Chapter 4: First Kiss, Pomelo Sweetness, and Jiaqi’s Secret Past

 

Jiaqi never dared tell Xu Shifeng that she had glimpsed Lu Anqi at the airport terminal that spring, when she had gone to pick someone up.

Perhaps it wasn’t Anqi, or perhaps her eyes had deceived her—but the woman looked exactly the same. Her figure was still graceful, standing out from the crowd like a crane among chickens. Her long, naturally curly hair had been cut short, the large curls pressed close to her head, framing her slender eyes and lending her a doll-like youthfulness.

Beside her stood a tall, handsome Nordic man, busy tending to a mountain of luggage and two lively twin boys.

The boys, with their mother’s curls and dark, gem-like eyes, were a picture of mischief. In their stroller they sucked on bottles, squabbled, kissed, fought, and then burst into tears.

Anqi soothed one gently, while the other clutched her sleeve, babbling, “MAMA.” She smiled, kissed them both, and at last they quieted, pacifiers bobbing as they looked around. Their father leaned close, kissed her cheek, and whispered something softly.

Jiaqi did not approach. She only stood at a distance, silently watching.

That night, she dreamed.

It was a clear autumn afternoon. Plane trees outside the dormitory shed their leaves in golden sheets. Chang Yuanyuan chatted with Meiyun; someone in slippers stomped down the hall. Curtains fluttered in the breeze, sunlight spilled across the floor, and somewhere in the distance a harmonica played a staccato tune. The familiar voices and scenes filled Jiaqi with peace. Her greatest worry was the Spanish extensive reading exam next week.

Since their breakup, she had never dreamed of Meng Heping again. Perhaps it was never meant to be.

Their meeting had been fate from the start. She was still a sophomore; he had just returned to China. A high school classmate dragged him to a dance, and days later they crossed paths again at a birthday party.

Jiaqi hadn’t expected him there—Chang Jianbo, the birthday boy, was her roommate Juanzi’s boyfriend, and she had gone only out of loyalty.

Later, Meng Heping teased, “I never expected you to drink so much.”

Jiaqi only smiled.

He was a strong drinker, raised on Baigan liquor since childhood. Before her, he had never met his match. But Jiaqi was from Shaoxing, Zhejiang, a land of scholars and wine. Her father was a winemaker; she had grown up in the fragrance of Huadiao, mellowed for eighteen years underground before release.

That night, the birthday girl lost miserably at rock-paper-scissors with Meng Heping, nearly passing out. Jiaqi stepped in, taking her place.

At first, he dismissed her. But after a few bottles, he realized he had been tricked. Her eyes glowed brighter with drink, her smile deepened, and she was a master at the game. He later mocked her for being “loyal,” but that night revealed her hidden depths.

The two of them drank fiercely, evenly matched. With half a bottle left, he asked, “Can I have a cigarette first?”

“Of course,” Jiaqi replied.

He set a delicate cigarette case on the table, adorned with a camellia and the words: “Meeting you for the first time is like meeting an old friend.”

Something stirred in her heart.

When he couldn’t find a light, she handed him matches. He looked up in surprise, recognition dawning.

“It’s you.”

She smiled. “Yes, it’s me.”

Around them, the party dissolved into drunken chaos. Only they remained lucid enough to speak. The more she drank, the brighter her eyes became, until they shimmered with tears.

“We’re all drunk,” he muttered. “How are we going to get home?”

“Let’s walk back,” she said.

“They can’t walk. Let them lie here. I’ll walk with you.”

She smiled. “Don’t forget to pay the bill, or the waiter won’t let us go.”

Later, she asked again and again, “Meng Heping, why do you like me?”

He thought long, then answered, “You’re so shrewd! Even drunk, you still want me to pay first. How could an honest man like me not fall for your trick?”

She forgot her own words. What she remembered was the night itself—cold, windy, late autumn—walking beneath broken streetlights that glowed faintly orange, like warm eyes in the dark.

“Are you cold?” he asked, and without waiting, draped his coat over her shoulders. It carried his warmth, the faint scent of wine. She tucked her hands into the long sleeves, like a child in borrowed clothes, and felt a gentle heat seep into her chest.

They talked endlessly—childhood mischief, school rebellions, family defiance. She gestured with her sleeves like an opera singer; he interrupted with laughter. She was thirsty, yet still wanted to talk; he was drunk, yet still wanted to listen.

At her dorm, he stopped at a lit shop window. “Wait a minute.”

He returned with two bottles of yogurt. She drank one eagerly, like nectar. He handed her the other.

“You don’t want to drink it?”

“I bought them all for you.”

Embarrassed, she fumbled with the wrapper. He silently took it, inserted the straw, and handed it back.

She bit the tube and sipped quietly, the night around them hushed and tender.

The yogurt was cold and thick, so thick in the winter air that it seemed it could be piled up like snow. Jiaqi drank it slowly, savoring its unexpected sweetness.

He broke the silence. “My name is Meng Heping. What’s yours?”

She smiled faintly, amused that they had come this far without introductions. “Jiaqi. You Jiaqi.”

“Is it the Jiaqi in Jiaqi Rumeng?”

“Yes.”

A flush of embarrassment rose in her cheeks. Those four characters contained both her name and his surname, though he hadn’t meant it that way.

It was long past lights out, and the dormitory gate was locked. He glanced at the iron bars. “How are you going to get in?”

Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “Of course, I’m climbing over it.”

She tossed the empty yogurt carton into the trash, clapped her hands, and said, “Just watch.”

With astonishing agility, she scaled the gate, perched atop the two-meter-high bars, and waved down at him. “Good night!”

In a flash, her silver-gray figure slid down and disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

That image never left him: Jiaqi in his oversized coat, one hand gripping the iron gate, the other waving triumphantly. Behind her stretched a velvet-dark sky, star-pricked and moonless. The cold wind ruffled her hair, making her jewel-like eyes shine brighter than the stars. Her mischievous smile revealed a small canine tooth, making her look like a child—or perhaps an elf—slipping free of the mortal world. He gazed at her for a long time, spellbound.

Back in her dorm, Jiaqi realized she had forgotten to return his coat. Though still clean, she washed it anyway and hung it on the balcony, where it dried in the sun, fragrant.

Juanzi sighed at the sight and teased, “Why don’t you return it to him?”

Jiaqi replied calmly, “Tomorrow afternoon, when I don’t have class. I don’t know where he lives.”

Juanzi grinned. “You don’t, but I do.” She sketched the address, then added slyly, “He caught a cold and has a fever because he gave you his coat.”

Jiaqi didn’t believe her. Juanzi grew indignant. “Why would I lie? Go see for yourself. You’re heartless.”

Jiaqi was supposed to attend a reading class that afternoon, but halfway back to the dorm she stopped, set down her textbook, picked up the coat, and decided to skip class.

The two schools were close—her east gate across from his west gate—but his dormitory was buried deep in the East District. She wandered, sweating, until she found it.

She knocked on the door of Room 409. No answer. A neighbor eyed her curiously. “Who are you looking for?”

“Excuse me, is Meng Heping here?”

“He’s sick. Went to the hospital for a shot.”

Guilt pricked her. She hurried to the affiliated hospital. The injection area was crowded, noisy with voices, televisions, and children’s cries. At last, she spotted him in a corner, IV drip above, newspaper in hand.

She sat beside him. After a moment, he looked up. Their eyes met.

She smiled. He smiled back.

They both felt a little foolish, but happiness lingered in his smile. They sat in silence until a classmate passed by. “Hey, Heping, you’re here too?”

“Yeah, I have a fever.”

The classmate glanced at Jiaqi. “Oh, you brought your girlfriend. Even with a fever, you’re happy.”

Jiaqi blushed. Heping only smiled.

And so it began. Weekends were spent riding bicycles across campus, sitting in on each other’s classes, eating in the cafeteria, basking on the lawn. Even the sunlight seemed crystal clear then.

When winter break came, he saw her off at the train. Tickets were scarce, yet he secured her a sleeper berth and filled her bag with fruit and snacks. She ate constantly, as though stopping would make her sad. He bought her favorite beef jerky; she ate until her tongue blistered.

On the train, Karen Mok’s voice sang through her Walkman:

“The fruits of midsummer, the fragrance of love in memories… as long as you remember me. If you dream of me, please hold me tight again…”

The train clattered southward through the night. She couldn’t sleep, so she made instant noodles. On the bowl, in glowing green marker, he had scrawled:

“Little pig, little pig, eat more fruit, and no instant noodles.”

She laughed until tears fell.

When she arrived in Shaoxing, it was dark, raining, and cold. She called his dorm, but no one answered. Resigned, she dragged her luggage home.

At noon the next day, the phone rang. She answered, wrapped in a blanket.

“Hello?”

It was him. His voice was hoarse. “Jiaqi, why is it so cold in Dongpu?”

She froze. How did he know? She ran to the window.

There he was, standing in her courtyard, breath steaming in the rain, waving at her.

“Why are you here?” she asked, stunned.

He only smiled.

Inside, he set down his small travel bag, handed her his new phone number. She wrote it carefully in her diary. He looked around her old but tidy home, the carved window frames, the river beyond with boats piled high with wine jars. The sparse winter rain blurred the scene into an ink painting.

She bustled about, drying his hair, pouring tea, filling a hot water bottle.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.

“I missed you.”

Embarrassed, she opened the refrigerator. “How about I make you some fried rice?”

“Okay.”

He ate three bowls in one go, and she worried he might overeat. To help him digest, she broke open a pomelo. The skin was thick, stubborn, and she peeled it piece by piece. The first tear was the hardest, so he stood to help, prying it open with his hands. A cool, citrus fragrance filled the air.

He took a bite and said, “Tart.”

She laughed softly. “Let me try it.”

But before she could lift the slice to her lips, his mouth was on hers.

It was incredibly soft, incredibly warm.

He had never kissed her before—this was their first. They had known each other for only a little over two months. She shuddered slightly, tasting only the sweetness of pomelo on his lips.

At last, he let her go. By the river, an old woman pounded clothes with a wooden pestle, the steady rhythm echoing her own heartbeat, thudding wildly in her chest. Her face burned. On impulse, she grabbed his collar, rose on tiptoe, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Those days in the small town were slow and full of quiet joy.

Jiaqi took him to the winery where her father worked. Watching the mountains of wine jars, he exclaimed, “No wonder you’re such a drinker.”

She smiled secretly.

Dongpu, her ancient hometown, was the birthplace of rice wine. The famed Shaoxing Huadiao, with its long, lingering aftertaste, was most likely born here. Her father admired Meng Heping’s poise with drink.

“The quality of a drink reflects the character of a person,” her father said.

Meng Heping never asked why she had no mother.

At dusk, she led him to Xu Xilin’s former residence. The courtyards were deserted, pale orchids and sparse bamboo swaying in the rain, the house like a scene from an old film—shadows and light fused with memory. He held her hand the entire time. With no guide present, she read aloud from the plaques, and they walked slowly together.

At last, she confessed, “My mother passed away when I was very young. I haven’t seen her since.”

He held her hand tighter, breathing on it to warm her fingers, listening without interruption.

She continued haltingly, “Later, during an argument with a classmate, I learned my mother had left with someone else. I wasn’t sad, just… regretful. I thought her courage was rare in that era. Although she left me, I don’t hate her.”

Her words were clumsy, scattered, but he understood. He said nothing, only bent to kiss her forehead gently.

And in that moment, she felt utterly at peace—because he was there.

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