The Bride Test ARC

She was supposed to be happy for the both of them because he didn’t know how.

“Want me to come home early?” Quan asked. “We can do shit. I dunno, go pick up chicks at a tax convention or something.”

After a second, she remembered that was where Khải worked. On the top floor, in a closet. It had to be a big company if they sponsored golf tournaments. Good for Khải. Maybe if he worked hard, they’d promote him, and someday he could redo his yard.

“Were you inside her?” Quan asked.

“Well, yeah. That’s how you have sex,” Khai said. They taught that in fifth-grade health class.

Quan gave him an impatient look. “Did you touch her clit at all?”

“What’s that?”

“Oh hell,” Michael said.

Quan smacked his palm to his forehead. “Her clitoris. It’s where you stimulate her to make her come.”

“Where is it?”

Quan rubbed both hands over his face as Michael repeated, “Oh hell.”

“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.

Khai stepped inside carefully, half convinced he’d find sperm on the walls, but it was mostly neat.

You kissed a woman if you wanted to date her and have a relationship, if you wanted to love and be loved in return, if you could love. If you kissed a woman when you couldn’t deliver on the rest, you were an asshole. It was better to jack off in the shower.

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

The garage door was open.

A sick sensation surged through him, shortening his breath and making his palms sweat. Why was the garage door open?

He ran into the empty musty space, and reality hit him like a punch to the gut.

It was gone.

And Esme was gone.

When he did the math, a horrible certainty dawned upon him.

Esme was going to die.

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?

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he looked from his brother to his mom and said, “So … who is Mỹ?” As far as he knew, mỹ meant beautiful, but it was also how you said America in Vietnamese. Whichever way he looked at it, it seemed an odd name for a gorilla, but what did he know?