If We Ever Meet Again - Ana Huang Page 0,1
was something he could never do again.
Farrah walked to the door. She paused in the doorway to look back at him. He expected her to hurl more venom at him—he deserved it. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned away and closed the door behind her with a soft “click” that echoed in the silence like a gunshot.
His shoulders sagged. All the energy drained out of him.
It was over. There was no going back.
It was the right thing to do, and yet…
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. He couldn’t get the image of her face out of his mind, the one that said she thought so little of him she didn’t want to waste any more energy yelling at him.
Because of her, he believed in love. The kind of knock-you-down, once-in-a-lifetime-love he used to dismiss as a fantasy concocted by Hollywood to sell movies. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was real. He felt it to his core.
If only they’d met sooner, or under different circumstances…
He’d always been a practical person, and there was no use dwelling on what-ifs. Duty bound him to someone else, and sooner or later, Farrah would move on and meet a guy who could give her everything she deserved. Someone she would love, marry, and have kids with…
The last intact piece of his heart shattered at the thought. The shards pricked at his self-control until he could no longer hold back the tears. Huge, silent sobs wracked his body for the first time since he was seven, when he’d fallen out of a tree and broken his leg. Only this time, the pain was a million times worse.
All their moments together flashed through his mind, and the boy who’d once sworn he would never cry over a girl… cried.
He cried because he’d hurt her.
He cried because it kept his mind off the desperate loneliness that weighed on his soul the moment she left.
Most of all, he cried for what they had, what they lost, and what they could never be.
Chapter One
Eight months ago
“One classic milk tea and one honey oolong milk tea with tapioca. Regular sugar, regular ice.”
Farrah Lin slid a twenty yuan note across the counter toward the cashier, who smiled in recognition. Four days in Shanghai and Farrah was already a regular at the bubble tea joint by campus. She chose not to dwell on what that meant for her wallet and her waistline.
While the staff prepared her order, Farrah examined the menu. She knew nai cha (milk tea) and xi gua (watermelon). She recognized a few other Chinese characters, but not enough to form a coherent phrase.
“Here you go.” The cashier handed Farrah her drinks. “See you tomorrow!”
Farrah blushed. “Thanks.”
Note to self: ask Olivia to make tomorrow’s run.
Farrah stepped out of the tiny shop and walked back to campus. The sun began its descent and bathed the city in a warm golden glow. Bicyclists and motorcyclists zipped by, battling with cars for space on the narrow side street. The delicious smells wafting from the restaurants Farrah passed mixed with the far-less-pleasant scents of garbage and construction dust. Street vendors called out to passersby, hawking everything from hats and scarves to books and DVDs.
Farrah made the mistake of making eye contact with one such vendor.
“Mei nu!” Beautiful girl. It’d be flattering if Farrah didn’t know the hard sell that accompanied such a greeting. “Come, come.” The elderly vendor beckoned her over. “Where are you from?” she asked in Mandarin.
Farrah hesitated before answering. “America.” Mei guo. She dragged out the last syllable, unsure whether the admission would hurt or help.
“Ah, America. ABC,” the vendor said knowingly. ABC: American-Born Chinese. Farrah had heard that a lot lately. “I have some great books in English.” The vendor brandished a copy of Eat, Pray, Love. “Only twenty kuai!”
“Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
“How about this one?” The woman picked out a Dan Brown novel. “I’ll give you a deal. Three books for fifty kuai!”
Farrah didn’t need new books, and fifty kuai (around $7 USD) seemed pricey for cheap reprints of old novels. But the vendor seemed like a nice old lady, and Farrah didn’t have the energy to bargain with her.
She skimmed the English options and went straight for the romance: Jane Austen, Nicholas Sparks, JoJo Moyes.
Ok, Sparks and Moyes write love stories, not romance, but still.
Given the drought in Farrah’s dating life, she’d settle for any kind of romantic relationship, even one that ended tragically. Well, maybe not with death, but with a breakup