Chapter 8

Flashy.
And kind of heart-fluttering.
For the half hour from the metro to home, those two thoughts filled Chen Xian's head.
Billboards flew past; her heart raced. Even though after 孟頔 said that, she'd only replied, coolly: "You're so good with words."
"Am I?" The boy didn't think much of it.
She "snatched" her phone back. Who knew why she'd made such a show of it—as if she was embarrassed to stay in his gaze too long.
Had the flowers bloomed on her?
They'd bloomed in her heart.
Had he planted flower seeds in other girls' hearts? Nourished them with words like colorful paint?
Back at the rental, Chen Xian looked at that WeChat message again: "First time I've held a girl." She was a little frantic. With all the ups and downs, the emotions, these three days, her relationship with 孟頔 had been like wave after wave—either calm after a surge, or surging in the calm.
It was a bit torturous.
The restlessness lasted until 孟頔 came to find her.
Before they'd parted that evening, he'd asked if she had any plans.
She'd thought about it: I want to watch a movie at the rental. There's a projector. Want to join?
He'd said: Sure.
But back home, she remembered: the projector was upstairs, aimed at the wall opposite the bed. If they were going to watch together, they'd have to sit on the same bed.
That was the real reason for her unease.
Decline or accept—she went back and forth until he actually arrived.
Chen Xian had to say it: "I should tell you—my projector's—" She pointed at the ceiling.
孟頔 looked up: "Upstairs?"
Chen Xian nodded: "Upstairs. In front of the bed."
孟頔 paused.
"Sitting there would be a bit weird, right." She covered her mouth with a smile, then pressed her lips together.
"Yeah," 孟頔 agreed.
He offered a solution: "Mine's in the living room. We can sit on the sofa."
Chen Xian looked toward the door: "You mean go to yours?"
"If you don't mind."
"Better than a bed."
They both laughed, a little awkward.
Chen Xian brought a cup of water and moved to his place. 孟頔's "home" had a different vibe—similar layout, but more neutral, cool tones.
She sat on the gray two-seater sofa. 孟頔 stood there connecting his phone to Bluetooth and asked what she wanted to watch.
Chen Xian looked up: "I haven't actually decided."
孟頔: "Any genre in mind?"
Chen Xian: "Highly rated."
孟頔 laughed softly.
Chen Xian: "I don't want to waste time."
孟頔: "Popcorn movies can be fun too."
Chen Xian: "Yeah, like instant noodles. Feels good while you're eating, then you regret it after."
孟頔: "Why regret instant noodles?"
Chen Xian: "Because they're not nutritious."
孟頔 smiled and kept working on his phone.
The Douban Top 250 started scrolling on the screen. He scrolled slowly so Chen Xian could see.
Chen Xian hugged a cushion, holding it in front of her—she always did this: "I've actually seen a lot of these."
"What about you?" She looked up to find him.
孟頔 looked back: "I've seen almost all of them."
Chen Xian: "Then the choice is mine."
孟頔 gave her a bright smile: "It always was."
Chen Xian's final pick was A Rainy Day in New York. It wasn't in the top-rated list, but she'd suddenly remembered it was similar to We Made a Beautiful Bouquet. It had come out in May, and she'd been swamped with her thesis.
When the movie started, 孟頔 asked if he could turn off all the lights. The room went dark; only the screen glowed.
Chen Xian: "Have you seen it?"
"I have." 孟頔 sat down beside her, closer than he'd been at her place that afternoon.
A WeChat notification popped up at the top of the screen.
孟頔 paused.
Chen Xian wondered if he'd open it. She teased: "It's fine, go ahead. The movie just started."
The boy switched to WeChat without hesitation.
It was from someone called "Old Q": 孟老师, rare chance to meet up. Come out for dinner tonight?
He added: Bring the girl along.
孟頔 looked at Chen Xian.
Chen Xian asked: "Is that the guy from the gallery this afternoon?"
—Actually, "guy" wasn't quite right. The differences between people were subtle. Some you could clearly see were rusted, money-grubbing, reeking of smoke and alcohol, slickly navigating every social circle. Others were harmless, unpolluted, natural, organic—happy to be seen and picked only by those who appreciated them. 孟頔 was the latter. You couldn't say the former was wrong, but to be the latter was undoubtedly lucky.
孟頔: "Yeah. He's really persistent about treating us to dinner."
Chen Xian corrected: "Treating you. You can go."
孟頔 frowned slightly: "Do I look like I want to?"
Chen Xian: "You didn't want to in the first place?"
孟頔: "I hate socializing."
It was the first time he'd used a word as strong as "hate."
Chen Xian teased, testing: "How much? Enough to add me on WeChat on day one?"
孟頔 went quiet. But in those few seconds of silence, he was looking at her. Chen Xian picked up her cup and drank. One sip, two. Then he said: "I wanted to send you that photo."
Chen Xian's heart sank. Her lashes lowered. She set the cup down: "Oh. I thought you wanted to add me."
Her face was calm, her movements steady—a practiced "natural."
"Wait," her heart was pulled up again. 孟頔 asked, confused: "Are those two things in conflict?"
Chen Xian: "No."
She tried to lighten it: "Was it the 'add her, add her, this chance won't come again' kind of wanting to add me?"
孟頔 confirmed: "Yeah."
Chen Xian laughed: "孟老师, your inner monologue is so cheesy."
孟頔: "Then let me put it differently."
Chen Xian: "Mm?"
孟頔 seemed to be thinking, speaking slowly: "Have you ever seen someone and felt like there'd be a story with them?"
Chen Xian went quiet. A tightness gripped her throat. She couldn't speak.
After a moment, she said: "Yes."
They both looked at the screen. Timothée Chalamet and Elle Fanning chattered on, planning their day in New York. A refined little prince and princess—one saw through everything, one was eager and ambitious. They matched each other and they put up with each other.
"With my ex," she went on.
Chen Xian knew it was a mood killer, but she had no choice. She had to pour in some cold water, cool things down. She was hot; the air was tense.
孟頔 leaned back against the sofa, as if looking for emotional support.
"Why did you break up?" he asked, minutes later.
"I was too busy," she gestured at the screen with her chin: "Too many goals, kind of like the girl in here."
She turned to 孟頔: "They definitely break up in the end, right?"
The boy looked over: "Should I spoil it?"
"It's fine," she said, unconcerned: "I'm sure I'm right."
He nodded.
Chen Xian looked like she'd known it all along.
Dead memories suddenly attacked. She couldn't stop herself: "My ex and I were like that too. He was pretty… laid-back. I'm not. I'm always rushing. At first it was great, like the song says—every minute was wonderful. Then it soured. I just mean—every story has an ending. Happy ending, bad ending—"
"Chen Xian." 孟頔 said her name, sharp and clear.
She stopped at once. Her eyes felt a little wet.
孟頔: "Sorry for interrupting."
Chen Xian: "Sorry. I guess you didn't want to hear it."
孟頔 ran a hand through his hair: "Not really."
"Okay, I didn't want to hear it." Didn't want to hear about her and another man. Didn't want to hear her use it to predict their own ending, like a prophecy or a warning, especially in this moment. A subtle ache spread through him, making him impatient, unable to be honest, unable not to be: "It makes me uncomfortable, but the way I stopped you was too harsh."
Chen Xian understood.
She said: "There are gentler ways to stop someone from saying things you don't want to hear."
He asked: "Like what?"
Chen Xian pressed her lips together: "Move away from her. Then you won't hear it."
孟頔 watched her. Her deliberately stubborn look was bright and alluring: "What if I can't?"
"Then kiss her."
—What are you saying—but it was already out. Chen Xian screamed at herself inside. Her heart raced. She tried to stay calm.
The living room was quiet.
She knew 孟頔 was watching her. The story was happening, smooth and intense.
Then he leaned in suddenly.
She started to believe 孟頔's words were true—first time holding a girl, first time kissing a girl. His lips were clumsy, hot and soft.
He stayed close, looking at her. His face was red; his breath fell on her nose, held back.
Chen Xian smiled. The intensity seemed to peak in an instant, then settle in an instant. Her voice was barely there: "Seems to work."
孟頔 came closer again. The kiss deepened at once, changing in the light and shadow. The gentle person became aggressive, became entangled and lost. She closed her eyes, gripped 孟頔's shoulders. She wanted to be devoured by him, wanted to devour him. Everyone knew a man and a woman shouldn't be alone in a room, but when wrapped in hormones, that unique thirst and satiation, nothing else could fill it.