The Kiss Quotient(68)
Maybe it hadn’t been that different from her own experience growing up.
There were pictures of early teens Michael playing chess with his dad, his face creased in intense concentration, pictures of him frowning over science projects, pictures of him dressed in full kendo-sparring gear like a little badass, where the front flaps of his uniform displayed his last name in caps: LARSEN.
When he flipped the page quickly and shot her an alarmed look, she kept her face blank, pretending she hadn’t seen it. She wasn’t good at lying, but she knew how to pretend she was okay. She’d been doing it around people since she was little.
She hated doing it with him.
Was it that important to him that she didn’t know his real name? What did he think she’d do with the information? The knowledge that he didn’t trust her dimmed the warm glow the evening had given her. Was she foolish for hoping she could make him hers?
When she surfaced enough from her thoughts to notice the photos again, they’d almost reached the back of the album. The pictures showed off a nearly full-grown Michael who was so gorgeous she couldn’t help sighing. He stood next to his beaming father, chess tournament trophy in hand, kendo tournament trophy in hand, science fair trophy in hand.
“That’s a lot of trophies,” she commented.
“Dad liked it when I won, so I tried really hard.”
“Michael was valedictorian at his high school,” his mom said, looking at Michael with boundless love.
Stella smiled. “I knew you were smart.”
“It was just hard work. I figured out how to test well. You’re way smarter than me, Stella.”
She searched his closed-off face, wondering why he discounted himself like that. “I wasn’t valedictorian. I only did well in math and science.”
“My dad would have preferred that.”
Michael flipped to the last page.
There, he graduated from the San Francisco Fashion Institute. His shoulders were squared, his expression determined. His parents were in the picture, his mother visibly bursting with proud happiness while his father looked like he’d been forced into the photograph. His hair had gone mostly white over the years, and while he was still an attractive older man, he looked worn and cynical. The crooked grin was gone.
“He didn’t want you to go to design school.”
Michael shrugged. “It wasn’t his decision.” His voice was flat, his usually vivid eyes dull.
Stella covered his hand with hers and squeezed. He turned his hand over, interlaced their fingers, and squeezed back.
“Michael is very talented. When he graduated, he had five job offers. He worked for a big designer in New York before we needed him at home because his dad left.” M? gazed off into space, the set of her mouth bitter, before she blinked and focused on Michael. “But I’m glad I called you home. You were ruining yourself. Too many women, Michael. You don’t need a hundred women. Just one good one.”
His mom patted Stella’s leg, and Stella felt a terrible, deep wanting well up inside. Right now, she was considered a good woman. What would his mom think if she knew about the labels Stella had been purposefully withholding? Would she suddenly become unsuitable for her son? What kind of mother wanted an autistic daughter-in-law and possibly autistic grandbabies?
And since when had she started thinking about marriage and babies? She and Michael weren’t in a real relationship. Would he date her if he didn’t need the money? If he were free to be with whomever he wished, would he pick her?
“Okay,” his mom said briskly. “That’s all of the pictures. Michael, come help M? with my iPad while I find the aó dài.”
Michael gave a resigned sigh and stood.
“Can I look at these pictures longer?” Stella asked.
M? smiled and nodded, but Stella had only looked at the pictures for a minute or two when Janie wandered into the room. She held a meaty textbook in her hands.
“So is it true you’re an economist?” Janie asked. She shifted her bare feet on the carpet until her knees pointed together.
“It’s true. You’re in your third year at Stanford, right? That’s a really good program.” Stella remembered now that Michael’s mom had wanted her to speak to Janie about her work. “What’s the textbook for? Do you need help with your homework?”
Janie hugged the book to her chest and sat down in the armchair she’d occupied earlier. “I was more hoping . . .” She took a breath. “I was hoping you could help me get an internship? Maybe send my résumé to colleagues who are hiring? I’m having a hard time getting interviews. I have no experience, obviously, and I did really bad my first year. My GPA hasn’t recovered. But I know my stuff. This is what I want to do.”
“Do you have a copy of your résumé handy?” As soon as the words left Stella’s mouth, she wanted to recall them. She sounded like she was in interview mode, and Janie looked nervous.
Janie pulled a sheet of paper from her textbook—an international macroeconomics tome—and handed it to her.
The résumé described her passion for economic theory in concise language, listed relevant coursework and skills, and displayed her grade point average. In her major, it was 3.5. Cumulative, it was 2.9. Definitely not the numbers she needed to get into brand-name institutions, even as a Stanford student.