Chapter 7 Chanel #2
girl what chapter did I miss??
spill. right now.
THE DRESS? THE MAN?!
please tell me you’re going to prom with ares yin (and that you’re getting the dress)
I fuel the speculation with just a few cryptic eye emojis.
“What are you smiling at?” Ares’s voice sounds over my shoulder, much closer than I’d expected.
I hastily shove my phone away but keep the smile on my face. “My friends agree that the dress is pretty,” I say, only a half lie. “Looks like our mission is complete for the day. Want to go grab food now? I know a really good spot—prepare to be amazed.”
“I’m never amazed,” he says, but he doesn’t reject the dinner invitation outright, which I’m choosing to take as a sign that
he’s warming up to me.
“Well,” I say, clapping my hands together, “that’s about to change.”
After Ares drops all my bags off at my driver’s car, we step out together into the evening air. The sun is just starting to
dip below the horizon, burning a brilliant orange as if setting the skyscrapers aflame.
We walk down the street in silence for a while, until it becomes clear that Ares isn’t going to initiate a conversation.
That’s fine. I’ve got it under control.
“So. Have you broken any bones before?” This is my go-to question. A classic. I’ve tried it out on at least ten different
boys, and I’ve been continuously stunned by how well it works—even the most reserved of them will light up and tell you in
vivid, heart-pounding detail their grand tale of heroism, the pain they suffered through and ultimately overcame, the drawn-out
process of getting a cast, getting classmates to sign the cast, taking off the cast, and the long recovery afterward.
But Ares just nods. “Yeah. A few, I think.”
“A few?” I echo. “Doing what?”
“Boxing matches,” he says casually, like this is something everyone grew up doing.
My eyes widen with genuine surprise. “You . . . box?”
“My father signed me up for lessons when I was a kid,” he says, and I note that this is the first time he’s mentioned anything
about his family—though, from the flatness of his tone, you’d think he was talking about a stranger.
“For self-defense?” I ask.
“No. That was never his priority. It was to protect . . .” He trails off, and his expression tightens, the muscles in his
jaw hardening. Then he glances over at me. In an obvious attempt to turn the attention away from himself, he says, “Have you broken any bones before?”
“Just my pinkie finger. Like, four years ago.”
“From doing what?”
I decide to just be honest. “Dancing.”
He pauses. “And how does that work? Were you dancing with a hammer?”
“I was dancing in my bedroom,” I admit. “I got a little too into it, and I accidentally hit my hand on the wall during one
of the moves.”
Something happens to his mouth then: the faintest twitch of his lips, like he’s fighting to squash down any amusement. “I
didn’t realize dancing could be such a dangerous activity.”
“Just wait until you see me dancing at prom,” I say, which seems like the perfect segue—but before I can continue, something warm and furry brushes the back of my calves.
I whip around to find a pair of wide, dark brown eyes gazing up at me.
The animal’s ears twitch. She wags her short tail back and forth with such enthusiasm it appears in danger of dislocating, her pink tongue lolling out to one side.
“A puppy,” I say in delight, crouching down by the pedestrian lane.
The puppy draws closer at the sound of my voice, bumping her small, vaguely Labrador-shaped head against my knee.
“Hello,” I murmur, letting the animal sniff my fingers, her wet nose grazing my skin. “Are you hungry?”
In response, the puppy wags her tail harder, now gladly licking away at my hand. I laugh and pat the dappled fur on her side,
which is all the encouragement she needs to roll over, stretching out her belly for me to scratch.
I’m having so much fun playing with the dog that it takes a moment to notice how beside me, Ares has frozen, tension rolling
through his body. When he finally speaks, his voice has none of its usual cadence or composure. “Get that thing out of here.”
I stare at him, expecting him to be joking, but he’s watching the puppy with real fear in his eyes. Even his breathing has
shallowed.
“Ares,” I say, unsure how we could possibly be seeing the same thing. “She’s a tiny dog. She’s friendly.”
The puppy gives a little yap of agreement, but Ares flinches away, hiding behind me, his long fingers gripping my shoulders as though I’m a shield.
I don’t shrug him off; the sheer absurdity of the scene roots me in place.
Ares Yin, the most dangerous and intimidating person I’ve ever met, who can make people part in the hallways just by glancing their way .
. . is now hiding, trembling, from a harmless stray puppy.
“I didn’t know you were scared of dogs,” I muse aloud, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“Don’t sound so judgmental about it,” he says, eyeing the puppy like it might suddenly sprout fangs and attack.
The puppy in question stands up and pads forward, now sniffing around my shoes. Ares’s grip tightens around my shoulders,
and a thrill shoots through me. If I’d known that all it’d take to make Ares act this way—to rely on me, to seek me out for protection, to show vulnerability—was a puppy, I would have hired a dog actor.
“Get it away,” he repeats, shrinking back farther.
This is my chance, I realize. My chance to be the hero, the princess in shining armor. “If I do, you owe me a favor,” I tell him.
His voice is hoarse in my ear. “What kind of favor?”
“I’ll specify later.” I can’t suppress my smile. “Hmm? Sound fair to you?”
“I don’t—” The word falls flat as the puppy yaps again and bounces toward him. A choked sound escapes his lips.
“What was that?” I ask sweetly.
“Fine—fine. Just . . . send it somewhere else. . . .”
“Sure. But don’t forget,” I say, picking up the puppy.
She curls instantly into my chest, nuzzling against the crook of my elbow, the warmth of her fur spreading through my shirt.
I carry her along the street and set her down in front of a grocery store, where fresh strawberries and cherries are being sold in green plastic buckets bigger than my head.
Then I buy a plain slice of bread for her, tearing it apart with my fingers and letting her eat it from my hands.
Once she’s finished licking all the crumbs, the puppy lingers a few moments longer, as if to thank me, her watery eyes bright
and round as the setting sun, before slinking off into the nearby bushes.
“Is it gone?” Ares asks when I return.
I’d been prepared to make myself comfort him, to build that fake emotional connection. But as I draw closer, I don’t feel
like faking anything. He’s sitting on a stone bench, ankles crossed, his usually composed expression shadowed by embarrassment
and the remnants of fear. His crow-dark hair is rumpled from the wind, strands of it falling into his eyes, his shirt smelling
faintly, sweetly, of the cologne samples from the mall. The desire to comfort him rises up inside me without prompting.
“Yeah, it’s gone.”
“Thank you,” he says, reluctant, but not insincere.
“No big deal. It’s what I spend most of my time doing,” I say. “Swooping in and saving pretty faces from monsters.”
There it is again—the suggestion of a smile, forced back down before it can fully form, like he’s annoyed by his own reaction.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up over it,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Enjoying my company,” I say. “It’s perfectly normal.”
He rolls his eyes and stands up, but this time, instead of following one step behind me, he walks right by my side.
“This is the spot?”
Ares stares around the barbecue stall and the tiny wooden chairs like he expects me to open up a trapdoor in the middle of
the busy street, one that will lead to a proper restaurant, or just anywhere that doesn’t cook its food right out in the open.
“What?” I snort as I drape my jacket over an empty seat to create a makeshift cushion. I motion for him to join me in the
chair across the table, which he does slowly, angling his long legs so they don’t bump against the wood. Everything here is
small, squeezed to maximize profit. The table beside us is so close that I could easily turn my head and slide into the conversation
happening between the two half-drunk college-aged guys there. I’m pretty sure one of them just got dumped, seeing as he laments
every few seconds, between swigs of Qingdao beer and bites of grilled lamb, “I can’t believe she just dumped me.”
Most people fall in love with this city because it makes them feel important, being at the heart of everything. Or they love
it for its endless opportunities, the cash flowing through the five-star hotels and dizzying plazas and live streamers on
the streets to the skyscrapers in the financial district. Or the history, the hutongs that have survived the turn of centuries
and the crimson-painted temples that have witnessed countless changes of seasons, white snow settling on their sparrow-wing
eaves and melting again in the spring.
But I love Beijing most on nights like this: the thrumming crowds, the glow of the street stall lights, the lick of oil and
salt in the warming air, the easy flow of conversation around me.
When I was in Australia, everything always seemed to close before the sun had even fully set beneath the horizon. More times than I could count, my friends and I would chat until we could tell the restaurant staff were impatient to leave, and then walk aimlessly through the suburbs.
Here, though, the whole city stays wide awake all the way until dawn, ready to offer you anything you wish for, so long as
you know where to look. You could buy a heat pack and a strawberry plushie from the convenience store at three in the morning,
or request red-date-and-ginger tea to be delivered to your door faster than it takes you to boil water yourself, or hail a