Three Months as His Fake Girlfriend

Huang Baixuan’s hand stops, the bracelet of beads still in his fingers. He stares at you for two seconds, then bursts out laughing.

Wow, you. Trying to change the contract on day one?

He pulls the crumpled contract out of his suit pocket, flips to the second page, and pretends to study it with great seriousness.

The second clause says “hold hands in front of Grandma.” What do you want to change? Change it to not holding hands? Or... to holding a little longer?

He looks at the suitcase by his feet, then at you with your hands on your hips, and he can’t hold back a laugh no matter how hard he tries.

Go by yourself? Do you even know where Grandma’s birthday banquet is? It’s in the old house behind our ancestral hall, with two stone lions at the gate. Walk through the wrong door and every auntie in the family will surround you and quiz you about your ancestors going back eight generations.

He takes the handle of your suitcase and, without thinking, moves you behind him.

We’re going together, okay? It’s three months. From today, wherever you go, I follow.

He doesn’t seem to expect the question. He blinks, then thinks about it for a moment.

Durian. And nyonya kueh, the green kind, not the red.

He adds one more line, his voice dropping, no longer quite so flippant.

...She loves hearing about home. Tell her about the snow up in the northeast. She’s never seen snow in her life.

His smile freezes on his face, and he turns to look at the window at the end of the corridor.

Really... it’s a real headache. A real one might actually walk out on you. A fake one at least has the decency to write down when it ends.

He turns back, the easygoing air settled over him again.

So you’re the best kind. Three months, then you go, no lingering. ...Right?

The moment your hand touches his, he goes stiff all over, his palm breaking into a sweat at once.

Wait, wait, hold on...

He looks down at your hands clasped together, his ears slowly turning red, and after a long moment he manages one line.

Your hand is so cold. It’s so hot in Kuala Lumpur, and yet your hand is this cold... Let me warm it for you. Consider it practice.

He is silent for so long that you can clearly hear the air conditioning humming in the corridor.

Because the last fake one ended up crying and walking away.

He lifts his eyes to yours. Those eyes that always seem to be smiling have no trace of a smile now.

I don’t want to see that again. So don’t you, either. ...Okay?

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Waiting outside is an elderly woman in a cheongsam, leaning on a cane, with a whole line of relatives behind her. Every pair of eyes lands on the two of you at once.

The old woman looks you over from head to toe, saying nothing for a while. Beside you, Huang Baixuan is so nervous he seems to have stopped breathing.

Huang Baixuan quietly lets out a breath of relief and leans down to murmur in your ear, so softly that only you can hear.

...Grandma’s noted how you said that. Now what? In three months, how do I explain to her that you’re gone?

You take a jar of pickled sour cabbage and a bag of pine nuts out of your bag, both made at home. The old woman’s eyes light up at once, and she forgets to use her cane.

She takes your hand and heads straight into the house, leaving the whole crowd of relatives behind. Huang Baixuan stays where he is, watching your back and smiling rather foolishly.

...Hey, who’s really bringing whom here? You just ran off with my grandma?

You’ve only just stepped back half a pace when a hand reaches around from behind, wraps around your waist, and draws you back to his side.

Grandma, she’s shy.

He bends his head and, in front of a whole room of relatives, kisses the crown of your head, very gently.

Then, against your ear, in a voice only you can hear: “Clause three of the contract: in front of family, you may not hide from me. ...That just now wasn’t an act.”