Page 31 of From Beijing, With Love

Yang wasn’t getting any better as the class progressed, but he was getting looser. He worried less about getting the choreography exactly right or syncing precisely to the rhythm. Unlike his work—his whole life—this didn’t need to be perfect. In this one moment, he allowed himself to look stupid, because what did he have to lose?

“Now the—” The instructor’s mic glitched, but the music continued. With one hand positioned on the back of his head, he stretched his other arm out in front. On each beat, he squeezed his elbows together while bouncing and turning in a circle. This might just be the most ludicrous move yet.

“What’s this one called?” Yang asked Daniel as he mimicked the move poorly.

“The sprinkler!” Daniel shouted, looking way too happy as he bounced on the trampoline like an inebriated giraffe.

At that, the dam broke. The laughter bursting out of Yang seemed too big and too much in the moment. The kind of deep belly laugh he didn’t think he was capable of. The kind that robbed him of his breath. He was doubled over while airborne and still laughing when he lost his balance and landed with all his weight on the edge of the trampoline.

Physics took over, and he found himself splayed out on the ground, in more shock than pain.

“Shit!” Daniel leapt off his trampoline. “Are you okay?”

Suddenly, Daniel was so close, looming over him with one muscular arm poised on the side of the cursed trampoline. Heat radiated off him in waves, and Yang forgot what was funny. All his brain managed to come up with was that Daniel’s bitter citrus cologne reminded him of Earl Grey tea and crisp cucumbers. He pushed himself up, which only brought him closer to Daniel, close enough that if he just tilted his face a little …

“Are you hurt?” the instructor asked in Mandarin as the music came to a sudden and sobering halt.

“I’m okay,” Yang said. Looking at Daniel, he cleared his throat. “Do you mind …”

“Sorry.” Daniel stood, leaving behind a cold void. Daniel held a hand out to him, which Yang decided to ignore. He grimaced as he stood, his ankle tender.

“You are hurt,” Daniel said, his hazel eyes wide.

“Par for the course.” Yang rotated his ankle. “Like I said, occupational hazard.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.” Daniel cast his eyes downward, and Yang felt a hand close around his heart. It was easy to fire off a sarcastic quip. It was comfortable. Safe. But looking at Daniel’s face, it was clear that wielding sarcasm like a shield didn’t so much protect him as make him look like a jerk.

“Hey, I’m okay.” He nudged Daniel’s arm. The tenderness in his ankle was fast subsiding. “And I had fun, really.”

It was true. Once he allowed himself to embrace the sheer stupidity of it all and just let loose, he had actually enjoyed himself.

Daniel still looked unconvinced, and Yang fought the urge to reach for Daniel’s hand, to reassure Daniel in any way he knew how. He didn’t, of course. Instead, he offered, “Would it make you feel better if you bought me lunch?”

“Very,” Daniel said with a smile that was bright, goofy, and big enough for Yang to get lost in.

Maybe this day wasn’t ruined after all.

CHAPTER FOURTEENDaniel

“How’s your ankle?” Daniel asked for the third time since they left the unfortunate trampoline class.

“It’s fine,” Yang answered for the third time.

There was no witty remark, no sarcasm. Did Daniel break him?

“Here, I’ll prove it to you.” Yang smiled and stomped his foot twice. “Good as can be. Now can we go eat?”

It was still pouring outside. With the rain, they weren’t leaving the mall anytime soon. Daniel resigned himself to eating fast food at the food court like he had done back in his teenage days in Toronto, only to find that the shopping complex had two whole floors dedicated to sit-down restaurants. With their tasteful facades both traditional and modern, coupled with smartly dressed servers, there was nothing fast about these restaurants.

“You can pick,” Yang said as they ambled down the hall, passing restaurants one after another. When Daniel didn’t respond, he added, “No pressure.”

The last two words had the exact opposite effect, as usual. Feeling all the pressure in the world, Daniel pointed to the closest restaurant without the slightest idea what they even served—though he was quickly clued in, as the gleaming centerpiece of the restaurant was a cylindrical glass room where a team of five made dumplings by hand. They were immaculately dressed in white, from their spotless chef’s jackets down to their white gloves.

“Soup dumplings?” Daniel pointed to the artful photo in the leather-bound menu. It was a close-up of a dainty dumpling with a corner bitten off, sitting in a spoonful of golden soup. He had heard of these before but had never gotten to try them.

“Yep, xiaolongbao, a Shanghai specialty. And it would be a misnomer to call them dumplings, in China at least. They are in the baozi family, which are buns, instead of jiaozi, which are what we consider to be true dumplings,” Yang said, living his professor era. “I know a good dumpling place. We can go there another time, if …” Yang lost the sureness he carried before. “If we are still doing this.” Yang waved his hand between them like he couldn’t find an apt word to describe their arrangement.

“Yes, please,” Daniel rushed to say.