Chapter 10

“Why am I nervous?” Meng Ning stared at the wine glass in front of her.

“If you’re not nervous, then why won’t you look at me?”

Meng Ning picked up her glass and drained it in one gulp. As she turned her head to look at Wen Zenian, a small burp escaped her lips.

Wen Zenian laughed again.

Meng Ning noticed a tiny detail. When Wen Zenian put on that standard hotel-service smile, her face smoothed out evenly, like a delicate satin canvas ready for her to paint her emotions across it. But when she truly laughed, a small flower bud would squeeze out right at the center of her brow.

Just like so many years ago.

All those years ago, she had said to Wen Zenian, “When you laugh, a flower blooms at the center of your brow.”

And now, after laughing like that, Wen Zenian reached out ever so lightly and brushed her cheek.

Meng Ning froze. Just as she started to pull back, Wen Zenian’s hand withdrew. “Your face isn’t even flushed. You haven’t had too much to drink, have you?”

Wen Zenian picked up her own glass and tilted her chin slightly, gesturing for Meng Ning to join her.

Meng Ning lifted her glass as well.

Truth be told, she really was nervous—nervous that Wen Zenian would start pressing her about how she’d spent all those years.

She should probably make some excuse to leave. But that laugh from Wen Zenian just now had yanked her back to the past, to those endless winding alleys that never seemed to end. There were standalone courtyards and squat shacks, low walls speckled and overgrown with morning glories.

That had been the best time of her life.

Wen Zenian hadn’t reapplied her perfume. The tea-and-thyme notes had faded a bit, letting her natural scent emerge—fresh and crisp, like the one patch of snow in a tropical monsoon zone.

All those years ago, Wen Zenian had always smelled like this.

Meng Ning had lost count of how many glasses Wen Zenian had poured for her. She felt like she’d definitely had too much, because she grew bold and scooted a little closer to Wen Zenian.

“I’m not going to ask you any questions,” Wen Zenian said, touching her cheek again.

By now, Meng Ning’s head was spinning. The scene before her shattered into kaleidoscope fragments. One piece was Wen Zenian’s sheer stockings gleaming like glass. Another was the sharp point of her shirt collar. Yet another was the straight line of her collarbone.

Huh, why could she see Wen Zenian’s collarbone?

Oh—Wen Zenian’s long, pale fingers were undoing the neat buttons of her shirt. The collar fell open softly, and Wen Zenian leaned back more relaxed now, one hand holding her wine glass while her elbow propped on the sofa in a half-embrace that seemed to circle Meng Ning. “Do you know why?”

She leaned close to Meng Ning’s ear. “Because it’s not midnight yet.”

The day hadn’t ended, so this dreamlike journey hadn’t reached its close.

She melted into the thick cloud of Wen Zenian’s scent within that half-embrace. In it, the calendar pages stacked backward, the sound of waves receding from her ears, replaced by the faint tolling of the school clock tower. A flock of white pigeons flapped their wings and soared past.

The classroom at dusk had the lights off, dimmed just right. The last ray of sunset filtered through the half-open door, dragging long shadows of the chalkboard words “Duty Students: Meng Ning, Wen Min” across the concrete floor.

Back then, she and Wen Zenian had hidden in the classroom, sneaking drinks—or more accurately, she’d been sneaking sips from a can of beer while Wen Zenian watched her.

After she finished, she’d hidden the can in her desk and crunched it noisily. Wen Zenian watched her laughing, a flower bud blooming at the center of her brow.

For some inexplicable reason, she blurted out, “If I kissed you, would you scream?”

Meng Ning figured she probably had no tolerance for alcohol at all.

Sure, it didn’t show on her face—her skin stayed its usual cool pale—but as she gazed at Wen Zenian, she thought: Wen Zenian had become such a different person.

From that impossibly elegant neckline. To the classic, refined tip of her nose. To those eyes that seemed polite but hid a spark of arrogance. Even when she tilted her head to check if Meng Ning had overdone it, a faint, lovely tendon would tense along her neck.

Meng Ning heard her own voice, distant as if her soul were floating high above, looking down on herself on the sofa as she said the exact same words from all those years ago: “If I kissed you, would you scream?”

Meng Ning jolted awake to find daylight flooding through the window.

She sat up abruptly, and a nerve in her left temple throbbed, making her hiss in pain. First thing, she checked the Buddha beads on her wrist.

They were still there, wound around just as she’d left them—the second and third loops overlapping, her own little habit. No one else had taken them off.

Maybe everyone who didn’t show a flush from drinking suffered worse hangovers. At least, she did. She stared at the pristine white bedding, the ebony nightstand woven with rattan accents, and a ruddy-mouthed vase half-holding a single bird-of-paradise lily.

No wonder everyone said a stay at C Hotel didn’t feel real—even the flowers defied the seasons, blooming at that perfect half-open moment when you first woke.

From the bedside, she could see the terrace doors still flung wide. A gentle breeze lifted the soft white sheer curtains. In the daylight, they no longer resembled moonlight but rather the morning mist over the sea.

Had the window been open all night? Meng Ning doubted it. It was winter, after all, and nights on the island got much colder. The duvet on her was so light, yet she hadn’t woken up freezing.

Which meant someone had closed the window last night—and someone had opened it again this morning.

All these jumbled thoughts were just her way of dodging the fact that she’d slept in Wen Zenian’s room all night.

The room was so quiet she could hear her own breathing. Then a seabird landed on the terrace’s carved stone railing. These seabirds were clever; it didn’t try to come inside. They stared at each other for a moment before it flapped away.

The room’s scent diffuser was off. Besides the fresh morning sea air, she could still catch a faint trace of Wen Zenian’s fragrance.

Meng Ning tried calling out tentatively, “Gwyneth?”

No answer.

She threw back the thin duvet for a look. Yesterday had been one of those rare times she’d worn casual clothes at the hotel—her jeans were still on, fine. But the gray thin hoodie was gone. The soft white T-shirt underneath was cheap material; after a night’s sleep, it clung statically, outlining her bra unattractively.

She tugged at it and got out of bed. A wave of dizziness hit her; she steadied herself on the nightstand, nearly knocking over the wide-mouthed vase, and caught it just in time.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Meng Ning glanced at the caller and picked up. “Hello?”

Qi Xiao’s voice came through. “You’re still not up?”

“Just got up.”

“Did skipping morning training mean you slept too soundly?” Qi Xiao laughed. “You missed the breakfast buffet.”

“It’s fine. I wouldn’t have eaten anyway.”

“Come downstairs now that you’re up. Song Xiao’s heading back—we’re going to the pier to see her off.”

“Got it. On my way.”

Meng Ning splashed her face with cold water, re-tied her hair, and slipped the thin gray hoodie back on. She hesitated at the door. C Hotel doors had assisted hinges; she felt the gentle resistance under her fingers and peeked into the hallway first.

Empty.

She hurried toward the elevator with her head down.

Down in the lobby, baggage carts bustled about. Friends and family here for the experience were leaving the island early. Meng Ning scanned the crowd, spotted Qi Xiao and Song Xiao, and joined them on the shuttle to the pier.

In the pale morning light, Song Xiao’s face couldn’t hide her reluctance.

Qi Xiao teased her. “What? Can’t bear to leave?”

Song Xiao said bitterly all of a sudden, “If I had money, I’d hole up at C Hotel every day and never leave.”

Qi Xiao patted her shoulder. “I get you.”

Who wanted to go back to real life? Back to gridlocked traffic, picky clients, greasy takeout, and dragging yourself through one last game after crashing exhaustion—because once you fell asleep, you’d wake up to the same endless loop of another day.

Unchanging, like some kind of curse.

After seeing Song Xiao off, the two headed back to the staff dorms. Employees in the experience event were off duty until the group meeting that evening.

Meng Ning ventured, “Did you see Gwyneth at breakfast today?”

“Of course. She’s overseeing the whole event.”

“She’s…” Meng Ning fished for a phrasing. “Doing okay?”

Her clothes were all neatly in place, so Wen Zenian probably hadn’t done anything to her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t done anything to Wen Zenian, right?

“What wouldn’t be okay about Gwyneth?” Qi Xiao grinned, quoting an old poem loosely. “She’s riding high on success.”

Back at the dorm, Meng Ning’s head still throbbed. She showered, lay down, dozed fitfully for a bit, but couldn’t sleep.

Scratching her head, she sat up—and found Qi Xiao perched on the armchair across from her, staring with an unreadable expression.

Meng Ning: …

She yanked a thin blanket over her chest. “What? We’re both tops anyway.”

Qi Xiao waved her hand seriously. “That’s not precise. We’ve never dated—you should say we assume we’re both tops.”

“Fine, we both assume we’re tops. So why are you staring at me like that?”

Qi Xiao pointed to the small table by the window. Meng Ning glanced over. There sat a thermos.

“What?”

“Sobering tea.” Qi Xiao asked, “Guess who told me to give it to you?”

Meng Ning’s mind jumped to one very clear name.

Qi Xiao said, “It was the speedboat guy, Xiao Zhang.”

Meng Ning blinked.

Qi Xiao dashed over and plopped on her bed. “You actually believed that? Obviously it was from Gwyneth! Why didn’t you ever tell me you two knew each other before?”

Meng Ning got up and went to the table, unscrewing the thermos. A faint floral-herbal scent wafted out. Beside it lay a small envelope. She pulled out a card. Unfolding it revealed elegant, flowing script like English cursive flowers:

“Good day.

—G”

She didn’t sign her Chinese name—just the initial of her English one, G.

Like a virtual symbol.

Meng Ning lifted the card to her nose. Sure enough, it carried the tea mingled with a whisper of thyme. It was so vivid she could almost picture Wen Zenian writing it—

Sitting at a black rosewood desk carved with leaf and vine motifs, pulling out a small card. Only someone like Wen Zenian still indulged in the luxury of fountain pens these days. Fine ink bloomed on the paper, ending the “G” with a tiny dot.

Her wrist had brushed the edge of the card, imprinting it with the perfume at her pulse point, seeping endlessly into the paper.

What was just a tiny card now carried her warmth and scent, suddenly alive.