Chapter Eleven Things We Borrow
Lin Xing opened the door already dressed for work, tie half knotted, looking faintly alarmed at the sight of her — hair wrapped in a towel, bathrobe cinched tight, radiating the specific panic of a person running out of time.
“My water heater’s dead,” she said. “Completely, catastrophically dead. And I have seven minutes before I need to leave, and I cannot show up to rounds smelling like — like whatever this is.” “Come in,” he said, without hesitation, stepping back to let her through.
“Guest bathroom’s the second door on the left.
” “You’re a lifesaver. A genuine, medical, actual lifesaver.
” “I’ll call the building manager after we leave,” he added, already reaching for his phone.
“They’ll have it fixed by tonight.” “Thank you.” She was already halfway down the hall, toiletry bag in hand.
“I owe you an apartment’s worth of dosas. ” “I’ll collect.”
While she showered, he made two cups of coffee — travel mugs, because he’d clearly already calculated they’d both be running behind — and was standing by the door, coat over one arm, when she emerged eleven minutes later, hair still damp but dressed and mostly composed.
“Here.” He held out one of the mugs. Jennie stopped, genuinely startled.
“You made me coffee.” “You were going to be late.
Caffeine seemed medically necessary.” “You’re unbelievably kind, and you say it like you’re prescribing medication.
” “That’s efficient kindness. I don’t see the distinction.
” She laughed, took the mug, and they left together — twenty-two minutes later than either of them usually did, and neither of them, she noticed, seemed particularly bothered by it.
The dumplings happened that Sunday, exactly as promised, and were — by his own solemn admission — “a disaster in three distinct phases.” “The first batch fell apart in the pot,” he reported, standing over her stove with the grim focus of a surgeon narrating a difficult case.
“The second batch survived the pot but had no filling, structurally. I believe I sealed them wrong.” “And the third batch?” “The third batch is why we’re eating rice tonight instead.
” Jennie laughed so hard she had to sit down.
“This is the single funniest thing that has ever happened to me. Dr. Lin Xing, defeated. By dumplings.” “My father would be appalled,’ he admitted.
“He made these every Lunar New Year without fail. I apparently absorbed none of the actual technique. Only the nostalgia.” “Show me,” Jennie said, standing and rolling up her sleeves.
“I’m an excellent student. Ask literally anyone. ”
It took four more attempts, two bags of flour, and one incident involving pork filling that ended up, inexplicably, on the ceiling — a mystery neither of them ever fully solved — before they produced a batch that actually held together.
They were misshapen. Slightly overcooked on one side.
Objectively not very good. They ate every single one, sitting on her kitchen floor because the counter had become unusable somewhere around attempt three, laughing more than either of them had in months.
“This is the worst meal I’ve ever eaten,” Lin Xing said, holding up a particularly lopsided dumpling like a trophy.
“It’s genuinely terrible,” Jennie agreed.
“I think I’m allergic to how terrible it is.
” “My mother would never have allowed these to leave the kitchen.” “Your mother,” Jennie said gently, “would have loved that you made them at all.” He looked at the dumpling in his hand for a long moment, something soft moving behind his eyes.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think she would have.”
Later, after they’d cleaned the flour off her ceiling — a two-person job that involved a stepladder, considerable laughter, and a moment where he’d steadied her hip with one hand while she reached overhead, neither of them commenting on how long his hand stayed there — Jennie collapsed onto the sofa, declaring herself “structurally unable to stand for one more second,” and was asleep within ninety seconds, mid-sentence, one arm still flung dramatically over her eyes.
Lin Xing stood over her for a moment, faintly amused, faintly something else he didn’t examine too closely.
He found the throw blanket folded over the armchair, shook it out, and laid it over her with a care that was entirely unnecessary for a blanket and entirely necessary, it seemed, for him.
He let himself out quietly, locking the door behind him with the spare key she’d given him for exactly this kind of emergency, and did not wake her to say goodbye.
She found the note on her coffee table the next morning, beside the neatly folded blanket she had no memory of using.
You fell asleep mid-sentence. I let you finish the nap instead. — L.X.
The following Sunday, Jennie walked him to her door as promised.
“Same time next week?” she asked. “I'll teach you something that isn’t a disaster. It’s only fair.
” “I’d like that.” He paused in the doorway.
“Dr. Jennie.” “Yes?” “Thank you. For Wednesday. The coffee wasn’t really about efficiency.
” She blinked. “...No?” “No,” he admitted, quiet, almost surprised at himself.
“I wanted you to have it. There’s a difference.
” He left before she could find an answer to that — which was, she reflected, standing alone in her kitchen surrounded by four failed batches of dumplings and one small, glowing feeling she couldn’t quite name, probably for the best. She wasn’t sure she had the words yet either.
But she was starting to suspect she wouldn’t need them much longer.