Chapter 4: Chapter Four: She Calls Him A-Zhun

My hands paused, and a brief buzzing filled my ears.

She had spoken plainly and clearly, yet I still doubted whether the 'do' she meant was the same as the one in my mind when my mother said it.

I couldn't dwell on her words. The moment I did, the pungent smell of cigarettes and the sticky gaze from my stepfather last night would flood back, making my stomach churn.

"Apply to a university not too far away, and come home every weekend. Consider it repaying me for raising you, Gloria Kit."

She spoke calmly, as if asking me to return once a week was just for family reunions, and that all children should repay their parents this way, with nothing special about me.

On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, there were no longevity noodles or cake.

The mother I relied on was trying to convince me to serve her man, all for a bit of an easier life.

My right hand trembled uncontrollably. I couldn't tell if it was from shock, fear, or the overwhelming nausea.

*Clatter*—

The sliding door was yanked open roughly. The bowl of white rice in my hand crashed onto the countertop, its bottom tilting and circling before spilling rice all over the floor.

"Are you coming?" Stan Wallace asked, his face cold.

His voice cut through the rising sorrow in my heart. I nodded quickly, trying not to notice my mother's pale face, and grabbed my backpack and the college application guide, following Stan Wallace out.

Even in the height of summer, the early morning and late evening carried a chill, and the hallway was especially cold. I shivered, feeling the cold seep into my bones.

It turned out she could hear me when I cried for help. Perhaps she always knew what my stepfather had in mind, or maybe from the beginning, she planned to use my body to secure her future peace.

But she used to love me so much. She would be the first to stand up for me when someone bullied me, and she would cry when I got hurt.

I shook my head forcefully, forbidding myself to think any further.

I guessed my face must look terrible. As I went downstairs, I tied my long hair into a messy bun on top of my head, hoping it would make me look more presentable.

Growing up is really a sad thing, I thought to myself.

When I caught up outside the building, Stan Wallace was straddling his motorcycle, one long, well-proportioned leg clad in light jeans supporting his body. His black T-shirt bunched up slightly at his narrow waist.

He tilted his head, gesturing for me to get on, and handed me a helmet.

I was surprised to see two helmets on his bike, one black and one pink. Before the college entrance exam, there was only one.

The pink one must be for that sister. Stan Wallace never let anyone else ride on his bike unless she was no longer considered 'someone else.'

I wasn't a germaphobe, nor did I need to own something exclusively mine, but I felt an inexplicable resistance to the pink helmet.

"Don't want to wear it?" Stan Wallace jiggled the helmet in his hand, his eyebrows raising slightly.

Stan Wallace's appearance was not gentle; on the contrary, his features were sharp. I was afraid of him, even though he had never been mean to me.

I knew my fear largely stemmed from my dependence on him. Like now, I was terrified he would become impatient or regret bringing me along. So, I quickly shook my head, took the helmet, and put it on, sitting behind him.

The motorcycle roared to life, and the street scenes and tree shadows blurred past in my peripheral vision. I clutched the edge of Stan Wallace's shirt, knowing that as long as I held onto him, the wind could only take away the pain, not me.

...

Stan Wallace worked at a leading architectural design company in H City. Though he hadn't gone to college, he was a genius in design, with a bright future ahead.

Perhaps that's why the boss here wanted to make him his son-in-law, allowing his daughter to pursue him relentlessly.

Before the motorcycle had even stopped, I saw the sister in a flowery dress running over with a bag in her hand.

The colorful dress danced with her movements, bringing her to life.

This was the first time I had seen her up close. She was truly beautiful, with dimples when she smiled, and skin so smooth it seemed like it could be blown away. She was like a sunflower blooming under the sun, full of vitality.

Compared to me, who was reserved and gloomy, she was so perfect, so desirable, and so envious.

If I were Stan Wallace, I would choose her too.

Realizing what I was thinking, my heart felt strangely empty. Thankfully, the helmet hid my expression.

"Good morning, Stan." She greeted, then glanced at me with a playful tilt of her head. "Is this your sister?"

She called him Stan, which, to my ears, sounded more intimate than 'brother.'

I removed the helmet, making my already loose hair even messier. The bun had fallen to the back of my head, so I simply took out the hair tie, ran my fingers through my hair, and let the wind smooth it out.

Stan Wallace looked back at me, silent for a moment before speaking. For some reason, I instinctively responded:

"No."

"Hmm."