Chapter 7 Chanel #3
rickshaw to the Olympic Village and wander around the glowing towers, because why not?
“It just . . . doesn’t seem like your usual sort of style,” Ares remarks, still staring, taking the place in: the hawkers
in matching red caps and aprons crouching down to cook, the single LED light suspended over the grill, the smoke wafting into
the night air, the ugly but eye-catching rainbow posters advertising the different skewer options in bold Chinese characters.
Squid, ten yuan. Lamb, five yuan. Chicken gristle, five yuan. Potato, one yuan. Leek, one yuan.
I raise my brows to hide my satisfaction at his surprise. I’d deliberately chosen this place to show off how flexible I am,
how at ease I can be in any environment. “You want to keep a man interested? You have to be unpredictable,” my mother had advised me years ago. “Every time he thinks he has you figured out, reveal a different side of yourself.”
“You think I’m incapable of eating something if it isn’t prepared by a Michelin-starred chef and served on a golden tray?”
His gaze flickers back to me. “I didn’t say that.”
“You think my life is easy,” I go on mildly, without accusation, as though I’m pointing out something as obvious and indisputable
as the weather.
“I think,” he says, “that your life is very different from mine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just do,” he says. Then, after a beat, he adds, “I saw that interview you did.”
“What interview?”
“The one where you were introducing all the items in your purse.” He mimics me, holding up an invisible bag and retrieving
an invisible object out of it. “ ‘I always like to carry a spare necklace or set of earrings in my purse, you know, just in
case I’m in a hurry to leave in the morning. I can’t have zero accessories on, or else, like, I literally feel naked.’ ” He’s
teasing, but there’s no real mockery in his expression, and that does sound like something I would say. It could even be a word-for-word reenactment of my interview, though I have no idea how
he’s managed to remember all of it.
“That interview was from years ago. How did you even manage to find it anyway?” I lean forward, resting my chin on both my
hands. “Have you been googling me?”
He shrugs, shameless, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re a public figure.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed by the thought of him deep-diving into every digital version of myself
floating around on the internet. But it’s proof that he’s been thinking about me. That he’s curious about me.
He goes on, “ ‘There’s this one necklace from a newly opened store in Shanghai that I just adore. I believe the brand’s called JQ Jewelry, and all the necklaces are tailored according to your name and Chinese zodiac sign.
I wear mine, like, all the time. . . .’ ” He drops his admittedly convincing impression of my voice.
“Is that even true? Because I’ve never seen you wear a necklace like that before. ”
“No,” I say with a snort. “My friend’s family owns the brand, and she asked me to help them promote it in the video.”
“So you lied.” He doesn’t sound like he’s judging me, more like he’s simply trying to understand my thought process.
“A white lie—barely even that,” I reason. “A mild, harmless exaggeration, done only for the sake of friendship, and who doesn’t
love friendship? Well, I mean, maybe you don’t.”
He blinks, then huffs out a low sound of laughter. “Did you just imply that I don’t have friends?”
“Do you have friends?”
“Your concern about my social life is touching.”
“I’m just looking out for you.”
His attention sharpens on me. “Why?”
I don’t have a good answer for that, not without revealing the truth, so I play coy, lowering my chin and gazing up at him
from under my lashes. “Why do you think?”
A cloud above us shifts, and a perfect slant of moonlight pools over his skin, lining the slope of his lips, the curve of those long, oil-black lashes.
Time seems to slow, and I swear I can see the interplay of emotions on his face like light and shadow: suspicion, doubt, fascination, frustration.
Then he breaks eye contact, pointing to the QR code printed above the posters.
“Let’s order first. I’m getting hungry.”
After we add our items to the cart—twenty lamb skewers for him, with extra spice: two lamb skewers, two quail egg skewers,
and two mushroom skewers for me, no spice and reduced salt—Ares gestures to his phone. “I’ll pay,” he says.
This is what I was hoping for, not because I care about the twenty-two-yuan skewers, but because it gives me the perfect excuse
to protest, “No, no, I should get it. I was the one who introduced you to this place. It’s only fair.”
He shrugs, finishes scanning the QR code, stuffs his phone back into his pocket. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I insist. “What’s your WeChat?”
The most subtle of looks passes over his face, a kind of awareness, or amusement, maybe. I don’t like it. It makes me feel
entirely too transparent, like I’m standing on a stage and telling a joke when he’s already read the punchline. “You want
my WeChat?”
I’ve noticed him doing this. Always asking me questions that begin with “Do you want to?” or “Do you think?” without revealing
anything about his own thoughts, what he wants. “Are you going to give it to me?” I ask, offering him a faint smile, suggestive but subdued.
“Depends how badly you want it.”
“I do,” I say. “I very badly want to pay you back. I hate owing people money.”
That look again, this time paired with the tilt of his head. He considers me for a few seconds. “And how often do you ask
guys for their WeChat?”
“Basically never. They’re always the ones asking me,” I say, more sulkily than I’d planned.
He studies me a moment longer, then reaches for his phone again, holding it out for me to scan.
Progress. At last.
I try not to look too excited as I add him. He accepts my friend request right away, and I click into his profile—only for
disappointment to sink through me. Typically, just one cursory glance at someone’s latest WeChat moments can tell you more
about them than five in-depth interviews. Blurry pictures of a rave or a shirtless gym selfie or a caption about their life-altering trip to Bali? Basic fuckboy material. Well-lit photos of homemade egg-and-tomatoes or the natural scenery from deep in the mountains?
More advanced fuckboy material. Glamorous shots of their silhouette against a hotel window or golf clubs or race cars? Rich
fuckboy material.
But I have no idea what kind of material Ares Yin is.
His profile picture is a pure white square. His bio has been left totally blank, which I didn’t even realize was something
you could do. His Moments are visible for up to six months, but that’s because he hasn’t posted anything at all. Even his
name is simply “Ares Yin.” No creative capitalization or punctuation.
Nothing.
“Your skewers are ready,” the vendor declares, dumping them unceremoniously down on a paper plate in front of us, the skewers
so fresh off the grill that you can still see the oil sizzling on the meat.
I grab one, biting the seasoned lamb between my front teeth and sliding it slowly off the metal skewer, careful not to smudge my lipstick.
It’s so hot that I can barely even taste it at first. “So,” I say, blowing on the rest before taking another bite.
This time, I can’t miss the salt and cumin powder slathered over the meat, the flavor bursting on my tongue. “How many girlfriends have you had?”
If Ares is surprised by the direction of the conversation, or the directness of the question, he doesn’t let it show. “Define
girlfriend,” he says eventually.
My brows rise. “Many, then.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Either you’ve had too many, or they don’t count because they were only hookups.”
Another pause. “Define hookups.”
Annoyance prickles along my skin like a rash. “I feel like you’ve got enough firsthand experience to know what the definition
is.”
His amusement seems to rise with my annoyance, an unfortunate pattern I’ve started to notice. He cocks his head. “And what
makes you think that?”
“Because.” I wave at him with the skewer like it’s a mini dagger, the motion half threatening, pointing out the black wolf
cut, the piercings, the noticeably lean stretch of his muscles beneath his shirt. His general aura, that dangerous, irresistible
quality that’s made half the girls at school lose their minds over him. “Just look at you.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“That actually wasn’t a compliment.”
“No?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Well, I’ve been with girls before,” he says at last with a shrug. “Nothing serious, though.”
I rip off the last piece of meat and let the skewer clatter onto the table. I’d thought that pushing an answer out of him
would satisfy me, yet the rashlike sensation roots itself deeper, until even my insides itch with the knowledge. I’m not sure
why it bothers me. It’s what I expected, and I’d be extremely skeptical if someone of his age and looks claimed to have zero
romantic experience whatsoever. Really, I should be pressing for more information, whatever will help me figure out his type
and tailor my approach. But there’s something nauseating about the prospect of being confronted with details. Imagining all
the girls he’s kissed, or undressed, or done more with.
“What about you?” he asks, his tone as casual as mine had been. “How many boyfriends?”
I cross my legs underneath the table and lean back. “Let me think.”
“Are you counting?”
“Are you judging me?”
“No, not at all,” he says, leaning back too. “You can have as many boyfriends as you want.”
I feel another hot, irrational spike of rage. He sounds like he means it—like he truly couldn’t care less if I were to tell
him that I’ve been involved with every single guy in this city.
The truth is that I’ve only had two semi-serious boyfriends before.
The first had claimed to have “lost feelings” for me over the course of a summer, when he was in Italy and I was in Shanghai, and the second one had cheated on me with some girl he’d danced with at a nightclub.
Apparently he’d been so drunk that night he didn’t even remember who she was.
“I’m so, so sorry, Chanel—I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he’d whispered when I found out, his eyes solemn and heavy with remorse, his hands spread out pleadingly. He looked like he
was auditioning for the lead in a tragic play.
I had burst out laughing. I laughed so hard that my ribs ached. “Oh my god. You think you’ve hurt me?” I let my gaze rove
over him before emphasizing, with relish, “You?”
He’d flinched back as if the word were a gunshot, sounding right next to his ear. The remorse was gone, replaced in an instant
with distress, rising fast in pink splotches up his neck. This wasn’t the script he had rehearsed with.
“Yeah, no, don’t you worry about that. The problem here isn’t that I’m heartbroken over you,” I’d said with a snort. “The problem is much bigger. See, you embarrassed me. Publicly.” I was already whipping out my phone to do damage control as I spoke. Luckily, I’d had the foresight not to
post any pictures of his face on my accounts, but you could still see traces of his existence, proof to my followers that
I was loved by a boy: a shadow splashed next to mine on the pavement, a second glass of Diet Pepsi on the dinner table, the
flash of his shoulder at the park. I deleted all the evidence, leaving only the park post because my hair looked good in it.
When I glanced up again, he was staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “I—I can’t believe that’s what you’re upset about,” he said at last.
“What else would I be upset about?” I’d asked coolly.
But I don’t tell Ares any of this. I wouldn’t have the chance to, anyways, because he finishes his last skewer and stands
up.
“I need to head back,” he says. “You want me to wait for your driver with you?”
“No, that’s fine,” I tell him. I can’t stop second-guessing his intentions. Does he genuinely care about whether or not I
get back home safe? Or is he just making sure I do so that I don’t follow him? “You go ahead. I can wait by myself.”
But there’s one last thing I need to do. As Ares gathers up our used skewers and dirty napkins and turns around to toss them
in the trash, I unclasp the custom-made Van Cleef bracelet around my wrist and drop it into his bag.
When he comes back, I’m already re-applying my lip gloss as if nothing’s happened. As if I haven’t just planted my bait.