Page 100 of From Beijing, With Love

Something passed wordlessly between them. Meiwen’s lips trembled as she shook her head before darting her eyes Yang’s way.

“Did you not think that I could do it on my own?” Jack dropped Meiwen’s hand like it was contaminated, his face hard. “Or you just have to control everything, don’t you.”

“I …” Meiwen’s eyes widened. She reached for Jack’s hand, but he stepped back.

“You know how messed up this is?” Jack threw up his hands, sounding more exhausted than angry, like a man who was tired of having the same unwinnable fight. “You can’t just manipulate everything to get your way. Good luck with your timeline, because I don’t want any part of it.” Jack walked out of the lab, slamming the door behind him.

Yang looked at Meiwen, at the way her bottom lip quivered, the way she couldn’t meet his eyes, and the final piece of the puzzle slotted in place.

“It was … you?”

“I’m sorry,” she rushed to say, her breath quick and shallow. “I had to! The postdoc was the only way Jack could stay in Beijing.”

Yang took a step back as she reached for his hand. His chest was impossibly tight, like a rubber band stretched to the verge of snapping.

“He’s a month away from getting a PhD from Tsinghua. We both know what that’s worth. If he wanted to get an industry job in Beijing, he easily could have,” Yang said. While academic openings were rare, industry jobs were plentiful. Then he met Meiwen’s red-rimmed eyes and understood the real reason. “But him being in Beijing isn’t enough. You want him to stay right here at Tsinghua, by your side.”

Meiwen was quiet. For once, Yang hated being right. By his own choice, he had few real friends, lest they get too close. But Meiwen was different. They had known each other since Xi’an. She’d known his mom.

“I had to,” she repeated. “It was you or him. You had another year to find something, but this was his only chance. I had it all figured out—one more year at Tsinghua together, jobs in Beijing, marriage, kids … We had a plan!” She let out a bitter laugh as another tear rolled down her cheek. “At least I thought we did.”

The tears couldn’t wash away the stubborn resolve in her eyes. Yang felt sorry for her then. Her timeline, planned down to the two kids she was going to have, was her way of taking control of a life that was full of other people’s expectations. Hadn’t he been on the receiving end of such expectations all his life?

“Don’t tell anyone, please?” she pleaded, her eyes filling with panic rather than remorse.

It hadn’t even occurred to Yang to tell on her. The infraction would put Meiwen’s whole academic career at risk. He looked at her. With her makeup-free face and swollen eyes, she looked so much younger, reminding him of when they first met. When we were babies, as she’d say.

He sighed, the anger draining from him. He just felt empty.

“I got to go.” He turned to leave. He couldn’t stand being next to her.

“I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me!” Meiwen called after him.

Yang froze in his tracks, his blood calcifying in his veins. He turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean … I know. About Daniel.” Her eyes weren’t unkind, just sharp, foxlike. “The way you looked at him … You’ve never looked at anyone that way before, certainly not when we dated. Then I saw your message before you deleted it, and I knew.” She bridged the gap between them and took his hand, her face earnest. “I’ll delete the photos, all of them. And I won’t tell anyone. I promise. If …”

If. The operative word.

If he didn’t tell, she wouldn’t tell.

Their friendship was conditional, he realized. It always had been. Was this really the village he’d fought so hard to keep?

He should be livid, or heartbroken, but instead he was so very tired. He’d gotten a glimpse of what his life would be like if he kept going down the same path, and he hated it.

“I’m done with this conversation. I’m just … done.” He shook off her hand and walked away. At the door, he paused and looked back at her. “Tell whoever you want. I don’t care.”

Yang lay in bed, weighed down by the exhaustion of the day—the wins and the losses. The tabletop fan spun lazily, pushing the same sweltering air around. For once, he wished for rain.

No, not just rain. He needed a torrent, a monsoon. Whatever it took to wash away the last of the summer.

His phone rang on the wooden chair that doubled as a nightstand, shrill and demanding. He rejected the call without bothering to check who it was from. There was no one he wanted to talk to.

Not even a minute later, the phone rang again, not taking his no for an answer. Sighing, he glanced at the screen.

Poppy. Calling on the wrong side of midnight.

“Hel—” He cleared his throat. “Hello?”