Chapter 3

As I straightened up and put my shoes in the cabinet, I noticed two paper bags sitting on top of it.

The logo looked familiar. They were the two cheapest items from the shopping pages Queenie had shown me that afternoon.

She had already bought them.

"Kindness? She was picking out gifts for you during work hours, wasn't she? Didn't you pay her for that?"

Eason frowned.

After walking into the living room, I asked, "Besides, those gifts are for my parents when you visit them. Why did you have someone else pick them out?"

He was silent for a few seconds before answering, "I just think women pay more attention to details. They also know what older people like."

He paused, then said in a low voice, "Besides, I asked you last month what you wanted to give your parents. You said anything was fine. Your number was only 34 when you said that. Wendy, Queenie's number was already 70 when she only wanted me to buy her a drink. You never really wanted me to buy gifts for your parents. Don't you think it's ridiculous to bring this up now?"

I looked at his face.

He was staring at the space above my head.

He had changed so much lately.

And he kept bringing up those numbers.

He was no longer the boy who used to be proud of me no matter what happened.

I clenched my hands.

He used to know why my number was "34."

My biological father was an alcoholic. When he got drunk, he became violent.

He had slapped my mother once so hard that the corner of her mouth split open. She needed two weeks to recover. After that, I learned to watch people's moods.

My mother later remarried. My stepfather was a kind man. He didn't drink, and he never raised his voice.

But I still couldn't bring myself to bother him.

When I was in high school, I went to school in another state. I was always careful about spending money.

One day, I was sitting in the bleachers eating a piece of bread when I heard some people talking about me.

"She’s so fake. I tried to help her carry her textbooks, but she said no and walked away right after. She acts like the whole world owes her."

"She’s always acting so high and mighty."

"Didn't you know? Her father is a drunk, and the kind who gets violent when he's drunk. Her mother divorced him and married another man."

"No wonder she's so weird."

"She’s always alone. She doesn't have a single friend. How could anyone even like her?"

They didn't say my name, but they had to be talking about me.

Then I heard Eason's voice. "But she gets the highest grades in the class every time. She made it this far all on her own. Don't you think that's impressive? I admire her. If you were in her shoes, could you have done the same?"

Later, we got together, and I told him about everything I had been through.

Once, he lifted me off the ground like I was a little kid.

I was half a head taller than him, so I had to look down to see his face as he looked up at me.

He looked into my eyes and said, "You're so mature because you've been through so much. Wendy, I'm proud of how strong you are. I want to treat you well, so do whatever you want. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

He paused, then added, "I'll always support you."

I remembered those words for years.

Even though I wasn't that little girl anymore, I still found it hard to rely on other people.

Eason was the only person who ever made me willing to ask for help.

But he had forgotten all of it.

All because of that system and those numbers that had appeared six months ago.

I didn't explain anything. I looked away and walked toward the bedroom.

But as I passed the couch, Eason grabbed my wrist.

His grip was tight, but his fingertips were trembling slightly.

"Wendy, why has your number dropped so much?"

There was a hint of panic in Eason's eyes as he looked at me.

I paused and asked, "How much did it drop?"

After a moment, he answered, "15."

"So it's still 15..."

I looked down at the wrist he was holding, but I didn't move. Instead, I asked, "Is there really any difference between 15 and 30 to you?"

He fell silent.

The air between us grew heavy.

Then he let out a cold laugh. "You're right. There isn't much difference. Didn't you ask me yesterday to turn off your number? Fine. I can turn it off. There's nothing worth looking at anyway. All it does is cause me trouble. From now on, you don't need to tell me when you need anything."

When he finished, he stared at me as if he were searching for something.

"Okay," I said.

His grip on my wrist suddenly tightened. The veins on his hand stood out.

I frowned from the pain. "Are you done? Can you let go of me?"

He said nothing.

I told him again, "Let go of me."

He looked at me, and I met his eyes.

After a while, he finally released my wrist.

I turned around.

"Do you still want me to go meet your parents during Christmas?" he suddenly shouted.

I stopped with my back to him.

"I was planning to go after I finished this project. But if you're still going to treat me like this, then I won't go."

He paused, as if waiting for something.