“Are you impressed?”
“I was already impressed by you,” he says, and the strange thing is he sounds sincere.
And as I stare at him, smiling, basking in his approval and my own small victory, I think:I might love you.The horrifying thought emerges almost as a physical sensation, like a sudden stitch in your side or a muscle cramp. It’s the first time this has ever happened, and I try to convince myself it’s fine, it’s not fatal, it’ll just go away if I ignore it—
But over the following days, the thought keeps coming back.
In the leather back seat of the car, the windows rolled down, as Beijing’s night scenery rushes by in a blur of dazzling lightsand motorbikes. There it is, insistent, terrifying:But I love him.At Sephora, when I’m testing out the latest lipstick shades in parallel, shiny strips on my forearm. Shanghai rose, heartbreak mahogany, dark espresso, and—I love him.At the gym, determined to run until the burning in my calves sears away any sentimentality in me, but even then, I can’t outrun what I’m feeling. At the spa, while a woman with gentle hands cleanses my skin of any impurities and massages my temples slowly, a towel wrapped tight around my torso, sage burning in the corner. “Empty your mind,” the woman advises me. “Relax. Breathe in. Let everything go—”
But I love him.
For worse, I love him. And that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t even matter whatIfeel. What matters is howhefeels, whetherhelikes me or not; that’s what my entire future is riding on, not fairy-tale fantasies.
I tell myself all of this. Yet—
When he texts me the time and address for his tattoo appointment on Saturday, I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and it’s hard to convince even myself that my excitement about spending time with him is solely for strategic reasons. My eyes are wide and aglow, my cheeks flushed as if the summer heat has come in early. I don’t look like a master manipulator laying out traps to defeat her enemy. I look like a foolish, hopeful girl about to go on a first date. The kind of girl who gets her heart broken too easily.
If it weren’t for the motorcycle, I probably would’ve missed the tattoo parlor.
Whoever chose the location seems to have done it on a whim—it’s smack in the middle of a random narrow street, removed from any malls or offices or subway stations. The only other discernible spots nearby are a store selling nightgowns that would’ve been considered last-season ten seasons ago, and a wine bar that looks like it might sell its last bottle and die any night now.
Even the entrance to the tattoo parlor is half obscured by the shade of a willow tree. I’m about to walk right past it when I spot the handwritten sign hanging off the neck of the motorbike like a price tag.
Book your tattoo appointment today. Room 2301, second floor.
A cartoonish arrow points toward the glass front door.
“How did you even find this place?” I mutter to Ares as I follow him inside. A steep set of stairs leads us upward, the buzz of tattoo needles growing louder with every step. The air has that strange chlorine smell to it, like what you might breathe in at swimming pools—something chemical and distinct and slightly plastic, tinged with the lingering scent of cigarettes.
“I found the tattoo artist first,” Ares explains. “Spent half a year comparing different portfolios and reading reviews from old clients and figuring out the style I was after. There was another artist I wanted—his work is pretty cool and all, and the way he draws the ink is like traditional calligraphy, but he’s based in Shanghai.”
This, I’m realizing, is the kind of person Ares is. Someonewho’ll get a tattoo as soon as he’s able to, but thinks it over and puts in the research long beforehand. Someone who does everything for a reason. Someone who cares,underneath his general air of nonchalance.
“Thanks for coming, by the way,” Ares adds in an offhand tone, pausing on the top step, his gaze on me. “Not that I needed the company but—it’s nice you’re here.”
Again, that horrible hope, unfurling inside me:Maybe he’s getting attached. Maybe he genuinely likes me. Maybe he won’t hurt me after all. “I’m glad I’m here too,” I say lightly as I move past him. “Couldn’t miss an opportunity to see you in pain.”
His voice trails after me, edged with amusement. “You say such romantic things sometimes.”
“Only to you.”
“Yeah, that can’t be true,” he says dryly. “What about all your other guys?”
“What other guys?” I ask, leaving it an open question on purpose. I can’t have him thinking I’ve already lost interest in anybody else—that’ll only make him cocky—but he also needs to think he’s special.
Everything brightens on the second level. My imagination had been embarrassingly limited to the old mafia movies my father watched; I’d pictured flickering neon lights and small, shadowed rooms and dingy curtains drawn over leather beds. Instead, I’m surprised to find that the tattoo parlor reminds me of the hair or nail salons I usually go to. Modern, spacious, with clean white walls and potted plants settled over the shelves.
The tattoo artist pauses the game on his phone when he seesus, his eyes widening slightly as they land on me. A flicker of recognition—not uncommon. Maybe, hopefully, he follows me on Instagram, or, the worse scenario, he’s read the news articles about my parents. But he’s polite enough not to ask about it, just springs up and leads us into a private room. He introduces himself as Zaizai, a strangely endearing name at odds with the tattoos rippling over his muscles and his full beard.
As he prepares his equipment, he grins over at me. “You here to support your boyfriend?”
It’s a simple question, but it sends my thoughts spiraling in a hundred different directions, scattering into a hundred different breathtaking possibilities. I can’t just say the truth when I don’t even know what the reality of us is. Boyfriendfeels too normal a title—made for couples who can stroll hand in hand through parks and go on coffee dates and kiss without the threat of supernatural visions looming over their heads. Couples who can plan out their futures together without plotting against each other. Butfriendwould be wrong; it’s too casual, too light, failing to account for the fact that he’s bitten bruises into the tender skin on my neck.Crushis too flippant and middle school, andmortal enemymight be a tad too heavy to drop into everyday conversation.
Everything between us feels hazy and undefined, like the rippling light of the moon on water.
“He doesn’t really need my support,” I say, glancing over at Ares to assess his reaction. His expression appears very deliberately neutral. “He’s got great pain tolerance. I’m just here out of curiosity.”
“You have great pain tolerance?” Zaizai asks Ares. “That true?”
