The day her mother was diagnosed, an anonymous email arrived at Xiang Wanning’s rented room.
Two hundred thousand. One year. Pretend to be someone’s girlfriend.
The client was Si Lv, the man everyone at the law firm kept at a respectful distance.
He never repeated himself in meetings, and the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office looked out over all of Xiamen at night.
She lived on the fifth floor of an urban village, with a wall right outside her window.
She signed.
She memorized his family tree, the seating arrangements at the dinner table, and how long to smile when she was with his “fiancee.”
In that twelve-square-meter rental room, she practiced calling her “Yaoyao” in front of a cracked mirror.
She practiced until her lips remembered the shape of the syllables.
She thought it was a performance with an end date.
Until New Year’s Eve, when Si Yao unwound her own scarf and wrapped it around Xiang Wanning’s shoulders.
The first loop: warmth.
The second loop: the scent of laundry detergent.
The scent Xiang Wanning had held her breath to inhale so many times.
Xiang Wanning told herself: This isn’t a performance.
But she didn’t know
whether the cars that came “by chance” to the entrance of her alley every night,
the cup of water always served at just the right temperature,
or the “Rehearsal canceled” text sent when she couldn’t sleep at dawn
were kindnesses covered by the contract, or feelings beyond it.
Was she the first to fall in love
or was I the first to recognize my own heart?
