangzhou-born nephew, now a certified accountant in London.”
She knits her eyebrows. “Why not? You might like one of them.”
“I’ve seen their photos.”
“And?”
“I didn’t like them.”
She tut-tuts. “How callous of you!”
“Not at all! I just know my taste in men well enough to not waste anyone’s time on a relationship doomed in advance.”
“Fair enough.”
We browse some more.
I dig out a hideous denim jacket with embroidered roses. “Intriguing, isn’t it?”
“Very Madonna circa 1986.”
I toss the jacket onto the counter for safekeeping.
Denise turns to me. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what exactly did you put in your application letter to Wed at First Sight ?”
“I kept a copy of it,” I say, rummaging for my phone. “Figured you’d be curious.”
“Good thinking!”
“Hang on.” I unlock the phone, find the letter, and scroll down. I read it out in a dramatically low voice:
He can be any color, ethnicity, or race except Asian. He must be a tattooed bohemian, artistically inclined, and allergic to formal wear. Skinny jeans and slim-fit T-shirts are ideal along with hoodies and other informal styles. Bonus points if he’s on welfare.
Denise dissolves into laughter, clutching the counter for support.
“Oh, God.” She wipes her eyes. “You wrote that to spite your parents, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “They harassed my hot boyfriend into dumping me so they could set me up with a pear-shaped dentist.”
“But he’s half-Chinese,” she points out, stifling a smile. “And financially stable.”
“I don’t give a shit. They need to be taught a lesson, Denise! I’m going to marry their worst nightmare.”
“Isn’t that a tad OTT, not to say cruel?”
“Maybe. But this monster,”—I prod my chest—“is their own creation. They had it coming.”
Denise puts a hand on my shoulder. “Laura Yang, whatever you do, you’ll always have my friendship and support.”
“Even if I marry a drifter with face tattoos?”
“Always.”
On that uplifting note, she heads to the changing rooms. I grab the velvet dress and denim jacket and follow her.
With our shopping done, Denise and I find a sunny spot on a terrace at Odéon. Our table is way too small, and the chairs wobble, but it’s OK because we caught the tail end of happy hour. On top of that, we have a perfect view of the Boulevard Saint Germain with its nonstop parade of fashionistas, students, tourists, and all manner of weirdos.
Denise receives a text message and types a reply while I do some people-watching. I feel content. If I didn’t know myself as well as I do, I’d say I was over Mike already.
“This is nice,” I say, stretching my legs.
Denise raises her glass of rosé spritz. “To retail therapy!”
“Cheers to that!” I toast with the same drink.
The first sip is tart perfection.
“Do you have anything new jewelry-wise?” Denise asks.
I pull my sketchbook from my purse and flip through the pages until I reach the latest designs. Aunt Mei thinks she can sell them, which is all the motivation I need.
“Here.” I slide the sketchbook across the table.
Denise studies the designs. “These earrings? Gorgeous. And the layered necklace—love it! But what’s going on with this bracelet? Is it supposed to look like melted spaghetti?”
“Actually, yes,” I reply with a grin.
When she’s done, I tuck the sketchbook back into my bag.
Denise sips her spritz. “It just occurred to me that the guy you described in your application may not want a bank teller.”
“Why do you assume I presented myself as a bank teller?”
“You didn’t?”
“I described myself as a costume jewelry creator who has a day job to pay the rent.”
“That’s a clever spin,” she praises me.
“I know, right? I also said I don’t care how much he makes as long as he makes art.”
Denise lets out a hearty laugh. “The funniest part is that it isn’t even a lie.”
“Nope, all true.”
She looks me up and down. “You’re really leaning into this rebellion thing.”
“Oh, I’m all in! That’s how pissed off I am at my parents and Mike.”
She cocks her head. “On the off chance you get matched, will you go through with it? Like, for real?”
“Watch me.”
She begins to say something, but a commotion behind us interrupts her. We both turn around to see what’s going on. A small TV crew—camera, boom mic, the works—sweeps through the café’s door out onto the terrace. Heads turn as the crew scans the tables, looking for someone.
“What do you think is happening?” I ask Denise, my cocktail frozen halfway to my mouth.
“You’re about to find out,” she says.
Huh?
The woman holding the mic locks eyes with me and heads straight to our table.
“Laura Yang?” she asks with a dazzling smile.
I blink. “Yes?”
Everyone is looking at me now.
The woman beams and gestures to the camera. “I’m Isabelle from Wed at First Sight. And I have great news for you!”
“Wha—?” My mouth falls open and stays that way while my mind scrambles to wrap itself around what is happening.
“Dear Laura, I’m thrilled to tell you that you’ve been matched!” Isabelle exclaims.
Denise, remarkably unperturbed, gives me a hug. “Congratulations!”
Wait… I narrow my eyes. “Were you in on this? Is this who you were texting earlier? Is that how they found me?”
She hangs her head in fake remorse.
Isabelle speaks again. “Congratulations, Laura! You’ll be getting married in two weeks.”
My brain stutters.
She claps her hands in feigned delight. “Yay! We’ll be in touch soon with all the details. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies.”
“You, too. Bye!” I wave, my mind still immersed in a thick, numbing fog.
Isabelle turns to Denise. “And thanks again for helping us make this a genuine surprise for Laura. She wrote in her letter she loves surprises—and we took note!”
“My pleasure,” Denise says, winking at the camera.
The crew melts away, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
I stare at Denise, wide-eyed. “I’m going to marry some random guy on live television.”
“Can you take some time off work?” Denise asks, ignoring my distress.
“I have two weeks of overdue vacation…”
“Excellent.”
Still dazed, I shake my head in disbelief. “This is insane.”
“Just go with the flow,” she advises. “It could turn out to be the most fun thing you’ve ever done.”
Absently, I nod.
“To insanity!” She raises her glass. “And your future bohemian husband. Can’t wait to see his tattoos!”
I clink my glass against hers, reminding myself that this is my chance to get even with Mom, Dad, Aunt Mei, and Mike. All four in one fell swoop.
There won’t be another opportunity like this.
I’m seeing it through.