He exhaled slowly and put his hand on mine. “They’re not going to judge you. They—”
I pulled my hand out from his. “How can you know that? They’re Chinese, right? I’ve never met a Chinese family that was like, ‘Oh, you don’t talk to your parents anymore, that’s okay, you can still be a good person.’”
He frowned. “They’ll get over it. It’s really not a big deal. But really, if you’re so sure that you don’t want to deal with them, do you have somewhere else to stay for Thanksgiving?”
I shot him an incredulous look, my heart sinking at his tone. “Seriously? You know I don’t. Why don’t you just put them up somewhere?”
“Because this is my apartment, and they’re welcome to stay here?” He let out a frustrated sigh. “Look. My mom is still going through chemo, and it’s hard for her to sleep or be comfortable sometimes. She can be comfortable here.”
“Why do they even come here, then, if she’s so sick? Why don’t you just go to their place?” I hated how petulant I sounded, but I hated the dismissive way that he was treating me even more.
“Why are you asking me to justify having my parents visit?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “My parents like having a change of scenery, okay? They have a few friends in New York that they like to visit, and new restaurants to try. And I’m their only son. I want them to keep having something to look forward to.” He stared down at the table, his expression pained. “They’re getting old.”
He really loved his parents. That much was obvious. But there’s loving your parents, and then there’s burdening yourself with them, or living your whole life for them, which is exactly what my family had always expected of their kids. Family always came first. What about me and my preferences? Didn’t I mean something to him? Ian’s defensiveness and inflexibility when it came to his family...it put me on edge. In fact...I shook my head and laughed mirthlessly. “You are literally the Chinese-American dream.”
He rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “Why are we back to that?”
“Because you are!” I snapped, piqued at his tone. “You’re a fucking caricature. Ivy League grad, high salary, filial piety. Did you ever, I dunno, have a dream of your own? You literally just became the person that your parents wanted you to be, that all of our culture wanted you to be. I have never seen you do anything that even remotely demonstrates that you have a will of your own.”
He glared at me, and I glared right back. His parents were obviously a touchy subject. He’d had a scare with his mom’s health, so of course he wanted to keep her spirits up. But this was a triggering topic for me too. I’d had enough drama with my own parents—I didn’t want to have to deal with his. After what I’d told him about my family, how could he not understand? I was asking for time, not to never meet them. But of course he would get offended at my request. He couldn’t fight what he was raised to be.
“Where the hell is this coming from? What, now I’m too perfect for you or some shit? You need a guy who can feed into your daddy issues?”
I scoffed, though his words hit a nerve. “Seriously? You’re going to use my past against me? That’s fucking low.”
“You’re the one who’s telling me that I don’t have a fucking mind of my own, just because I have what mostpeople want. You think I should quit my job and become a starving artist? Huh? Is that how—”
“You couldn’t even be an artist ‘cause you don’t have any fucking passion! Look at what you do every weekend! If I weren’t here, you’d probably just be working and climbing all the time, and that’s it. When you didn’t come to the Stumpstash happy hour on Thursday, everyone told me that you never go out with them. You don’t have a life and you don’t even have any fucking friends!”
“I don’t have friends? I don’t see you introducing me to anyone around here. The only anecdotes I’ve ever heard from New York are about your ex—”
“Well all your anecdotes are about your fucking family—”
“Just because my family isn’t fucked up, and just because I’m not fucked up, doesn’t mean that I’ve led any less of a life than you have.” His voice was dangerously low, but I was too riled up to care.
I laughed bitterly. “So I’m fucked up? Really? At least I’m fucking alive. You act like you’re a robot, you’re so fucking predictable. All you do is work, climb, and fuck. I’m probably just a checkbox on the fucking to-do list that your mom—”
“So your life is somehow more glamorous? You must feel so fucking self-righteous, working shit jobs, living with your ex, not giving a damn about anyone but yourself but still needing people to take care of you. Is that what you call passion? Or independence? Is that—”
I picked up my mug and threw it at him. He dodged it, but the coffee spilled all over his white area rug.
Enraged, he continued, “Is that how to feel alive? Just deny all the things that any sane person wants? You think you’re beyond appearances, but you care just as much about your fucking image as—”
I’d had enough. I nearly threw a fucking chair at him. Instead, I stormed into the bedroom, slammed the door behind me and locked it, then began shoving my things into a bag.
A minute later, the front door slammed.
Chapter 18
-Ian-
I went to the climbing gym. It seemed like the best place for me to calm down. My blood was boiling, and I needed to let off a lot of
