Chapter 4

As Chen Xian had expected, 孟頔 slept the whole way. The driver had to turn and say they’d arrived before he stirred, then looked apologetic.
After they got out, she didn’t spare him: "You didn’t sleep last night."
He admitted it: "Yeah. I didn’t."
Chen Xian asked: "Chronic night owl?"
孟頔 said: "More like insomnia’s been a problem for a long time."
Chen Xian: "Seen a doctor?"
孟頔: "Yeah. I’m on something. Just didn’t take it last night."
Chen Xian: "When I was prepping for grad school I had insomnia too. I took 佐匹-something for a while…"
"—Zopiclone," he said, like he had a pharmacology degree.
The sun was brutal, like being doused in hot water. They traded words and their steps sped up without them noticing. Once they’d ducked into the building, Chen Xian switched on her handheld fan, held it on herself for a few seconds, saw the sweat at 孟頔’s temples, and angled it toward him.
He flinched.
Chen Xian stared: "It’s a fan, not a gun."
"Sorry," 孟頔 said, catching himself.
Chen Xian looked away and turned the breeze back on her own face. It lifted her fringe.
"Chen Xian." He tried her name.
"Chen Xian." He said it again—from feeling her out to making it up to her.
Chen Xian cranked the fan to max. The whir filled her ears.
"Chen Xian."
From making up to pleading.
Chen Xian caved to softness, not to pressure. She sighed to herself and turned back: "I’m not…" She worried she’d sound wrong: "You don’t have to force yourself."
"Sometimes people decide on impulse. It doesn’t have to be from the heart, and it doesn’t have to be kept."
"Comfort matters most in how we relate to people."
That was how she saw it. Her parents had promised her a lot, her sister had promised her a lot, her ex had promised her a lot. Not everyone followed through every time.
The elevator reached the ground floor. She stepped in; 孟頔 followed. The walls were reflective. Chen Xian watched his reflection—he’d been watching her with his eyes down.
She redid her hair with the claw clip. He looked away.
She smiled: "I’m not mad."
孟頔 said: "But because of me, you were upset. Right?"
Chen Xian didn’t deny it: "Right." She bit the word a little. She had been put out; anyone would have been.
She went on: "You were the one who said you wanted to join. You’re also the one who keeps his guard up."
She waved the fan: "I just thought you looked hot too."
"My fault," 孟頔 said.
"Okay, it’s fine." She didn’t want to seem petty, even if she’d felt a flicker of hurt.
孟頔 asked: "Will this do?"
He leaned his head toward her. Close. Very close.
Chen Xian nearly stepped back. She understood now why he’d flinched.
He said, as if vowing: "If I duck again, I’m a dog."
Chen Xian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
You really are "狗." This looks more like you want a head pat than a breeze. And his fluffy black hair still had that faint, clean scent even with the sweat.
In the end she laughed—at his clumsy, sincere peace offering—and grinned, teeth showing: "Get up."
Consider her the one begging.
孟頔 sat up. Chen Xian’s heart was still racing: "You scared me."
孟頔 apologized again: "I was trying to figure out how to show I meant it."
Chen Xian said: "My advice: go get some sleep, then join me tonight. I want to go for a night ride along the river. I think you can rent bikes there."
孟頔: "Okay."
Back in her room, Chen Xian hung her bag and threw herself on the sofa. Her heart wouldn’t settle. 孟頔 was so cute. She was done for—she thought 孟頔 was cute. Pretty, handsome, kind, generous—those were labels, bright stickers on a person. Cute was different. Cute wasn’t concrete; it was transparent, it dissolved into everything, and it meant someone had started to seep into your heart when you weren’t looking.
She took a while to calm down, then napped.
She woke at five. She wasn’t hungry, but she ordered coffee and a bagel anyway. On her way back from picking it up, she passed 2202 and paused. No sound from inside. 孟頔 might still be asleep.
Chen Xian sat by the floor-to-ceiling window with her food, the sunset as her view.
She pulled up 孟頔’s sunset photo to compare. In the end: similar, but not the same.
At seven, his message came on the dot: Ready to go?
Chen Xian sent two characters: Let’s go.
She ran into 孟頔 as she left; he was closing his door. She called out and held out a paper bag: "I got an extra bagel for you."
孟頔 paused, then took it.
Chen Xian: "You haven’t eaten, have you."
孟頔 didn’t sidestep it like he had that morning: "No."
Chen Xian: "Eat it on the way… It’s gone cold though. Won’t be as good."
The word "gnaw" in her sentence made him smile. 孟頔's eyes crinkled: "Thanks."
By the time they left the building, the slanting sun was gone and dusk had closed in. 孟頔 started unwrapping the bagel; the rustle of the paper reached Chen Xian, and she secretly raised the corners of her mouth.
Why was she smiling.
She didn't know.
The rental was close to the riverfront, so they walked the whole way, neither fast nor slow. 孟頔 finished the bagel on the way. He ate quietly—no small talk, no sound of chewing. When he couldn't find a bin, he folded the wrapper a few times and tucked it into his roomy pocket.
They reached the riverfront like that.
The city stayed hot at night. The riverfront, under power cuts, was dimmer than usual, but plenty of people were still out—strolling, catching the breeze, scattered across the piers, the grass, the dark. Ferries moved on the river; the water held towers and bridges, glinting. In the distance, small figures ran along the bank; couples walked slowly, like sand paintings in motion.
Small shapes flapped quickly across the sky. Chen Xian looked up, squinting, and asked: "What kind of bird is that, flying around so much at night?"
孟頔 glanced up: "Bats."
Ugh. Chen Xian looked away.
Down the slope, people were on bikes—tandems, three-seaters, no solos—who knew where they’d come from. Chen Xian said: "Let's find where to rent some."
The rental stand wasn't far.
…
It was Chen Xian's first time on a tandem. She sat in front, 孟頔 behind.
Talking meant twisting around.
"How does it feel?" She asked, uneasy, after they’d pedaled five meters.
孟頔 said: "Not bad."
"Have you ridden one before?"
"No."
Chen Xian: "I’m kind of regretting it. Feels like everyone's staring."
孟頔: "Look ahead. Forget them."
Getting past the self-consciousness didn’t take long. The further they went, the dimmer the lights and the fewer the people. Willow branches swayed; the night wind blew.
Halfway along, a building stood out—a spherical restaurant hung from the top floor like a giant golden microphone, as if interviewing Jiangcheng’s night sky, the scene, the moment, and the way they felt right then.
Chen Xian hummed. Her mood kept rising.
When it peaked, she turned and asked 孟頔: "If I let go, can you keep us straight?"
孟頔 paused, then gripped his handlebar: "I think so."
Not really. On a tandem, the person in front holds most of the balance. However hard 孟頔 tried, the front wheel wobbled left and right.
They were flustered and laughing. In the end they both put their feet down.
Chen Xian, a little breathless: "Forget it."
孟頔 said: "Let me try the front."
That fixed it.
From the back, Chen Xian didn’t have to pedal hard. She let 孟頔 speed up and carry her.
She spread her arms and let the wind wrap around her—whoa—she screamed it in her head. Her T-shirt billowed. She was about to take off, become a white balloon, float over the river, onto the water, into Jiangcheng’s muggy, endless summer night.
That feeling lasted until they were back and heading upstairs.
When they stepped out of the elevator, everything went dark. Chen Xian looked around: "Why’s it so dark?"
孟頔 cleared his throat. Nothing changed. "I think the corridor sensor’s broken."
"Is anything in this building working?" Chen Xian turned on her flashlight, feeling her way and muttering: "Password lock, sensor light—what’s next."
孟頔 followed. The corners of his mouth lifted. For a second he almost said: Us. He didn’t.
He watched the girl in front of him, the light haloing her. Tonight he’d seen her soar, then fold her wings back into a white dove.
孟頔 slowed and fell behind.
Chen Xian noticed. She turned, raised her phone, and shone it at him.
He stopped, raised a hand to block the light, understood why, and smiled, a little embarrassed, eyes down.
Chen Xian put the phone down.
He looked up from the line between light and dark.
Again—孟頔 startled.
She’d put the white beam under her chin. Ghost face. Death ray. Death stare.
"Don’t." 孟頔 smiled helplessly and walked toward her.
"I’ve been meaning to ask—why do you always keep your distance? At the sunrise, and now on the way back." Chen Xian dropped the act and checked herself, even sniffed her arm: "Am I toxic?"
孟頔: "No."
"Because I want to see you in the frame too." He had to clear that up.
The corridor went quiet again.
What he’d said was vague. Vague enough to make her chest itch.
The rest of the way to her room, Chen Xian didn’t speak. The circle of light from her phone stayed unusually steady.
They said goodbye at the door. Then they just stood there. Neither reached for the keypad first. Both seemed to be waiting for the other.
Stuck. A little sticky. Like two fish in murky water, short on air for no reason.