Chapter 14: Quite a Temper

The next morning, the first thought in Ban Ban’s mind when she opened her eyes was that she wouldn’t make breakfast today.

The thought surprised her. She turned toward the window and watched the gray-white light between the curtains, confirming the decision to herself.

She wouldn’t. Why should she? Yesterday he’d bought jewelry with another woman, then spent the evening explaining only for another “friend,” Lin Sang, to appear, with nothing clear about her. Why should Ban Ban rise early to roll noodles and simmer broth for him?

She’d been too good to him, so good he thought she had no temper, that someone would always wait at home while he did as he pleased outside.

She got out of bed. Ting’an was still asleep on his side, breathing evenly, brows relaxed, one hand by the pillow with its fingers curled. She glanced at him, quickly looked away and padded barefoot out of the bedroom.

Auntie Jiang was preparing ingredients in the kitchen. “What are you making today, Madam? I’ll get things ready.”

“No need.” Ban Ban opened the refrigerator and surveyed the neatly arranged eggs, milk, bacon and fresh vegetables. She took out whole-wheat toast.

Auntie Jiang paused. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Yes.” Ban Ban put it in the toaster. “Something simple today. Go ahead with your work.”

Auntie Jiang looked at her, then toward the bedroom upstairs. Seeming to understand, she asked no more and went to tidy the pantry.

The toaster popped. Ban Ban put the slice on a white plate and spread a thin layer of butter. Then she made coffee. Usually she carefully balanced the milk and espresso for Ting’an’s latte, controlling the temperature and making fine, dense foam. Today she packed the grounds into the portafilter and extracted two shots into a cup, adding neither milk nor sugar.

She set the plate and cup on the table, poured herself milk and sat opposite to wait quietly.

Ting’an came downstairs at seven. At the turn in the stairs, he glanced toward the kitchen as usual. The counter was clean: no flour, no soup pot, none of the warm bustle of previous mornings.

Then he saw the table: one slice of toast and a cup of glossy black coffee. Ban Ban sat opposite, holding her milk and sipping.

“Morning.” He pulled out a chair.

“Morning.” She set down her cup and looked at him, expression composed, a faint curve to her mouth revealing nothing.

He examined the whole-wheat toast, lightly buttered and crisp at the edges. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. After eating toast for more than ten years, he suddenly found himself unused to it. He took a sip of coffee.

His brow creased. Bitter, pure and unadorned. The espresso had been extracted too long, its burnt bitterness heavy and acidity sharp, more like swallowing medicine than coffee. He swallowed, bitterness spreading until his tongue tingled.

Ban Ban watched over the rim of her milk glass, her gaze direct, a hint of revenge in it.

He swallowed the mouthful. His frown lasted only an instant; by the time he set down the cup, he even smiled. “Mm. Good.”

She blinked and set down her milk. In a perfectly sincere tone, she said, “I heard stronger coffee keeps you alert. You work so hard, so I added another shot.”

“Thoughtful of you.” He took another bite of toast and chewed unhurriedly, as if the coffee hadn’t nearly made him spit it out.

His brow was smoother on the second sip. As though competing with the coffee, he drank it with something approaching pleasure.

Ban Ban watched him finish most of the extra-strong Americano and all the toast. Lowering her eyes, she picked up her own toast to hide the smile she could barely suppress.

She didn’t know what she’d wanted him to taste: that she had a temper, or that she could be cold too. But watching him drink the bitter coffee without changing expression somehow eased her anger.

He set down the cup and wiped his mouth. Across from him, she ate toast in small bites, looking obedient.

“Tomorrow evening,” he said, “come to dinner with me. My friends wanted to meet you, as I mentioned. It’s set for seven. I’ll come back for you.”

She looked up and nodded. “All right. Is there anything I should wear?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Mm.”

They were quiet for a few seconds. She took her plate toward the kitchen; he stood, collected his jacket and went to the entryway. She heard him change shoes, then the lock turn.

At the sink, she rinsed the plate and put it in the dishwasher. The entryway fell silent, then footsteps returned. Ting’an stood between dining room and living room, one shoe on, the other foot still in a slipper, jacket over his arm.

“I’ll come home for dinner tonight,” he said.

Her hands stopped. She turned and leaned against the counter, head tilted. “What? Mr. Wen isn’t dining with women tonight?”

He watched her appraising, slightly challenging expression, her pressed lips and bright eyes. He looked down, changed the other shoe and straightened.

“I never dine with women,” he said evenly, as if stating a fact. “Do you understand, Madam?”

He looked at her for two seconds, then opened the door. Before it closed, she called after him, “Who’d believe that?”

The door clicked shut. An engine started outside and receded.

Ban Ban returned to the living room and watched his black G-Class pass through the gate, join the traffic at the end of the tree-lined road and disappear behind a plane tree. When she looked away, the curve at her mouth remained, though she didn’t know why.

The bitter coffee lingered in Ting’an’s mouth as he drove. He swallowed and pressed his tongue to his palate, but the burnt taste wouldn’t go away. Still, remembering her leaning against the counter, head tilted as she asked whether he wasn’t dining with women, he found his mouth moving toward a smile.

She had quite a temper.

He turned onto the main road and stopped at a red light, fingers tapping the wheel twice. She hadn’t pushed away the hand he’d laid at her waist last night, and this morning she’d made coffee bitter enough to make him spit. She was quick to anger but didn’t hold a grudge. Or perhaps her grudges were simply direct: she put her temper in plain sight, letting him know she was angry and waiting for him to soothe her.

He remembered her telling Zhou Lin he and his whole family were short, then recalled her drinking milk quietly across the table. Angry as she was, she hadn’t thrown a tantrum, cried or broken anything.

He drove on, Dong City’s streets sliding past. He would have to tell everyone to mind their manners at tomorrow’s dinner.

Ban Ban kept busy that day. In the morning she visited the flower market, bought fresh pink peonies, trimmed them and placed them on the living-room coffee table. In the study she found dust on the bookshelf and wiped the spines one by one with a dry cloth.

Auntie Jiang watched, several times wanting to speak. Finally she asked, “Are you unhappy today, Madam?”

“No. I’m fine.” Ban Ban rinsed a cloth in a basin.

“Then why did you only give the young master a slice of bread?”

Her hands paused. After thinking, she said, “He’s been eating too well. He needs something light for his stomach.”

Auntie Jiang looked at her. There was a smile on her lips; she didn’t seem angry, yet didn’t seem entirely over it either. Auntie Jiang asked no more and went to prepare dinner.

At four, Ban Ban received a WeChat message. Thinking it was her sister, she opened it to find Ting’an: “What’s for dinner?”

She stared for several seconds, then typed, “Whatever.” Two seconds later she added, “I’ll eat whatever Auntie Jiang makes.”

He replied, “All right.” A few seconds later another message arrived: “I’ll be home at six.”

Ban Ban placed the phone face down on the sofa and opened a food magazine. After two pages she looked back at the phone, lit the screen, checked it and put it down again. The awkward feeling remained, but most of the breathless hurt from yesterday had faded.

At 5:50 Auntie Jiang set dinner out: sweet-and-sour ribs, broccoli with garlic, steamed sea bass and seaweed-and-egg soup, all home-style dishes carefully prepared.

Ban Ban waited at the table. Soon a car sounded outside, then the front door opened. Footsteps came from the entryway, faster than usual.

She looked up from her phone as Ting’an entered. He washed his hands and sat opposite. Auntie Jiang finished serving, removed her apron and said, “Enjoy your meal. I’ll head home.”

Alone together, they ate quietly. Ban Ban tasted a rib: sweet and sour in balance, cooked just right. Ting’an ate several bites and drank some soup. Occasionally their chopsticks reached for the same dish and one gave way.

After dinner she didn’t immediately go upstairs. She watched television on the sofa. Ting’an came out of the study for water and slowed as he passed. She was curled up with a cushion, absorbed in a food program, her profile shifting in the screen’s light. He stood with his glass for two seconds, then moved on.

Around ten she went upstairs. When she came out of the shower, Ting’an was against the headboard in glasses, reading a document on a tablet. He glanced up, then returned to it.

Ban Ban lay beneath the quilt. Today she didn’t deliberately turn her back; she lay looking at the ceiling, hands on the covers, half an arm’s length between them.

After a few minutes she turned toward him. She studied his profile, his high nose and slightly taut jaw. “Do I need to prepare anything for tomorrow’s dinner? A gift?”

He put the tablet on the nightstand, removed his glasses and turned to face her. “No. Just come.”

She nodded, then asked, “Do your friends know ours is an arranged marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Then will they—”

“No.” His gaze rested on her face. “They’re afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me? Why?”

“Because you’re my wife.”

Her heart skipped. She quickly looked at the pillowcase stitching, ears warming. “Oh.” She turned away and pulled the quilt to her chin. A few seconds later she turned back. “Then come and get me tomorrow evening.”

“All right.”

“Don’t be late.”

“All right.”

“And…” She paused, voice softer. “I remember what happened yesterday, but I’ll forgive you for now.”

Having said it, she buried her face in the pillow, leaving one red ear visible. He reached out and gently pinched her earlobe. “Now that Madam’s anger has passed, can I have a bowl of noodles tomorrow morning?”

Her ear reddened further. Her muffled answer came from the pillow. “Depends on my mood.”

The bedside lamp still glowed as the half-arm’s distance between them gradually closed. Neither knew who moved first: perhaps her shoulder shifted back, or perhaps his hand reached out. At last her back rested against his chest, his arm around her waist, palm over her abdomen through the silk.

Ting’an rested his chin on her hair, feeling her long, gentle breaths through the fabric against his hand.

Tomorrow morning’s noodles, he thought, would probably be delicious.