Chapter 17

“We’re pretty lucky tonight,” Qi Xiao said with high spirits, listening as the bar owner thanked the new and returning guests from the small stage in the distance and invited the evening’s special guests onstage.

It was a rock band from up north, with a female lead singer who had a husky voice. Meng Ning hadn’t heard of them before, but Qi Xiao said they were pretty popular online.

Qi Xiao and Song Xiao planned to head over there. They asked Meng Ning, but she shook her head, saying she was afraid it would be too noisy.

Qi Xiao knew Meng Ning didn’t like crowds, so she left Meng Ning to sit alone. The band’s guitarist began strumming, and more people gathered around the small stage. Some weren’t there for the music; they just leaned against the edge, drinks in hand, chatting with friends. Somehow, the busier the spot, the more relaxed everyone seemed.

Meng Ning and her friends weren’t extravagant—they’d only ordered a plate of pistachios beyond their drinks, with a few scattered shells littering the table.

Meng Ning had nothing better to do with her hands, so she gathered the shells into piles and toyed with them. But their curved shapes made it obvious; they never stayed stacked beyond four or five.

It was a reminder of how hard it must have been for the people in Genesis to build the Tower of Babel.

Lost in these scattered thoughts, Meng Ning realized she was just avoiding the obvious—she wanted to pull out her phone and look at Wen Zenian’s photo again.

The noise all around made her feel safe. No one would notice anyone else. So she did it.

The band’s husky-voiced singer kept reminding Meng Ning of someone else. The vibes were different, though—the singer was deep and grounded, while Wen Zenian was airy. She didn’t emphasize her words much; her tone grew even lighter when speaking to just one person, like a dream drifting from the clouds.

Meng Ning lowered her gaze to Wen Zenian on her screen and suddenly had the urge to reach out and tug the woman’s shirt collar straight where it exposed half her collarbone.

Then her phone rang.

Meng Ning stared at the unfamiliar number on her screen.

Her financial situation must have been obvious; she rarely even got sales calls. The last unknown number had been Wen Zenian’s. After hanging up, she’d sent a message, gotten no reply, and deleted the number like she was fleeing from it.

She hadn’t paid special attention to it, just vaguely remembered the last two digits were “89.”

Or was it “98”? She truly couldn’t recall.

But this incoming unknown number ended in “89.”

Meng Ning hesitated, then answered.

She wasn’t sure what her mindset was. She didn’t speak right away.

Unexpectedly, neither did the other side—just a faint sound of breathing, maybe.

Or perhaps it was a slight static hum. The bar’s signal was poor amid all the clamor. She gripped her phone, her thumb pressing tight.

Suddenly she thought: If I went to the bathroom, could I hear better?

But before she could stand, the call dropped.

That eleven-digit number ending in “89” became a “missed call” in Meng Ning’s phone. She didn’t look at it again, locked the screen, and shoved the phone back in her pocket just as Qi Xiao and Song Xiao walked toward her.

Sliding back into their seats at the table, Qi Xiao took a swig of her drink first, wincing at the burn before grinning at Meng Ning. “Do you know what we overheard by the stage?”

“What?”

The band had started up again, so they had to shout. Qi Xiao bellowed, “Did you see that girl with the long black straight hair by the stage?”

“Yeah, what about her?”

“Song Xiao and I heard her telling her friend she’s decided to make you her fantasy crush.”

Meng Ning blinked. “I don’t know her.”

“That’s why it’s perfect for fantasizing! If you knew her, you’d know how many onion slices she ate for lunch. What’s the fun in that?”

Qi Xiao was definitely tipsy, tapping randomly along the edge of their round table as she yelled, “What about you, then?”

“Me what?”

“What’s your type for a fantasy crush?”

Meng Ning yelled back, “I don’t like long black straight hair.”

“I get it! It clashes with yours!”

“I like long wavy hair!”

Qi Xiao giggled and tugged Song Xiao. “She’s drunk, right? I figured she’d never admit it if I asked.”

Maybe, Meng Ning thought.

After hitting her goal of saving a hundred people, she’d relaxed a bit. After all, she was getting closer to what she really wanted.

She liked long, slightly wavy hair.

Like satin draping down, strands trailing over soft white shoulders. A breeze would lift half of it while sweat clung to the other half. She didn’t like pearls—they were too round and ordinary. She preferred diamonds on a person, their sharp facets like they might cut your face. She didn’t like overly soft features either. Gentle was fine, but not dull—there needed to be a spark of intelligence, thin lips were better. Old folks said thin-lipped people were heartless, but that hit her type right in the bullseye.

Then it hit her—

All of it coalesced in her mind into one strikingly vivid face.

Maybe she’d stared at too many faces tonight.

Wen Zenian.

Qi Xiao shoved her, yanking her from her thoughts, and gave her a sidelong look with that knowing expression.

Meng Ning: …

She hadn’t said anything, had she?

Qi Xiao said, “Who knew you were like this.”

“Like what?”

“The minute I ask about your fantasy crush, your nose tip goes red.” Qi Xiao teased her. “What, does fantasy crush make you think of that stuff? Can’t it just be fantasizing about dating?”

“Where do you see my nose tip red?” Meng Ning laughed, unembarrassed. “Couldn’t it be from the alcohol?”

Her skin was so fair that even working as a beach lifeguard hadn’t tanned her. Her face betrayed every flush of blood, revealing her every thought.

Meng Ning herself didn’t think much of it.

Food, sex, attraction—nature. It was unrealistic for two strangers to start all lovey-dovey. All emotional bonds started with physical spark; an itch of desire turning into a heartbeat was how stories began.

The year-end party theme was just griping about another year wasted, making impossible resolutions like early workouts and ditching the phone.

But standing on the ritualistic tail-end of the year made everything feel possible, like hope was real.

The band led the crowd by the stage in a roar of “Happy New Year!” The three of them were pretty buzzed, and Song Xiao had work tomorrow, so they headed out of the bar together.

As they rose to leave, Meng Ning spotted Cen Meigui emerging from the break room to the bar counter, taking a shaker from the male bartender.

Sometimes lively meant loud. Meng Ning leaned close to Song Xiao’s ear and yelled, “You and Qi Xiao go wait outside. I need the bathroom.”

Song Xiao nodded.

Meng Ning wove back through the bar alone. With her backpack, no makeup, and the bar lights no matter how flashy, she looked clean-cut like a college girl.

Cen Meigui was popular; the moment she appeared, a crowd gathered at the bar.

It took some effort for Meng Ning to squeeze in. She rapped her knuckles on the counter.

Cen Meigui’s face was languid at first. Spotting her, she smiled. The band was on an encore, and Cen Meigui leaned in close to say, “Didn’t see you here tonight. So, did that little extra I added to your coffee last time win you over?”

Meng Ning smiled. “A White Russian. Every afternoon I come here, I eye that one on your menu.”

She’d had one last time and another tonight, but neither mixed by Cen Meigui.

Cen Meigui grinned at her. “Coming right up.”

She wasn’t young anymore, but the years sat on her like aged liquor. She shook the shaker without much force, drawing glances from the drinkers.

The stage belted out an old crowd-pleaser: “Stranger, give me a Lanzhou cigarette.”

Meng Ning had never smoked Lanzhous, but Cen Meigui’s drinks felt like her first cigarette—not smooth at all, scraping down her throat like a razor.

She hesitated, then while the crowd’s eyes were on the stage, unzipped her backpack a crack, pulled out an envelope, slid it under her glass, and pushed it back across the bar. “Thanks.”

Cen Meigui looked surprised.

She got hit on plenty, but this girl was so young. The greeting card had an iris printed on it. Inside, no phone number—just simple words in a handwriting as elegant and upright as the writer:

“Happy New Year. Peace in ordinary days.”

For someone young, it was almost too plain a wish.

Cen Meigui looked up. Meng Ning smiled, shouldered her backpack, and started to leave.

Cen Meigui asked, “One more drink?”

Meng Ning shook her head. “My friends are waiting outside.”

“Then, tomorrow afternoon?”

Meng Ning shook her head again. “Probably not. Goodbye.”

The young girl with the backpack vanished into the bar’s bustling crowd.

Emerging from the bar, Meng Ning found Qi Xiao leaning against a tree, chatting with a dreamy smile to Song Xiao. Meng Ning walked over. “Let’s head back.”

It was near Spring Festival, so cabs were scarce. Meng Ning booked a ride-hailing car, using her last coupon from her cardholder.

Qi Xiao was midway through a laughing story about the beach’s new motorboats when Meng Ning’s phone rang again. She added a quip, then answered. “Hello, sir?”

There was a pause on the other end.

Meng Ning’s heart skipped. She pulled the phone from her ear to check the caller ID—ending in “89.”

Then Wen Zenian’s voice came through: “Meng Ning.”

Since she hadn’t put it back to her ear yet, that soft call didn’t just enter her ear—it pierced straight to her heart.

She pressed the phone back, her own pulse thumping twice.

Wen Zenian’s voice came again: “Meng Ning.”

Clear tone, but the ending lingered softly.

Meng Ning steadied herself. “Gwyneth.”

Qi Xiao, leaning on the tree, pointed and laughed. “Drunk already? Calling everyone Gwyneth?”

Meng Ning felt like she might be drunk too.

A BYD pulled up curbside. Meng Ning checked the plate—it matched her memory—so she waved Song Xiao and Qi Xiao in.

Song Xiao got motion sickness easily and took shotgun. Meng Ning and Qi Xiao sat in back. The driver asked, “Are you the rider ending in xxxx?”

Meng Ning nodded, still holding the phone to her ear. The person on the line seemed to hear the car door sounds and went quiet.

Until the driver pulled away, quiet settling in the cabin.

Qi Xiao conked out fast in the back. Song Xiao messaged up front, a pale glow spilling back. Meng Ning turned her volume to the lowest and whispered, “Hello?”

“I’m still here,” came the reply.

Only then did Meng Ning confirm she wasn’t too drunk—it really was Wen Zenian’s voice.

Wen Zenian said, “Can I crash at your place tonight?”

She must have had too much to drink. With Qi Xiao’s alcohol tolerance, knocking back another White Russian right before they left—how could she not be drunk?

Even though she had turned the volume all the way down, the cramped, enclosed space of the car made her feel like she was blasting it on full speakers. Guiltily, she twisted her head to glance at Qi Xiao. Qi Xiao’s head was slumped on her shoulder, her neck twisted almost ninety degrees.

She propped up Qi Xiao’s head with her hand, easing it back against the seat for a more comfortable sleep. Qi Xiao smacked her lips.

Perhaps because she had not responded for so long, Wen Zenian said from the other end of the line, “If it’s inconvenient, never mind.”

With that, the call ended.