Chapter 37 Part 1

Wen Zenian’s story from the past lingered clearly in Meng Ning’s memory.

Back then, Wen Zenian hadn’t changed her name yet. She was still Wen Min, her face puffy and swollen from hormone pills, her once-stunning features barely discernible beneath the bloat.

That day, the two of them had been on classroom cleaning duty together. Meng Ning really had been as outgoing as Wen Zenian described—bold, mischievous, and unafraid to bend the rules.

She had snuck a can of beer from home and offered some to Wen Zenian, who shook her head and refused.

In hindsight, she and Wen Zenian had shared so many firsts. Like her first secret smoke, which ended after one harsh, bitter puff—she’d tossed it away immediately.

Or her first time sneaking booze. Beer wasn’t great, but it beat the choking stench of cigarettes. She chugged the whole can. It went down easy enough at the time, but afterward, her head began to spin.

She propped her head on one arm across the desk, crumpling the can inside her desk drawer with crunching sounds using her other hand. Wen Zenian sat in the front row, watching her with a smile.

Meng Ning’s eyelids burned hot. She lifted her head slightly, straining to focus on Wen Zenian. Her vision was already blurry, smudging Wen Zenian’s features into a haze. All she could make out were those smiling eyes, bright and sparkling, and the soft fragrance wafting from her body.

No matter what threadbare clothes Wen Zenian hid under her school uniform back then, she was always impeccably clean—and she always smelled nice.

Meng Ning had no idea what came over her. Out of nowhere, she blurted, “If I kissed you, would you scream?”

Wen Zenian blinked, stunned. “But we’re both girls.”

In that era, in an underdeveloped inland city like Crane City, things like that weren’t common. Or at least, they weren’t out in the open.

“Oh.” Meng Ning dropped her head back onto her arm. “Haha.”

Looking back years later, Meng Ning realized that moment had been her first spark of gender awareness.

She’d never dated anyone, but from then on, she knew without a doubt: she liked girls.

The timeline snapped back to the present. The girl whose features had once been lost in swelling now draped her arms around Meng Ning’s shoulders from behind, her face breathtakingly gorgeous.

That old memory of burning eyelids reignited now, scorching the roots of her lashes. “Let’s grab a cab back to my place, okay?”

Meng Ning headed to the bar entrance to wait, while Wen Zenian went to say goodbye to Qi Xiao and Song Xiao.

“I think Meng Ning’s had a bit too much,” Wen Zenian explained. “We need to head out.”

“Sure, sure, go ahead!” Qi Xiao said immediately. “By all means—don’t stand on ceremony.”

Song Xiao couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter.

“I already settled the bill,” Wen Zenian added. “You two take your time and enjoy.”

Qi Xiao looked sheepish. “No way, you shouldn’t have paid.”

“It’s fine,” Wen Zenian said. Qi Xiao relented with a promise: “Don’t worry, we’ll savor it—nice and slow.”

Song Xiao laughed again.

Wen Zenian grabbed her suit jacket, slinging it over her arm, picked up her bag, and nodded to them before walking away. Song Xiao turned to Qi Xiao. “Why do you get so nervous talking to her? She’s not your type, is she?”

Qi Xiao sighed. “Sigh, you wouldn’t get it. It’s a key lesson in the Lesbian Circle: Sister Studies.”

Song Xiao eyed her.

“Didn’t I tell you? That’s why Gwyneth is the Lesbian Circle Hottie. Everyone in the scene has a thing for older women. There’s this type of ‘big sis’ who appeals to every preference—she’s got universal appeal, you know?”

“It’s not even about actually wanting to hook up. It’s just this instinctive admiration. Get it?”

Song Xiao replied, “Half yes, half no. I didn’t really get it before, but seeing Gwyneth… yeah, kind of starting to.”

Qi Xiao took a sip of her drink. “You’ll figure it out in time.”

“But,” Song Xiao asked, “doesn’t it seem like Gwyneth might actually like Meng Ning? Something feels off between them.”

Qi Xiao waved her hand dramatically. “Nah, it’s not like that. I wondered at first too, but after hearing her stories from back in the day tonight, it all clicked. Let me break it down for you.”

“Gwyneth had a rough time growing up. Meng Ning was the school star back then—center of attention, surrounded by admirers, right? Fast-forward over a decade, and their roles have flipped. It’s like returning home in glory and splurging at the corner store you could never afford as a kid—buying out the bubblegum shelf, ten packs at a time.”

“Meng Ning and I actually talked about this. She said it was like Gwyneth setting off fireworks, and I didn’t fully get it then. Now I do. It’s compensatory spending, plain and simple—living out an old adolescent crush, flaunting how successful she is now.”

“Fireworks?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard. One day on the island, Meng Ning had an allergic reaction to some edamame. No antihistamines there, so Gwyneth had a helicopter deliver some from the city. And get this—Gwyneth flew in straight from a gala, wearing this flaming red evening gown, like she stepped out of a music video. Who’s winning in that dynamic? Gwyneth, hands down. She’s patching up all those old insecurities from her youth. A month or so of that, then she heads back to her own life, closes the book on adolescence, and moves on.”

“Meng Ning doesn’t lose out, though.” Qi Xiao pondered seriously. “Gwyneth is the Lesbian Circle Hottie, after all. As long as no one falls too hard, everyone wins.”

Qi Xiao struck an exaggerated pose. “Win-win!”

At the bar entrance, Wen Zenian emerged with her bag and spotted Meng Ning.

The bar had a trendy vibe: half the red brick wall painted, the other half jagged and exposed, down to the gray mortar between the bricks—like some postmodern art piece.

Meng Ning wore a gray hoodie, leaning against the wall and smoking. It was hard to say if the red bricks made her stand out or if she blended into the gray cement.

She had definitely had too much to drink. Her brows and eyes drooped slightly, and her lips curved in an ambiguous smile. It was as if that smile were a protective mask over her face—one that had been on so long, it fused to her skin.

This was peak hour for bar traffic. Wen Zenian stood at the entrance, separated from her by a distance often blocked by passing crowds. Their gazes connected and broke intermittently. Meng Ning’s clear, autumn-water eyes—black and white, sharp—would vanish behind the throng, then reappear.

Spring nights had already hinted at warmer days recently, but tonight brought no rain—only a sudden gusty wind that ruffled Meng Ning’s forehead bangs and made the cherry-red ember of her cigarette flicker wildly.

She wore that smile, her gaze wandering aimlessly with the breeze, until it landed on Wen Zenian. She froze for a split second, the smile fading briefly.

Another crowd blocked their view, some already in short sleeves, flashing tattooed arms.

When the group passed, Wen Zenian wondered if that protective smile had snapped back onto Meng Ning’s face.

But it hadn’t.

Between them now: only the night, the wind, and thinning air.

Meng Ning still hadn’t reverted to that fake smile. She gazed at Wen Zenian through the smoke, her clear eyes tinged with bewilderment.

Something tugged at Wen Zenian’s heart. Just then, a group of young women spilled from the bar. One whispered to her friends and headed toward Meng Ning.

Only then did Meng Ning flash her usual smile, chatting with the girl—who knows what about.

Wen Zenian strode over in her high heels.

The girl noticed her first and turned. Meng Ning’s gaze followed, her smile turning sly.

Wen Zenian pulled out a cigarette. “Sorry, got a light? Your lighter looks handy—mind lending it?”

Meng Ning grinned. “What makes you think it’s handy?”

Wen Zenian blinked. “Gut feeling.”

Meng Ning turned to the girl. “Sorry, I’m taken.” Then, nodding at Wen Zenian: “New friend.”

The girl glanced at Wen Zenian and left.

Meng Ning straightened, still smiling.

Wen Zenian glanced at her. “Where to?”

Wasn’t it a cab home? Meng Ning’s eyes asked silently.

Wen Zenian wiggled the cigarette between her fingers. “You haven’t lit it yet.”

Meng Ning’s lips quirked. “You actually want me to?”

“Of course.” Wen Zenian paused, as if to herself or to Meng Ning. “Ever since I lost my lighter, the ones from C Hotel keep slipping away. I barely smoke anymore.”

“Where’d that lighter go, anyway?” she mused.

“How should I know?” Meng Ning lit it for her, eyes dropping guiltily to the shadow at Wen Zenian’s feet.

The wind howled tonight. Wen Zenian cupped her palm in a half-arc around the flame, careful not to touch Meng Ning’s hand.

There was something intensely sensual about Wen Zenian when she held back.

Like how that slim ladies’ cigarette suited her pale, elegant fingers. She inhaled from Meng Ning’s lighter, straightened her slender waist, and exhaled a slow stream of smoke from her glossy earth-toned lips. The wind scattered it.

Meng Ning leaned back against the wall, finishing her own smoke. Wen Zenian stood opposite, one arm hugged across her chest, her high heels planted at a striking angle. Her breath carried a minty chill sharper than the night wind.

Suddenly, Meng Ning said, “Could you put on your suit jacket?”

It had been draped over Wen Zenian’s arm since leaving the bar. “I’m not cold,” Wen Zenian replied.

“I know.” Meng Ning exhaled a ribbon of smoke that the wind twisted upward—destined, perhaps, to mingle with Wen Zenian’s in the air. “But I can’t stand seeing your shirt collar like that.”

Her straight, creamy collarbone was mostly exposed.

The wind scattered the cigarette ash like an old tale from the past.

Stray hairs danced in the gusts, betraying hidden thoughts.

Meng Ning stayed with Wen Zenian until she finished her smoke, then they went to hail a cab together.

Trailing behind Wen Zenian where she couldn’t see, Meng Ning let out a soft chuckle.

She felt like a lighter salesman right now.

The one she’d pocketed from Wen Zenian. The secondhand one she’d meant to give her. And her own. She always carried different ones, used them differently.

Like now: her own lighter, still faintly warm from lighting Wen Zenian’s cigarette. And the intended gift, bumping her leg in her pocket with every step.

In the taxi, no Qi Xiao up front this time, but they kept the same positions as the ride over—one each by the windows, a wide berth of empty seat between them.

Meng Ning stole a glance at Wen Zenian.

She’d thought Wen Zenian was drunk, but clearly tonight’s drinks hadn’t fazed her. Her eyes remained clear. The sharp lines of her half-turned profile evoked ancient Greek statues—beautiful enough to seem cold and aloof.