IMH - 11

When Peter was picked up at the airport, it was exactly 8:30.

Sometimes this forty-something man had such a simple mind that there was no need to guess what he was thinking. This man, who was extremely picky and meticulous about his clothing, didn’t even check in a suitcase but just carried a small bag.

Yu Qian guessed that not checking in luggage was just to save time so that he could have a traditional breakfast in the capital at this hour.

After Peter got into the car, Yu Qian asked with slight confusion: “Er Gou, is the breakfast in the capital really that good?”

For the sake of breakfast, Peter could humble himself and even ignored being called “Er Gou.”

While fastening his seatbelt, he replied: “You wouldn’t understand; it’s a sentiment!”

Peter said that since he returned to the capital at this time, he should have an authentic breakfast from the capital.

Eat some stir-fried liver, eat a fried dough cake, and if you can still eat more, you should also have a bowl of stinky soybean juice with pickles.

This way, you would feel that no matter how long you’ve been away, you could reintegrate into this historic city in one morning. You are part of it. Think about how wonderful that is.

Actually, Yu Qian had already decided to take Peter to a highly-recommended traditional breakfast place, and the navigation on the car was already set to the destination.

But Peter insisted on introducing his beloved stir-fried liver at this moment.

His description made Yu Qian suddenly think of that sticky “lung” ashtray.

Sun Yue said that this ashtray was quite creative and meticulously made. The stuff inside for extinguishing cigarettes looked like dark red slime.

At that time, Yu Qian asked Sun Yue what slime was.

Sun Yue said it was a kind of toy she used to relieve stress.

Yu Qian didn’t listen to the rest of her words. She only thought that the ashtray was overly elaborate. The pile of sticky, vein-like reddish-brown mud inside was hard for her to accept.

“Do you know? The first time I ate stir-fried liver, I thought the taste was heavenly. Later, I fell in love with sheep offal soup, where the lungs were tender and delicious! That soft texture! Tsk tsk! Delicious!”

“......”

To make this person shut up, Yu Qian deliberately said, “Where do you want to go? I’ll take you there. I’ve already eaten.”

“What?! You’ve already eaten?!” Peter’s voice sounded like he had stepped on a screaming chicken.

Not killing Yu Qian on the highway and breaking ties with her corpse might be because Peter finally saw the destination on the navigation and rolled his eyes before letting her off.

In fact, Peter knew that Yu Qian didn’t have the same sentiment towards food as he did.

Due to work reasons, she was very familiar with many airports. She could tolerate those not-so-delicious, simple airplane meals or the food from airport convenience stores.

Many times when she flew abroad for shoots and returned, she was dropped off by her assistant at their shared rental house. When Peter asked her in the kitchen if she wanted to eat something, she would say she had eaten on the plane or at the airport.

Peter once complained that the soup on the plane tasted like hotpot water.

But Yu Qian would only say, “Is that so? The soup on a certain flight isn’t bad.”

She seemed to feel “close” to airports, just like Peter saw her comfortably lounging in a café drinking coffee when he came out of the airport.

But a person who feels “close” to airports is a wanderer.

Perhaps, she was also lonely.

The latter half of the journey, Peter didn’t speak, nor did Yu Qian. Until mealtime, Peter tried to get Yu Qian to have a bowl of stir-fried liver, and Yu Qian almost dumped it on his head.

Maybe the breakfast was too heavy; on the way back to the hotel, Peter complained of thirst.

Yu Qian glanced at the bag on the backseat and initially didn’t say anything.

When Peter attempted for the third time to conjure up some water for him on the highway, Yu Qian couldn’t bear it anymore and spoke: “There’s a bottle of mung bean soup in my bag on the backseat.”

“You have mung bean soup and you didn’t tell me earlier!”

Yu Qian squinted her eyes in the sunlight, feeling a bit strange.

Why didn’t she say it earlier? It could have shut Peter up.

“Hey, Yu Qian, this soup tastes pretty good. Where did it come from?”

She said, employee benefit.

The car stopped at the hotel entrance, and Yu Qian handed the car keys to the valet at the door:

“Park the car and bring the keys to my room.”

“Yes, Miss Yu.”

Peter took off his sunglasses and looked around: “Yu Qian, do you really like this hotel? The French plane trees outside look great, lush and verdant.”

“Sycamore, thank you.”

Yu Qian walked into the hotel. Unexpectedly, she saw Cheng Xiaonan again sitting on a chair in the lobby.

To the right of the hotel lobby was a lounge area where tea ceremonies were performed at scheduled times, sometimes accompanied by guzheng music.

Some people rested there, drinking tea, reading magazines, while others worked on their laptops.

But Cheng Xiaonan wasn’t doing either.

On the table next to him lay a magazine, open and upside down, perhaps a certain issue of “Eleven.”

He closed his eyes, leaning back on the sofa, his hand resting on his forehead, dressed casually in light-colored clothes, looking like he was resting.

The relaxed air around him made him seem like he was on vacation.

Yu Qian glanced at him and, before Peter could ask, timely withdrew her gaze.

They had pre-booked a room at the hotel, and Peter’s room was arranged next to Yu Qian’s.

It was the same type of room as hers, a small suite with a bedroom and bathroom inside, a living room outside, a mini-kitchen, and a rooftop terrace.

Peter put his things away and came over to visit Yu Qian. He saw her standing in front of the fridge, holding a note and reading it.

Peter leaned over to take a rough look: “Who left this for you?”

“My current work assistant.”

As Yu Qian spoke, she took two glass bottles out of the fridge. “She chilled some mung bean lily soup for me. Do you want some?”

“Didn’t you already have some this morning? Your assistant is so considerate.”

Yu Qian didn’t explain the origin of the mung bean soup from that morning and only told Peter to go back to his own room if he had nothing to do. She was preparing to do some yoga and then take a nap.

Peter didn’t rush back. He was still curious about why Yu Qian returned to the country.

On the flight abroad years ago and during all these years abroad, Yu Qian rarely talked about herself.

Many times when they drank together, it was always Peter who got drunk, threw up, or cried, while Yu Qian silently gazed at the quiet nights of various seasons.

Relying on his sensitivity, Peter intuitively felt that her silence probably contained some stories.

Only this story was rarely known, and no clues had emerged so far.

Yu Qian didn’t bother to think about what Peter was thinking, lingering on her living room sofa. At first, she occasionally responded to a few things, but later, when her patience ran out, she simply pushed him out, handing him a bottle of mung bean lily soup: “If you’re still thirsty, there’s more at the restaurant upstairs. Call them yourself.”

After saying that, she slammed the door shut and ignored him.

After Peter left, Yu Qian picked up her phone and called Sun Yue to thank the thoughtful little assistant for the mung bean soup.

Before hanging up, Yu Qian suddenly asked: “Why does your boss always appear at the hotel?”

“Which boss?” Sun Yue’s confused voice came through the phone.

“How many bosses do you have?”

The assistant muttered something on the phone, like a small complaint, then spoke: “President Cheng?”

“Him.”

Sun Yue said that this hotel was also part of “Eleven’s” property. After all, the shooting base was quite far from downtown, and sometimes after working long hours, the leaders would stay here.

After a brief pause, she added a few more sentences: “Maybe President Cheng has been quite tired these past few days. The other day, I left my phone in the office, and quite late at night, when I went back to get it, I saw him still sitting in the meeting room in front of the computer. Did you meet President Cheng at the hotel today?”

Yu Qian said, in the lobby.

“That’s strange. I heard our department head say that President Cheng seemed to have heatstroke today, feeling unwell, and was going to rest. Why did he go to the hotel?” The assistant muttered.

Yu Qian thought of another possibility.

Cheng Xiaonan might not be tired or suffering from heatstroke; maybe he had a fight with his girlfriend.

He was waiting in the hotel lounge for his girlfriend to come and comfort him.

This wasn’t something he hadn’t done before.

They had their share of conflicts. Once, they planned to go to the mall, but the person didn’t show up. When he finally appeared, his lips were bruised, clearly from a fight.

When asked why he fought, he turned his head and didn’t say.

At that time, in Yu Qian’s shooting team, a staff member’s son got stabbed in the abdomen during a fight and was hospitalized for half a month without improvement. The staff member’s eyes were nearly blinded from crying.

So she was somewhat sensitive about fighting and spoke rather impulsively.

However, Cheng Xiaonan’s attitude was consistently good that day. Whatever she said, he defused with jokes.

Later, when Yu Qian questioned his straight-A student persona, he said, “Next time I’ll show you my test paper?”

A few days later, Yu Qian went south to shoot a series of photos. The schedule was tight, and she forgot to bring her charger.

Back then, there were no power banks. By the time she remembered to charge her phone, it was already two days later.

After charging her phone, there were no other messages, except one from Cheng Xiaonan:

【Sister, I’m sick.】

After finishing the shoot, Yu Qian took a morning flight back to the capital. She went straight to Cheng Xiaonan’s school after getting off the plane.

This time, he didn’t skip school. Holding his leave slip, hands in his pockets, he came out of the school gate.

Yu Qian rolled down the car window and asked, “Pretending to be sick?”

Cheng Xiaonan bent over, bringing his forehead close to the car window, speaking hoarsely: “Really sick, I have a fever. Don’t believe me? Feel it.”

He was indeed sick that day, with a burning forehead and red upper eyelids.

The way he stared at her resembled a baby leopard.

Yu Qian took him to the hospital for an IV. She promised to treat him to dinner after his fever subsided.

The IV hall of this hospital had rows of blue plastic chairs. After buying a hot drink, Yu Qian turned around and saw Cheng Xiaonan hanging the IV bottle, lazily leaning in the chair. His free hand was playing with his phone, showing no signs of illness.

“If you don’t have anything to do, I’ll leave.”

“Hey, don’t go back on your word. Didn’t you say you’d treat me to dinner? Are you not treating me anymore?”

Yu Qian felt there was something fishy. She sat down and asked Cheng Xiaonan: “How did you suddenly get a fever out of nowhere?”

Cheng Xiaonan furrowed his brows and thought for a moment: “Maybe because I couldn’t reach you, I missed you too much.”

This younger brother never spoke seriously.

If the doctor hadn’t measured a temperature of 38 degrees Celsius, Yu Qian would have walked away on the spot.

Sun Yue on the phone thought Yu Qian was curious about President Cheng and decided to say a few more words.

“President Cheng is a bit difficult to understand. You know, the ‘lung’ ashtray in the company was President Cheng’s idea. But it seems to be quite effective. I noticed that our department head doesn’t go to the smoking room much anymore.”

Yu Qian narrowed her eyes: “Whose idea was it?”

“President Cheng’s.”

Alright, understood.

Cheng Xiaonan sitting in the hotel lobby actually harbored a bit of hope for an encounter.

But he was genuinely exhausted, having pulled several all-nighters recently.

In a few days, there would be Yu Qian’s conceptual fashion show. To ensure everything went smoothly, the designer communicated with him countless times.

And this designer had a habit of ignoring time zones, always starting conversations at 10 PM and ending at 2 AM.

Feeling sleepy sitting in the lobby, he decided to take a nap.

Unexpectedly, when he opened his eyes, he saw something on the table next to him.

The sticky ashtray was placed next to the magazine he had been reading before sleeping, with a smoked blueberry capsule cigarette stuck in it.

The place where the cigarette had burned out was charred and a bit alarming.

But Cheng Xiaonan wasn’t looking at that. He was looking at the faint lipstick mark on the cigarette butt.

And, placed next to the ashtray, was a bottle of mung bean lily soup.

No need to guess who had put these things here.

Cheng Xiaonan remained in the reclining position against the sofa chair but suddenly laughed, almost choking on his laughter.

He couldn’t help but feel that when Yu Qian placed these things here, she must have mentally thanked his eight generations of ancestors.