Page 19 of From Beijing, With Love

It hurt, but not like the sharp stab of jealousy—rather the dull ache of feeling inadequate.

As he continued to ruminate over the photo, another notification slid down from the top of his screen like a jump scare: an email, courtesy of his work inbox.

His manager’s name stared back at him—Willem van der Berg. At least it wasn’t his managing director, Philip-never-Phil, better known to Daniel as Mr. Fucking-fix-it-or-find-a-job-elsewhere.

Double shit.

Daniel’s instinct was to flee, but that was difficult, given that he was already on the other side of the world. His traitorous thumb opened the email when he was nowhere near ready to read it.

Willem van der Berg: Daniel, Philip informed me of the mishap last week. Let’s chat. Make it Thursday—in person. I trust your calendar is open.

Triple quadruple shit.

Bile rose in Daniel’s throat as he remembered being on the receiving end of Philip’s tirade, pathetically frozen, unable to breathe. It had all happened while Willem was on vacation. He must have just gotten back to the office, and Daniel was nowhere to be found.

Pushing himself up in bed, Daniel scrubbed a hand over his face. How was he supposed to tell Willem that he had decided to spontaneously fly to Beijing instead of quietly reflecting on his many wrongs back home in Amsterdam?

His finger hovered shakily over the “Reply” button, equal parts afraid of responding and not responding. Only wrong answers here. He started the email.

Hi Wille—

He was cut off midsentence when his long-suffering phone, which had been hanging on for dear life at 2% battery, finally kicked it. Staring at his own reflection in the dark screen, he felt a sudden rush of relief that was almost euphoric.

Would it be the worst thing in the world if he disconnected for a teeny, tiny while?

His eyes landed on the white envelope on his nightstand, stained with burgundy droplets. He snatched it up and ripped it open. A tiny metallic rectangle tumbled onto the bed linen.

Don’t freak out if some of your apps stop working on the Chinese SIM. He remembered Poppy’s words. Maybe that was the solution to his problems.

Before the reasonable part of his brain could kick in, Daniel swapped out his Dutch SIM with the Chinese one. Jabbing the charger into his phone, he whispered a silent prayer to the god he didn’t believe in.

When his phone blinked back to life, he opened his email app.

Connecting … Connecting … Connecting …

No connection.

Daniel let out a breath. Then he tried the social media apps one by one and got different versions of the same message. He was officially cut off from his old life. The Great Firewall had done its job.

Daniel was a little ashamed to be using it to hide from his problems, but it was more cost-effective than dumping his phone in the trash like people did in movies.

Feeling a whole lot lighter than he had moments ago, Daniel hopped out of bed like a man newly unburdened. He fished the empty bottle out from under the bed and took a photo of the label. Drinking was one kind of therapy, and it worked better when the wine was good.

He changed into his exercise clothes and popped on his headphones, ready for a more punishing kind of therapy—the gym. A workout to squash the lingering worries. Then he was going to let himself melt into a puddle of relaxation in the infrared sauna.

Now he was really on vacation.

It was nearly two PM when Daniel got back to his room, lightheaded and thoroughly zenned out. The landline chirped, bringing a smile to his lips. Poppy’s package must have gotten here. He picked up the receiver and got an earful of cheerful Mandarin. He understood none of it besides his own last name.

“Just send it up,” he said instead of having the same awkward dance of can-you-repeat-that-in-English.

“Of course, Mr. Wu,” the voice responded in English, wising up to Daniel’s Mandarin competency, or lack thereof.

“And you can just leave it by the door,” Daniel said.

The line went quiet for a beat, as if the receptionist was trying to make sense of the request, before another “Of course, Mr. Wu.”

Daniel would have overthought it (his specialty) if he weren’t in desperate need of washing the long and sweaty sauna session off his sore body. Hopping into the shower, he luxuriated in the scalding water. When he stepped out, he felt like putty, his problems long forgotten. In the mirror, his fogged-up reflection stared back at him, blurry and relaxed. Then he heard a faint knock.