If You Could See the Sun (62)

“Is that not what you’re doing, though? With Beijing Ghost?”

“I—” I falter, caught off guard not just by the question, but the truth of it. My stomach twists. “I guess you’re right. But the thing is... I don’t know any other way to live.”

Quietly, he says, “I don’t either.”

Then he turns back to me, the space between us narrowing to only a few dangerous inches. His eyes lock on mine, and something else locks into place in my chest. “You’re visible again.”

“Really,” I say, but neither of us move.

We’re sitting close, I realize. Too close.

Not close enough.

I draw in a shaky breath. He smells expensive, like the unopened boxes of designer shoes Chanel keeps piled up in our dorm. But beneath it there’s another scent, something crisp and faintly sweet, like fresh-cut grass in spring or clean sheets warmed by sun.

We could kiss like this. The treacherous thought floats, unbidden, to the surface of my consciousness. I know, of course, that we won’t. That he’s too disciplined, and I’m too stubborn. But the possibility still hangs thick in the air, in the spaces we do not touch, the thought written all over his face, his half-parted lips, his black, burning gaze.

“Alice,” he says, and his accent—

God, his accent. His voice.

Him.

And I’m about to say something clever, something that will not betray the mad fluttering in my chest or how distracted I am by the beads of sweat on his neck but still make him want me, when a heavy hand slaps my shoulder. Hard.

I jerk back with a startled yelp and look up.

The businessman still snoring away above us has shifted position in his sleep, one arm now dangling innocently over the bed rails.

“Are you quite all right?” Henry asks, sounding a little choked up—not out of concern, but badly suppressed laughter. It’s incredible how fast I can vacillate between wanting to kiss this guy and kill him.

I shoot him a withering glare, rubbing the sore spot on my shoulder. “Could you maybe act a little more concerned? I could’ve gotten hit in the head. I could’ve been concussed.”

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry,” he says, though the corners of his lips continue to twitch upward. “Let me rephrase: Would you like me to fetch some ice for your potentially mortal wound? Perhaps some painkillers? Give you a massage?”

“Shut up,” I grumble.

He grins at me then, and despite my annoyance, despite my throbbing shoulder, I am relieved. I would rather spend the rest of this train ride fighting with him than let him be trapped alone with his thoughts and fears again.





14


After we arrive in Suzhou, sleep deprived and starving from the long train ride, the first thing the teachers do is take us out to eat.

It’s warmer here in the south, humid, like the inside of a sauna, and most of us are sweating by the time our rented bus pulls up outside some fancy restaurant that ranked first on Dazhong Dianping. As the only teacher here who can speak Chinese, Wei Laoshi quickly assumes the role of tour guide. We watch through the tinted windows as he approaches the waitress out front, gesturing to his school ID and then to us (a few students in the front seats wave; the waitress frowns).

Then the waitress and Wei Laoshi seem to get into a heated argument, both of them shaking their heads and fanning their faces, and even though we can’t hear a single word they’re saying, the message is clear: there aren’t enough tables in the restaurant for all of us.

“Well, fuck me,” Jake Nguyen grumbles from the row behind me. “I’m starving.”

“Language, Mr. Nguyen,” Julie Walsh says sharply.

“Shit—my bad,” Jake says.

“Language!”

“Right, got it, Mrs. Walsh.”

“It’s Dr. Walsh.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.

Someone snorts.

“Didn’t the school think to reserve us a few baojian?” Vanessa demands, standing up suddenly in her seat. Her long French braid almost whacks me in the face.

“Not all restaurants have private rooms, you know,” someone else—it sounds like Peter Oh—points out.

“What?” Vanessa whips her head around with a look of genuine shock. Even her cheeks go pink. “You’re kidding.”

“Don’t be such a snob.”

“I’m not—”

Beside me, Henry sighs. It’s a soft sound, barely audible over Vanessa’s complaints and Jake’s cursing, but—I kid you not—everyone quietens down at once.

Then Henry asks, “The restaurant’s name is Dijunhao, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, squinting at the golden calligraphy written backward over the restaurant’s double door. “Why?”

But Henry doesn’t respond; he’s already on the phone. I listen to him greet whoever he’s calling in flawless Chinese, ask politely if they’ve eaten lunch yet, rattle off his father’s name, two other names I don’t recognize, confirm the location of the restaurant, and hang up.

A few minutes later, the manager himself comes out to greet us with a smile so wide it looks physically painful.

“Of course there’s space for you! You’re our most honored guests,” he says, when Wei Laoshi questions the sudden change. He shoots the waitress a pointed look, and the waitress scurries off as if her life depends on it, returning with menus and five more waitresses who ask to help carry our bags.