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Now he sounds upset. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
“Not necessarily—”
“What the fuck is ‘not necessarily’?”
“If something happened between you and another woman, would you tell me?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Got it. I believe you. It’s just that you looked really chummy with her in the photo.”
“I may have had a little to drink last night. No need to give me the third degree.”
“All I did was ask you who the woman in the photo was. Why are you acting so defensive?”
“Because you’re asking all these questions and insinuating I’m hiding something.”
“I didn’t even ask that many questions.”
I let out a vexed breath. Why is he this upset? Is it from guilt?
“What are you looking for me to say?” he asks.
“Nothing. If you say nothing happened, nothing happened. Forget I even brought it up. I’m just glad you’re having a good time over there.”
“I didn’t say I was having a good time.”
The photo did, but I keep the response to myself.
“I should go back to studying for my finals,” I say. “We can talk tomorrow.”
I can tell from the silence he’s not pleased. I don’t like quarreling either.
“I’ll call you about the same time,” he says.
“Okay. Bye.”
I hang up. I feel miserable. What is wrong with me? Am I letting Kimberly get to me? Is it because I’m perplexed by what Felipe said to me? Or am I the jealous type after all?
I hug one of the decorative sofa pillows to my chest. It’s only been a few days, and I miss Darren already. After wallowing in my misery for some time, I consider if I should call him back and apologize for insinuating that he was lying. So what if he got intoxicated and was flirty with some hot woman? Maybe I’d have done the same if I were drunk.
I lie down on the sofa and vacillate about calling him but fall asleep before making up my mind. When I wake, it’s 7:40AM, which means it’s almost midnight in Hong Kong. I see that the ice pack has melted and created a wet spot on the rug. Getting up, I grab a towel to soak up the dampness. I should get back to Berkeley before my work shift at the library starts at ten.
My phone pings with a text. It’s from Darren, but it’s in Chinese. That’s odd. He’s never sent me anything in Chinese before. I text back a question mark as I hurry out.
A lone security guard down at the club lets me out the front door, and I rush to the BART station as fast as I can. Luckily, I catch a bus in Chinatown. An older Chinese woman is sitting near me, and I turn to her.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say. “I’m sorry if this question is offensive, but do you by chance read Chinese?”
She nods her head.
I show her the text from Darren.
She translates, “It says, ‘Mei Ling’—that is a name, a girl’s name—‘come up to my room in an hour. Wear the dress from last night.’”
I blink several times. What the…
“Thank you,” I say to the lady and sit back, stunned.
