Who's the Puppy? - Chapter 2

When Chenye started high school, I started elementary school. I no longer had any excuse to ask him to soothe me to sleep.

But I was used to falling asleep surrounded by his scent, so whenever he was away at boarding school, I’d sneak into his room.

Eventually, of course, I got caught.

He came home on sick leave with a terrible cold. Opening his bedroom door, he found me taking off my shoes and burrowing under his covers.

He leaned against the doorframe, his lips pale, his expression cold. This time, I understood the look in his eyes without him having to say a word.

Disgust.

Still, I fumbled for an excuse. “Brother, I’m warming your bed for you.”

“Get out,” he said, his voice thick with congestion.

By the time I came back upstairs with the medicine kit, he’d locked the door. I stood outside for a long time, then left the water and medicine on the floor and went away.

After that day, I tried to stop depending on him. For three years, I did pretty well.

Until it was time for him to choose his university preferences.

Mingkai told me gleefully, “Dad says Jiang Chenye’s going way out northwest to join the army. He’s never coming back.”

All I felt was panic. The panic of never seeing him again.

Without thinking, I rushed into his room. I promised, incoherently, that I wouldn’t bother him anymore, wouldn’t make him angry. I said everything I could think of to make him stay.

He remained cold and silent.

At last, I realized I had to give up. I let go of his sleeve and said hoarsely, “Go, then, Brother. When I’ve taken my entrance exams, I’ll go too.”

Finally, he spoke, as though pronouncing a sentence. “You wouldn’t pass the physical.”

I looked up. I couldn’t understand why those few words, put together, could hurt so much.

The tears I’d held back for so long spilled over. In the end, all I said was, “Jiang Chenye, I hate you too.”

It was a lie. Angry words. The only person I could hate was myself.

Through middle school and high school, I taught myself to be an independent, mature adult. I did pretty well.

Mingkai complained that he could see Jiang Chenye in me. My mouth twitched, but I said nothing.

Two months before my university entrance exams, I turned eighteen. I thought I’d grown into an emotionally stable adult.

A month before the exams, Mom and Dad divorced.

Mingkai took it in stride. They’d both been doing their own thing for years, he said. I couldn’t take it that way. I grew sullen and irritable, and a trivial disagreement at school ended in a full-on fight with a classmate.

My homeroom teacher told me to call a parent. Mom and Dad were out of the question, and Mingkai was at university a thousand miles away.

I gave the teacher Jiang Chenye’s number.

His company had only just got off the ground. He was run off his feet, and I wasn’t sure he could come. To be honest, I didn’t really want him to. It was humiliating. I’d sworn I would be independent and mature, after all.

But half an hour later, there he was: tall and handsome in a sharp suit, exhaustion showing between his brows.

I stood against the wall with my face turned away and didn’t look at him once. My teacher thought I was being defiant and told me to come over.

That wasn’t it. The moment he arrived, all my anger vanished.

I hadn’t seen him in so long. I’d missed him terribly.

When the talk was over, my teacher excused me from evening study and sent me home to reflect on my behavior. I followed Chenye slowly.

I’d won the fight, but I’d also been kicked in the groin. Every rub of the fabric hurt.

Chenye glanced back. I pinched the seam of my trousers away from my skin and jogged after him through the pain.

He took me to his apartment, led me into his bedroom, and said, “Take off your trousers. Lie down.”

I froze, then obeyed under his cold gaze.

He turned on the air-conditioning. Once I lay down, he crouched and touched the injury with a cotton swab. Shortly afterward, he picked up his car keys and went out.

I lay on his bed, wrapped in that familiar scent. For a moment, I didn’t want to be an adult anymore.

I was drifting off when he came back. With him standing over me, looking down, I pushed aside the covers and bent my legs, mortified.

He applied medicine with a cotton swab. I could feel his breath and couldn’t help shrinking away. His hand held me firmly at the top of my thigh.

“Brother,” I said, my voice tight.

He didn’t answer. When he finished and stood, I saw the crease between his brows.

I badly wanted to ask if I could stay. But he’d already turned toward the bathroom, shutting the door a little too hard.

I looked away and lowered my head.

Suddenly, I thought there were advantages to growing up after all. He didn’t have to speak. I didn’t have to look into his eyes. By now, even his unconscious movements were enough to tell me how much he disliked me.