CHapter 12
Hong Kong Island
Jiang Wanju had never met anyone worse than Chen Zhouren. He was like a blackened stone, grown in dark water—hard, unyielding, and even ground to dust by a machine, still black.
Jiang Wanju was still on the phone, forcing herself to speak, gripping her phone and keeping her voice low as she talked to Bai Qing: “Yes.”
Slurping sounds. On the other end, Bai Qing visibly relaxed.
The night wind was slightly cool. He paused for a moment, speaking calmly, choosing his words carefully. For someone as proud and ambitious as him, this seemed to be the utmost sincerity he could offer: “I want to apologize to you, Wanju, for what happened a couple of days ago…”
Jiang Wanju reached out, trying to push Chen Zhouren away. His body, well-trained, was long and clean under his shirt, muscles taut from exertion. One hand supported him on the sofa beside her, the other grabbed her leg, watching—and listening—as Jiang Wanju spoke on the phone.
The room was quiet. Chen Zhouren could hear the voice from the phone clearly; Bai Qing’s tone was sincere, apologizing to Jiang Wanju.
Chen Zhouren detected a hint from Bai Qing’s words. Men understand men best, and he raised his eyebrows.
Jiang Wanju patted him. Only when he calmed down a little did she hold her phone and continue talking to Bai Qing: “You don’t need to worry—uh.”
Her last word changed in tone.
“What’s wrong?” Bai Qing asked. “Wanju?”
No one answered. Bai Qing waited two seconds; all was silent except for faint, trivial sounds—like an orange dropping to the ground, or layers of clothing being roughly moved aside.
This was unexpected; Bai Qing couldn’t tell what Jiang Wanju was doing now. He only knew she had gone to Hong Kong Island alone.
Bai Qing hesitated, then asked again, “Are you still outside?”
Jiang Wanju was not outside. Chen Zhouren was inside.
Bai Qing felt uneasy. Jiang Wanju’s plan to go out had been his suggestion; logically and emotionally, he was responsible for her safety. Raising his voice, he asked again.
In reality, Jiang Wanju was suppressing herself, biting her lip to stay silent. Her hand went limp, and the phone fell onto the sofa.
Only Bai Qing’s uncertain voice remained: “Wanju?”
Jiang Wanju covered her mouth, choked slightly, and tilted her head back. She still cared about the unfinished call and desperately reached for the phone, but Chen Zhouren took it from her. Holding the phone in his hand, he glanced at it and still pressed her back down.
He had a rebellious streak in his bones and enjoyed making things difficult. The more Jiang Wanju suppressed herself, the more he forced her, compelling her to speak.
The phone was held near her ear. Chen Zhouren pressed her against him, making her listen.
The round, sweet orange, filled with its segments.
Chen Zhouren asked, “Don’t want to talk to him?”
She didn’t know how he came up with such a question. He seemed completely unbothered, just smiling at her. His cheek dimples were obvious; once they had seemed sweet, but now she thought he was utterly wicked.
Jiang Wanju bit her lip, saying nothing.
Seeing her tears drop, Chen Zhouren finally placed the phone in front of her, showing her the blacked-out screen: “It was hung up already. What’s there to worry about?”
His tone carried a teasing smile, and Jiang Wanju felt bewildered, her head spinning.
Perhaps from suppressing herself so much, seeing the black screen brought her an unexpected sense of relief—like walking out of the exam hall after the college entrance exams, or finally stepping through the door after working overtime late at night.
Her mind was blank.
The orange was squeezed under the machine.
Before she could recover, Chen Zhouren picked her up. Looking down, he said, “Is it my turn now?”
Jiang Wanju didn’t refuse. Chen Zhouren held her in his arms and casually tossed the phone aside.
His proper meal had just begun, taking almost as long as Jiang Wanju’s own mealtime.
Being slightly tipsy was the scariest part.
Jiang Wanju had drunk a little that night, remembering only that she had a flight at 1 PM the next day, uncertain if she could leave on time. In Chen Zhouren’s arms, he still acted like a ravenous wolf, pinching her arms and legs, as if checking for more spots to grab.
Jiang Wanju pushed his hands away: “Stop it.”
Chen Zhouren grabbed her hand in return, looking at it carefully, half-joking: “Stop what? Can’t even look?”
Jiang Wanju, too sleepy, yawned. Chen Zhouren leaned down and kissed her.
It was now midnight, and they shared a time-crossing kiss at the intersection of old and new.
Fortunately, Chen Zhouren spared her from exercise in the morning, allowing her to rest until 10 AM.
This time, they couldn’t eat slowly. But for their last meal, they still ate the home-cooked dishes Chen Zhouren had ordered. Using broth to stew goji berries and fried garlic, pork liver boiled to 80% doneness, then seasoned in the broth and plated—sweet soup, tender vegetables, low-sugar tofu pudding, salted and peppered vegetarian squid, cold shredded salads, and pan-fried stuffed fish. The food was full of homely warmth.
Through the haze of steam, Jiang Wanju asked, “Are you going back to the capital?”
“No,” Chen Zhouren smiled, “Shanghai.”
Jiang Wanju nodded, lowering her head to eat. The fish, a Shunde specialty, had crispy skin and firm, elastic meat. She took a bite; the thin sauce with water chestnuts and pepper mixed in, the fragrant meat and fresh fish, yet it didn’t taste as delicious as before.
Chen Zhouren stayed one more day but still accompanied Jiang Wanju to the airport, hugging her and bidding a polite farewell.
The two had an unspoken understanding; no one mentioned what happened next.
Back in the capital, Jiang Wanju received another call from Bai Qing. Later, they had afternoon tea, maintaining proper professional distance.
Bai Qing still hadn’t reconciled with his ex-girlfriend but formally apologized to Jiang Wanju, his words gentle.
Jiang Wanju understood the situation and accepted it gladly.
When she returned to work, her previously troublesome director became polite and no longer difficult. Though still picky about materials, he no longer demanded immediate responses late at night or forced her to work off hours.
Jiang Wanju knew she owed Bai Qing thanks. Before the New Year, she sent him a gift.
The New Year was spent at home, no different from previous years. The only difference was that during the New Year’s Eve dinner, Jiang Wanju received a text from Chen Zhouren.
It was simple, looking like a mass-sent message:
Chen Zhouren: “Happy New Year”
Since leaving Hong Kong Island, Jiang Wanju hadn’t contacted him. She stared at the four simple characters in the chat box for a long time, hearing her mother behind her:
“Wanju, give me a hand and bring the fish soup over.”
It was almost eight o’clock, the Spring Festival Gala about to begin. In the room, her uncle’s children laughed and played tag, her aunt scolded the uncle for smoking while holding a child, and a little one ran into Jiang Wanju’s leg, laughing as they leapt into her grandfather’s arms. The aroma of food, the sharpness of white liquor, shells of sunflower seeds on the floor, and the golden hue of tangerines stained fingertips.
Laughter and chatter filled the air. The kitchen door opened, and the overpowering smell of fried chili oil and stewed chicken soup spilled out.
Jiang Wanju put away her phone and turned: “I’m coming.”
She didn’t reply with a word.
