Tell Me It's Real (At First Sight #1)

by T.J. Klune

when I was sixteen, I’d sit in front of the mirror and sing “Some Day My Prince Will Come” while brushing my poodle curls, sure there was a big strong man out there for me, just waiting to whisk me away to his castle on a beach in Cabo San Lucas. One who would pick me up with his massive arms and cradle me against his chest and tell me, in varying accents (sometimes he was Cuban and other times Chinese—I didn’t use the Chinese one too often because I couldn’t stop giggling at the Chinese voice I’d hear in my head. Don’t ask me to do it. It’s way wrong.)

I can’t help it. I get loud about things that matter to me (“We’re donating to the Salvation Army again for Christmas? They hate gay people! Those bell ringers are nothing but homophobic ex-junkie fascists in disguise! Why are we even donating to a religious organization at Christmas! Jesus was born in April!”).

I never expected to still be living in Tucson, Arizona, land of the Border Patrol (aka the Fascist Regime),

“It’s like he got bored and thought, ‘Hmmmm. I don’t want to mess with Africa today, and I don’t want to send Hurricane Ebonica to wipe out Florida, so I’ll just fuck with Paul.’” “Hurricane Ebonica?” Sandy asked, his lips twitching. “I thought the hurricane could use a bit more ethnicity,”

“You know,” he said, turning serious, “there’s a saying that once you save someone’s life, that you’re responsible for it. It’s an old… African chant.” I gaped at him. “African?” He nodded. “From Africa.” “That’s a Chinese proverb. Not an African chant.” “What’s Chinese?” he asked, further confused. “What you said about saving someone’s life. That’s Chinese.” He shrugged. “I don’t speak Asian. I want to go there, though. One day.” “To Asia?” He nodded. “Where in Asia?” “The Asian places,” he explained, dead serious. “I’ve always wondered if the fortune cookies taste different there.”