The Bride Test

by Helen Hoang

“You’re just like that stinky father of yours. You both let me down when I need you,”

His gaze accidentally dropped below her chest, and his mouth went dry. Holy fuck. She was some kind of walking sex fantasy. Apparently, he was a boob man. And an hourglass-figure man. And a leg man. How did they look so long when she was so short? Maybe it was those three-inch heels she was wearing.

Sometimes, he worried she’d fall off. Other times, he hoped she’d fall off. So he’d have an excuse to tell her to come closer.

Khải walked into the kitchen, wearing black shorts and a black T-shirt with I love taxes in white lettering.

“Good.” The word rumbled out of him, deep, almost gravelly.

Khai exhaled quietly and stared down at his hand. It hadn’t occurred to him to make her laugh. He didn’t even know how. Good thing there were people like Quan in this world.

Suppressing a smile, she put a morsel of lobster meat on Quan’s plate, and Khai had the horrible urge to snatch the food off his brother’s plate and gobble it down.

Khai stepped inside carefully, half convinced he’d find sperm on the walls, but it was mostly neat. There was definitely no sperm. That he could see. If you analyzed the black leather couches closely, who knew what you’d find. He didn’t take his shoes off before he followed Quan to his kitchen.

“Wow, okay. Orgasms. Um . . .” He cleared his throat. “There are lots of signs, but not every woman is the same. Generally, she’ll . . .” He cleared his throat again. “Why is this so hard?” He laughed a little. “Fine, since you’re mature as a nine-year-old, I’ll start,” Quan said.

“What?” Khai asked. “They don’t talk about the ‘clitoris’ in health class at school.” It didn’t even sound real. For all he knew, it was an urban myth, like the Chupacabra or Roswell aliens. “They really should,” Michael said, sounding pained.

“It gives a good overview. I like this one best, though.” Quan set the books on the table and moved She Comes First to the top. “Don’t take everything in there as hard rules. They’re just suggestions. I don’t agree with all of it, but it’s a good place to start.”

“Please, don’t let me make you cry,” he whispered in her ear. “If something is wrong, tell me so I can fix it. Please.” Her heart squeezed, and she hugged him tight. “I’ll tell you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t have to make everything herself unless she wanted to. He didn’t care if the wedding was expensive. It wasn’t like he planned to get married over and over. Just once was enough. He would never want anyone other than Esme. His addiction was very specific.

Everyone deserved to love and be loved back. Everyone. Even her.

My heart works in a different way, but it’s yours. You’re my one.”

Khai’s mom, however, barged in and said, “Why no pressure? She made such a beautiful baby. It is a waste not to make more.”

A funny thing happened as I tried to write that story. Esme kept outshining the character who was meant to be Khai’s true love. Esme was brave, and she was fighting for a new life for herself and her loved ones in every way she could. She had reasons, she had depth, but she also had a striking vulnerability. All of her “drawbacks” were not due to her

character. They were things beyond her control: her origin, her education level, her lack of wealth, the language she spoke—things that shouldn’t matter when determining the value of a person (if that can even be done). It was impossible not to love her. After the first chapter, I stopped writing.

I asked myself why I’d automatically decided my heroine had to be “Westernized.” Why couldn’t she have an accent, have less education, and be culturally awkward? The person I respect most in the entire world is just like that. After careful self-analysis, I realized I’d been subconsciously trying to make my work socially acceptable, which was completely unacceptable to me as the daughter of an immigrant. The book had to be re...