The snow in the alley had thinned to slush, leaving the ground wet and treacherous underfoot. Xia Chan kept close to the wall as she followed He Huaisheng toward the alley entrance. The car was already waiting. Ding Yonggui leaned against it, a scatter of cigarette butts at his feet. The moment he spotted them, he pulled the door open and slid into the driver's seat.
Inside the car, Xia Chan turned slightly toward He Huaisheng. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
She let it go.
The heater was running strong. After a few minutes she loosened her scarf and asked, "The branch is holding a year-end party. Are you going back for it?"
"Yes. Two days."
"Oh." She didn't press him on business. She had always believed that doing her job well meant knowing as little as possible. Bluntly put: if things ever went sideways and she ended up in a room answering questions, there would be nothing useful to give them.
Half an hour later the car pulled into a residential complex called Crescent Bay, a development by real estate magnate Ju Heguang. Prime location near the Chongxi business district, priced under thirty thousand per square meter. Xia Chan recognized it immediately. Another bolt-hole. He Huaisheng had always believed in having options.
They entered a building and took the elevator up. He Huaisheng pressed 18, then looked at her. "Cold?"
"I'm fine."
He said nothing more. He simply reached over and smoothed a strand of hair the wind had pushed across her face. His fingertips were cold against her ear, and she couldn't help pulling her chin down into her collar.
The elevator opened on the eighteenth floor.
It was a full-floor unit. He Huaisheng unlocked the door and led her in.
Xia Chan paused at the entrance and took it in. It was barer than she expected. The walls were finished but the space was nearly empty, just a single sofa set in the middle of the vast living room. She opened the shoe cabinet by the door and found two pairs of slippers, one large, one small, both clearly new. She slipped on the smaller pair and walked in.
The kitchen was stocked with brand-new cookware, much of it still sealed in packaging. She opened the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, and vegetables, all neatly arranged, still wrapped. Recently bought.
She found a kettle on the counter, unwrapped it, rinsed it, and set it to boil.
He Huaisheng came in behind her.
She turned. "New place?"
"Yes."
"You're not staying with He Qin anymore?"
He didn't answer. He crossed the kitchen slowly, reached into his coat pocket, and felt around for a moment. Then he took her hand and placed something in her palm.
A key.
Xia Chan looked down at it, then up at him. "What does this mean?"
"You can... come here. Whenever."
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Keeping your beauty locked away in a gilded house?"
Before he could respond she added, "It's far from the office. I'm not coming all this way for nothing." She held the key back out to him.
He didn't take it.
"I really don't need it." She glanced at him, and felt something dim inside her for a second. "...If you need me here, send a message."
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned and walked out without a word.
Xia Chan stood alone, the key pressed tight in her fist, her thoughts going quiet and hollow.
Behind her the kettle began to hiss. Within minutes it clicked off, the power cutting itself.
She exhaled. Tucked the key into her pocket. Found two cups in the cabinet, let the boiling water cool slightly, poured two cups, and carried them to the living room.
He Huaisheng was on the sofa, smoking, watching her as she came in.
She set a cup in front of him and said quietly, "He Huaisheng."
He looked down. Said nothing.
She sat beside him and reached over to take the hand not holding the cigarette.
He stilled. Then turned to look at her.
"If you weren't here," she said, "I wouldn't want to be alone in a place this big."
It was not quite a confession, not quite a tease. Somewhere between the two. He considered it in silence, then his fingers shifted and he held her hand back, properly this time.
He stubbed out what remained of the cigarette and leaned in to kiss her.
The apartment was quiet. The heat was more than adequate. Clothes came off without the cold making itself known.
But something was off for Xia Chan. Before long she felt a dryness, a friction that sharpened into actual pain with each movement.
He Huaisheng noticed. He held still, watching her, then pulled back and withdrew.
They stayed like that: him sitting, her lying still. Neither spoke.
She sat up on her own after a moment and dressed herself slowly.
"Where do you want to eat?" she asked.
"You choose."
"We could cook here. The vegetables will go to waste otherwise."
He looked at her and nodded. "Alright."
She went to the kitchen and started washing the rice and the greens. A moment later, He Huaisheng appeared in the doorway.
She glanced at him. "Go wait in the living room."
He made a sound of acknowledgment and did not move.
She left him there. Drained the washed green peppers into a bowl, unwrapped the fresh pork, and began to slice.
Her mind drifted, as it sometimes did when she cooked.
Xie Xingzhou's old rental apartment had a kitchen barely wide enough to turn around in. On weekends she would go over and cook, just to have something to do. The exhaust fan was broken and anything spiced or fried turned the whole flat into a haze. She used to joke with him about it: I handle my looks, I bring in the money, and I'm also cooking in your kitchen. Tell me honestly, am I getting the short end here?
He hadn't laughed. He had taken her hand instead, looking more serious than the moment called for, and said: ...I'm the one shortchanging you.
She hadn't actually felt shortchanged then. The things that genuinely cost her came later, and those she kept to herself. Like the day Xie Xingzhou came home with something his boss had told him, circling her with careful, probing questions, and she sat there and said nothing at all.
"Hiss—"
A sharp sting in her fingertip. Xia Chan pulled her hand back fast.
He Huaisheng was at her side before she registered he had moved. He grabbed her hand, turned it over. A thin cut. A bright bead of blood forming.
"It's nothing." She tried to take her hand back. He didn't let go.
"Wait here."
He released her, walked out, and she heard the front door close.
She held the cut under the tap. The water running up from the pipes was ice-cold, numbing the finger until the pain dissolved into nothing.
About fifteen minutes later He Huaisheng came back with a plastic bag. He took out rubbing alcohol and a bandage, held her reddened hand steady, and disinfected the cut with a cotton swab.
She hissed and pressed her back teeth together.
He applied the bandage carefully, then turned off the stove, and pulled her out of the kitchen without discussion, leaving the half-prepped ingredients where they were.
He held her hands between his until they warmed. Then: "Does it hurt?"
"It's a small cut. You're making a scene."
He looked at her. "From now on," he said, with deliberate effort, "don't cook."
"That's throwing the baby out with the bathwater."
"You are not..." He searched for the right word. "...meant for cooking."
She smiled. "Then what am I meant for?"
He said nothing.
A short silence. Then Xia Chan said, "A junior high classmate of mine is getting married."
He looked at her.
"In the States. She sent me an invitation."
A few days ago an email had arrived from a girl Xia Chan had once helped in middle school. There was a wedding over Christmas. The girl had paid for round-trip airfare, told the story of how she and her fiancé had met, thanked Xia Chan again for what she had done years ago, and wished her an early marriage of her own. Attached was a beach photo: the fiancé, broad-featured with a high nose and pale complexion, arm around the girl's shoulders, smiling the way people do in toothpaste commercials.
Xia Chan pulled out her phone and passed it to He Huaisheng. "Handsome, right?"
He looked at the photo. Said nothing.
She glanced at him with a slight smile. "Fine, you can think he isn't."
She put her phone away. "I couldn't go anyway."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, without prelude: "Do you want to get married?"
She paused, then understood. He thought she had brought it up as a hint. She let out a small laugh. "No. What's good about marriage? You cook for someone the rest of your life. If you're unlucky you end up with domestic violence, or a mother-in-law who makes your life impossible, or you have a child and hemorrhage in the delivery room. The whole thing is a gamble."
She looked at him directly. "Do I seem like someone who wants that kind of life?"
He held her gaze and said nothing.
The smile on her face eased away. She sat with the quiet a moment.
Even if she did want that, she thought, she would never ask for it from a man like He Huaisheng.
Neither of them spoke.
Her phone broke the silence. She looked at the screen: Chen Aijia.
She stood and answered. "Aijia—"
He Huaisheng stayed where he was, watching her cross the room.
She hung up and moved quickly, reaching for her coat and bag. "I have to go to Aijia's. I think I need to take her to the hospital. It'll be crowded and I don't want to—"
"I'll drive you."
They went downstairs and got into the car.
Xia Chan kept looking ahead, her body taut with worry.
He Huaisheng took her hand. "Don't panic."
Her hands were cold again, frozen through, as if no amount of warmth pressed around them could reach the inside.