In the time that I was buttoning her dress and she was pretending to know what to do with my tie, the hotel lobby has turned into a madhouse. Black-tie wedding guests are everywhere, hugging, introducing, even crying in greeting. Looking around at the opulence that has spilled from the banquet hall into the lobby, I get the sense that the bride’s family is the kind of wealthy that is hard for most mortals to comprehend.
“Seven hundred guests,” Fizzy tells me sotto voce, leading me through the crowd. “Peter said they bought out several floors of rooms here for family on both sides flying in from all over the world.”
I let out a low whistle, taking in the decor in the hallway outside the main banquet room—small cocktail tables with tasteful bouquets, glass bowls of wrapped chocolates, and wedding programs—and then inside, where I nearly trip over my own feet because the scale of the decor is unlike anything I’ve ever seen: cream silk is draped down walls; at least seventy tables are each decorated with tall vases dripping with red and orange blooms. Our destination is outside, where the ceremony will be held before what Fizzy promises to be a night of food and dancing and partying. But we are stopped every few feet as someone Fizzy knows steps into view and she greets them with her unfiltered enthusiasm. Women are hugged with a joyous cry; male relatives are embraced and teased. I am introduced to at least fifty people whose names I immediately forget because I am in awe of Fizzy in her familial element: warm, loving, quick with a story or anecdote.
A few people comment on my appearance on the show, and I quickly divert their attention back to Fizzy. Getting stopped by strangers and praised for being in front of the camera is still something I’m trying to get used to. It’s not that I don’t like doing the interviews; I do. Verbally sparring with Fizzy has quickly become one of my top-three favorite activities, and even I see that we play well off each other. But the public recognition is not something I’d mentally prepared for.
As we move through the crowd, all that lingers is the impression Fizzy gives that everyone I’ve met is the most impressive, or interesting, or adventurous, or creative person to have ever lived. And then, as we step out to the massive lawn resplendent with flowers and satin ribbons, there are Fizzy’s parents, greeting guests as they come outside.
She takes my elbow, guiding me forward. “Connor, this is my mother, Lánying Chen.” If I had to do the math, I’d guess she was somewhere in her early sixties, but her skin is luminous, with only faint lines around her eyes.
The shift in Fizzy is subtle but noticeable to someone who can barely take his eyes off her: with her parents she softens, becoming more daughter than center stage, more caretaker than party girl, reaching up to straighten the pendant of her mother’s necklace.
I expect a handshake, but am pulled in for a hug instead, and I carefully embrace her mother; she is smaller than her daughter. As I pull back to meet Mrs. Chen’s smiling eyes, I think of my mother back home, how she looked exhausted day and night, how an event like this would make her panicked and uncomfortable.
Beside Mrs. Chen stands her husband, Ming, a lanky man I met at Fizzy’s book signing, with a mischievous smile he passed down to at least one of his three children. “Here’s my new friend who’ll make my daughter a superstar!”
We shake hands in greeting as Fizzy leans in, mock offended. “Hello, Father, I’m already a superstar.”
“When do I get my red carpet date, then?”
The two of them continue on as Mrs. Chen wraps an elegant hand around my forearm. “I like your show,” she says. “You are very handsome on TV.”
“Thank you,” I say, grinning. “I’m surprised Fizzy lets you watch it.”
Thankfully, she laughs at this. “You see her clearly, and I appreciate that.”
I’m momentarily stilled by this. “I think most of the credit goes to your daughter. It’s rare to find someone so genuine and natural in front of a camera. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing she can’t do.”
“When she writes her real novel, you’ll make it into a movie, okay?”
Now I’m confused for a different reason. “Her—”
Fizzy waves this off, breaking in. “When he’s not finding my soulmate, he’s saving the Earth, Mom! No time for romance adaptations!”
A woman who looks like she’s probably the wedding coordinator catches Fizzy’s eyes and points to her watch.
“Looks like it’s time,” Fizzy tells me.
We make our way toward the unending rows of white chairs tied with red ribbons. When a strand of Fizzy’s hair blows across her forehead, I reach up and brush it away without thinking.
Our eyes meet and my heart sinks deeper into this warm, alluring place.
“What did your mum mean about writing a ‘real’ novel?”
She shrugs, turning to watch the guests move in large numbers now toward the seats. “She means a book with thoughtful suffering.”
“Sounds engrossing.”
“There are many people in the world who view romance as hobby writing,” she says, and turns her face back to me. There’s no tightness there, no hurt. “Pretty sure she thinks I’m still warming up to attempt my masterpiece.”
Now might be the time to admit that I was once one of those people, or quietly contemplate the connection we share between our respective careers versus what our parents think we should be doing. But my first thought flies out instead. “I think you are the masterpiece.”
She opens her mouth as if she’s got a smart comeback, but nothing happens. With a wry twist to her lips, she shakes her head at me. “You’re something else.”
“Something good, I hope.”
She points to the seats. “Groom’s side on the left. That’s where you’ll sit. Go make friends.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll see you after the ceremony.” She gathers her dress and turns to head back inside to meet the wedding party. “Miss me,” she calls over her shoulder.
I watch her walk away, quietly admitting, “I already do.”
