by Jen Trinh
She arched an eyebrow at me, her eyes flicking down to my lips, then back up. “She said that? Perfect together?”
My lips curled into my most charming smile. “She did. Ask her.”
She searched my face, no doubt taking in my rugged good looks. But then she grimaced and turned away. “You’re definitely not my type.”
I barked a laugh and leaned back, retreating from her space. “Uh huh. So what is your type?”
She crossed her arms and legs, giving me an appraising look. “I like guys who are creative, confident, and know what they want.”
I’m confident and know what I want. Out loud, I teased, “And Asian guys aren’t like that?”
Wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed and her arms tightened over her chest. “I don’t have to defend my personal preferences to you.”
I held my hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, no need to. I was just curious.” When she rolled her eyes, I added, “Not that I’m hitting on you.”
“Sure. Right.” She rolled her eyes again.
“Suit yourself.” With a small shrug, I sat back and resumed reading my book.
Silence ensued, for a few blissful moments. I successfully read four sentences before she continued, “Look, you seem like a nice guy, and you’re friends with Cassie, so you can’t be that bad. But you’re definitely, 100% not my type.”
I frowned at her and lowered the book to my lap. I’d already gotten the picture—she didn’t have to keep repeating herself. But if she wasn’t done, then neither was I. “Because I’m Asian? Because you’re Asian?”
She pursed her lips and looked away. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back again, annoyed. She was the one who had continued talking to me, trying to put me down.
I’d certainly met her type before—women who refused to date Asian guys for any number of ridiculous reasons. I’d been perfectly nice to her, a total gentleman so far...at least until we started talking about why she insisted on being racist. What really confused me was the intensity in her eyes, the way she refused to back away from me, and the subtle flare of her nostrils each time I came near, a slight inhalation. She was clearly as affected by me as I was by her. There was something between us. Yet she still held onto whatever small-minded, misguided beliefs prevented her from just viewing me as an individual. She still referred to me as “not her type,” as if she could exclude an entire portion of the population just based on, what, how slanted their eyes were? That pissed me off.
“I’m not a fob, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with being fresh off the boat.”
She pursed her lips and doggedly stared into the aisle.
“What, it’s not fobbiness that turns you off? Is it—”
She tipped her head back and groaned. “Ugh, I’m an American, okay? I want to live for myself, not the…” Her hands waved in my general direction. “...Asian American dream.”
I snorted. “Wow, really? You’re calling me the Asian American dream?”
“Well aren’t you?” She listed my qualifications on her fingers. “You work at Stumpstash, a fintech company, so you’re probably making a fortune. You probably did well in school. You’re dressed like a typical tech bro. Everything about you spells safe, bland, mama’s boy.” Contempt bled from her eyes.
I tittered. “Y’know, a lot of what you just described could be said of half the guys on this plane. Not just me, not just Asian guys. Besides, what’s wrong with being smart and making money? Or heaven forbid, loving your mom?”
She sighed and threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “I’m just not into guys like you. Period.”
The dead horse was already tenderized...yet still, she persisted. “Hey, I—”
“Excuse me.” Our window seat neighbor cleared her throat and made eye contact with me, then with Anna. “Is he bothering you?” She switched her gaze back to me and did her best Bad Cop impression.
Anna shot her a grateful look. “Yes. But it’s okay, we’re done talking.” Bad Cop nodded slowly and leaned back against the window, closing her eyes. The tense line of her shoulders suggested that she was ready to pounce again if I persisted, though.
Anna leaned in and whispered, “Just drop it. You wouldn’t understand.”
I studied her face: the sapphire nose piercing, the teal-colored hair, the thick eyeliner. The proud, disdainful expression, as if she knew everything about everything, myself included. The whole of her look screamed cool, rebellious, sexy, independent...but perhaps a bit too loudly. It hid the fact that she was also defensive, judgmental, and pretty damn fickle.
So I leaned in closer, triumphantly noting my effect on her—her shallow intake of breath, her wary eyes glinting with something more. She didn’t lean away, just let me trace my fingers along her ear and brush her hair aside, then whisper against her cheek, “Good thing you’re not my type.”
It took her a moment to register what I’d said. Then she stiffened—she hadn’t been expecting that. With one last smirk, I turned back to my book. She shook her head and looked away without responding, but I gleefully noted that she squirmed a little in her seat.
Chapter 3
-Anna-
What an ass. Screw him and his stupid good-looking face. And his deep, sexy voice.
Good thing you’re not my type.
Oh yeah? Then what was with all that leaning-in-and-breathing-on-me bullshit? I bit my lip and squirmed in my seat, bitterly noting that his comment had elicited an unwanted physiological response in the form of moisture between my legs. While his words had spelled rejection, his tone had suggested an invitation. The caress of his whisper, his tantalizing scent...urgh, whatever. I clearly just needed to get laid soon, and not by him.
I briefly glanced his way, noting the straight line of his nose, the masculine hand that rubbed the neatly trimmed hairs on his chin. His double-lidded eyes. Hmph.
I really didn’t date Asian guys. Why would I, when they almost always presumed to know everything about me, just because I was Asian? They usually had judgmental families who would never accept nor understand me, my past, or my future. And of course, they were boring goody-goodies who only liked to play video games and watch movies.
Not. My. Type.
Obviously, there were exceptions to rules. Maybe he wasn’t what I thought he was—a cocky, presumptuous, bland alpha-male wannabe. But I didn’t care to find out, regardless of whether or not Cassie thought we’d be perfect together. I’d have to have a few words with her about that later.
I took out my notebook and jotted down some notes while listening to the rough playlist that I had prepared earlier in the week. I tried to release a new playlist every two weeks and it was almost time for the next. As usual, I was struggling to finish this one. I liked the individual songs that I’d chosen, but didn’t have an angle, something tying them together that I could write about.
Try as I might, the brainstorm wouldn’t gather. With how scattered and agitated I was by Ian’s words, it was barely a light brain-drizzle...and the steady shifting of his arm against mine, one page turn per minute, was a constant disruption.
He couldn’t possibly understand my reasons for rejecting him and guys just like him. And it wasn’t worth my time to explain anything to him anyway, not with his giant ego in the way. Besides, the coward wouldn’t even look at me anymore. Every so often, I cast a furtive glance over at him, but he didn’t seem to reciprocate. The fact that he could focus and I could not annoyed me even further, and soon I was tapping my fingers on the armrest. I forced myself to stop.
At one point, he rubbed his bare arms and crossed them over his chest. He was probably cold—after all, I was wearing his hoodie and the plane still felt like a walk-in fridge. I didn’t really want to talk to him again, but the hoodie did belong to him, and I wasn’t a jerk. With a quick tap on the arm, I said, “Hey. Do you want your hoodie back?” I held the zipper in my hand, poised to unzip and return it to him.
He glanced up, surprised. “No, it’s fine, you’re probably colder than I am. Just keep it for now.”
I began to unzip. “You should just take it—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m not that cold.”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out what looked like a small resistance band with holes. He slipped it onto his fingers and extended them, then contracted, extended, contracted, extended, repeating the motion over and over. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each repetition.
I was grateful that he hadn’t asked me to return the hoodie, and even more grateful that he hadn’t taken my talking to him as an invitation to continue talking to me. He just silently focused on opening and closing his fingers with the resistance band and reading his book.
Sigh. Maybe he wasn’t a huge ass. Just kind of one.
I tried to return to my music, but found my gaze sliding back to his sinewy forearms and his thick, callused fingers as they continually stretched against the elastic band. It was oddly hypnotic. I imagined his fingers—
That way madness lies.
I sighed again. The hand exercises were objectively lame. Even so, I decided to be polite. He was Cassie’s friend, and I didn’t want to have things be weird between us this weekend. So I took out my earphones and asked, “What’s with the finger exercises?”
He glanced up again, eyebrows raised, then slowly answered, “I injured my finger not too long ago. It helps with rehab and preventing further injury.”
“How’d you injure it?”
“I was climbing and went for kind of a burly move. I lunged for a two-finger pocket and something felt like it popped. It doesn’t seem to be that bad now, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
I winced at the word popped and compulsively flexed my fingers. “What’s a two-finger pocket?” I decided not to ask him what burly meant, though I could guess. I’d already interrogated him enough.
He stuck his middle and pointer fingers up and mimed shoving them into a narrow cavity. My eyes narrowed at the sexual gesture. “It’s like...a hole that you can stick your fingers into,” he explained, deadpan. He cleared his throat, vaguely embarrassed. As he should be.
I couldn’t help it. I chuckled. “I see.” Then I braced myself, sure that he would use that gesture, that opening, to say awful, sexist things to me.
He kept on with the finger exercises. “You know, I’m actually going climbing with Cassie and a few other wedding guests on Sunday morning, if you want to come.”
My brain latched onto his last few words, but my hackles dropped as I took in his innocuous meaning. I hesitated, toying with the laces of his hoodie before responding, “Maybe. I’ve never done it before, and it looks really hard. I might suck at it.” I cringed at my own words. Somehow, I was the one with my mind stuck in the gutter.
“It’s always hard the first time,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. My ears burned with embarrassment. “But you’ll pick it up quickly. You’ve got a great build for it.”
My body simmered slightly as he eyed me up and down, but abruptly cooled when he added, “Your hands are pretty big and your arms are long. Your ape index must be pretty high.”
I scowled. I was not proud of my orangutan proportions. “I don’t know about that. But thanks for the invite. Maybe I’ll take you up on it.” I honestly wanted to say yes. I’d always wanted to try climbing. Cassie was an avid climber, and her photos on social media were so badass and inspiring. Plus, the rock gym that I walked past each day on my commute had giant warehouse doors that were usually open, and I regularly peeked in at all of the fit, happy people on the walls. I wanted to be one of them.
But climbing was expensive. With student loans and New York rent to pay, and a job that didn’t cover much of either, climbing wasn’t in my budget.
Then again, I was on vacation—a little extra expense couldn’t hurt. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go with the group, because then I’d get to hang out with Cassie for longer. I doubted that I’d get to see much of her at the actual wedding.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then handed me a business card. “Here. We’re going to the Granitarium on Sunday at 10am. Just call or text if you can’t find us or have any questions.”
We both knew that I could’ve just called Cassie, but I accepted the card anyway. Ian Gao, Technical Lead at Stumpstash. His cell phone number and email were printed next to a picture of his smiling face. I put it in my back pocket.
“Thanks.” With one last, brief smile, I slipped my earphones back in and pointedly returned to my music. My work was done, our cautious truce complete. He soon returned to his finger exercises and his book.
The rest of the flight passed relatively uneventfully. There were a few bouts of turbulence, and at one point I woke up to find myself drooling a bit on his shoulder (I’d jerked awake and hit my head on his), but not too long after, we landed. I went to unzip the hoodie and return it, but Ian held up his hand.
“You can return it tomorrow at the wedding. I just checked the weather and it looks like it’s pretty chilly tonight. And anyway, I have a jacket in my duffel.”
Thank goodness. The hoodie was so warm and comfortable, and I hadn’t been ready to return it yet. I clutched my hands against my chest and smiled gratefully at him. “Thanks, Ian, I really appreciate it. I’ll definitely give it to you tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” He paused and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. I’d never dated a guy with a beard before. What would it feel like—
“Actually, are you by any chance staying in one of the rooms that Cassie reserved? At the Windbreak Hotel?”
“Ahh, yeah, I am.” I warily met his eyes. Please don’t be a creep. “Why?”
“Do you want to ride with me? I’m going to stay on for work after the wedding, so I’m renting a car and charging it to my company.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’d love a free ride.” Score! Public transit would have taken over an hour, and a cab or rideshare would have cost way too much. I congratulated my past self for her forward thinking in patching things up with Ian.
We waited for the slow tide of people to clear the plane, then grabbed our stuff and walked to the rental car area. I browsed the latest music news in the parking lot while he went into the rental office and dealt with the paperwork. Soon he walked out with an attendant and gestured for me to follow. He’d rented a sleek red Tesla Model S, the first I’d ever been in. The retractable door handles surprised me, but I eventually got the passenger door open and slipped inside. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the front seat, stretching my legs and kicking off my tight shoes.
Ian finished up with the rental car attendant and got into the driver’s seat. “You look like you’re ready to pass out,” he said, turning the car on. He seemed perfectly at ease with the controls as he adjusted the settings to his liking. Maybe he drove one at home (though who the heck drove in New York?).
“Yeah, it’s been a long week,” I yawned.
“Yeah? Tell me about it.” We pulled out of the lot and merged into traffic, heading towards the city.
“Well...I work as an office admin at a law firm, and they’ve got a really big sexual assault case right now for some hotshot rich dude. I can’t talk details, but I can tell you that I’ve definitely been considering quitting because of it. I don’t want to work for lawyers who defend douchebags like this guy.” The case pissed me off more than I let on. I didn’t like rich guys, douchebags, or even lawyers, really. Probably not a great job for me.
Ian glanced at me sidelong. “Sounds like it’d be tough to work at a law firm in general. There are plenty of douchebags who need attorneys.”
“Yeah. It’s really not ideal. But I haven’t found a better job yet, and the commute isn’t bad, at least.” I stretched and yawned again. “Also, I’ve got a playlist due on Monday and I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“Do with it, how? Like what songs to put in?”
“K
ind of. I’ve found a bunch of songs that I’ve really enjoyed over the past few weeks, but I need to arrange and connect them in a meaningful way. That’s my schtick.”
“Do you want to put it on? I’d love to hear it.”
I hesitated. “I dunno...it’s not really ready for listening.”
“I know nothing about music. I definitely wouldn’t be one to judge. But I’d love to listen to The Alpaca Humans or whatever you were listening to on the plane, to see what they’re like. Maybe telling me about the music will help you with the playlist.”
I smiled, sure that he’d deliberately botched the name. “Fine. Listen to each song and let me know what you think. I’ll tell you about each one after it’s over.” I connected my phone to the car via bluetooth and soon the first notes of the first song began to play. On cue, my head began to bob. Definitely a groover.
He didn’t react, just kept his eyes on the road, a slight furrowing of his brow the only indication that he was listening. But after roughly a minute, he finally nodded and said, “Mmmm, I see. Yes.”
“What, what are you thinking?”
His eyes flicked towards my face, then back to the road. “Sassy horse disco.”
I burst out laughing, impressed and delighted. At 120 beats per minute, with syncopated wood blocks, a saxophone synth, and a funky bassline...I nodded in agreement. Sassy horse disco.
He was filled with similar revelations about the other songs, too. Here’s what I wrote down for the six songs that we got through:
Sassy horse disco
Deep space bossa nova
Morning climbing gym music, or music to drink coffee and read the news to
Bird seduction / forest orgy
Music to snap your fingers and do the grapevine to while trying to pick up the ladies
Evening climbing music, walking around at night when you can’t sleep
He seemed to be a sucker for songs with electronic pianos and dreamy synths, in large part because of his gym. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, hearing those sounds made him excited and ready to climb.