When Sylvia Wong-Swartz, Rachel’s colleague at New York University’s Department of Economics, walked into their faculty suite one afternoon and declared, “Rachel, I just spent the morning with your future husband,” she dismissed the declaration as another of Sylvia’s silly schemes and didn’t even bother to look up from her laptop.
“No, seriously, I’ve found your future husband. He was at a student governance meeting with me. It’s the third time I’ve met him, and I’m convinced he’s the one for you.”
“So my future husband is a student? Thanks—you know how much I like jailbait.”
“No, no—he’s the brilliant new prof in the history department. He’s also the faculty adviser to the History Organization.”
“You know I don’t go for professor types. Especially from the history department.”
“Yeah, but this guy is different, I’m telling you. He’s the most impressive guy I’
ve met in years. So charming. And HOT. I would be after him in a second if I wasn’t already married.”
“What’s his name? Maybe I already know him.”
“Nicholas Young. He just started this semester, a transfer from Oxford.”
“A Brit?” Rachel looked up, her curiosity piqued.
“No, no.” Sylvia put her files down and took a seat, inhaling deeply. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, but before you write him off, promise you’ll hear me out.”
Rachel couldn’t wait for the other shoe to drop. What fabulously dysfunctional detail had Sylvia left out?
“He’s … Asian.”
“Oh God, Sylvia.” Rachel rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer screen.
“I knew you were going to react like this! Hear me out. This guy is the total package, I swear—”
“I’m sure,” Rachel said, dripping with sarcasm.
“He has the most seductive, slightly British accent. And he’s a terrific dresser. He had the most perfect jacket on today, rumpled in all the right places—”
“Not. Interested. Sylvia.”
“And he looks a bit like that Japanese actor from those Wong Kar-wai movies.”
“Is he Japanese or Chinese?”
“What does it matter? Every single time any Asian guy so much as looks in your direction, you give them the famous Rachel Chu Asian freeze-out and they wither away before you give them a chance.”
“I do not!”
“Yes, you do! I’ve seen you do it so many times. Remember that guy we met at Yanira’s brunch last weekend?”
“I was perfectly nice to him.”
“You treated him as if he had ‘HERPES’ tattooed on his forehead. Honestly, you are the most self-loathing Asian I’ve ever met!”
“What do you mean? I’m not self-loathing at all. How about you? You’re the one who married the white guy.”
“Mark’s not white, he’s Jewish—that’s basically Asian! But that’s beside the point—at least I dated plenty of Asians in my time.”
“Well, so have I.”
“When have you actually ever dated an Asian?” Sylvia arched her eyebrows in surprise.
“Sylvia, you have no idea how many Asian guys I’ve been set up with over the years. Let’s see, there was the MIT quantum-physics geek who was more interested in having me as a twenty-four-hour on-call cleaning lady, the Taiwanese frat-boy jock with pecs bigger than my chest, the Harvard-MBA Chuppie† who was obsessed with Gordon Gekko. Should I go on?”