If he could go back to their last phone call, he would still say “Gong xi fa cai” (Wish you prosperity) instead of “Wish you happiness.”
In the days that followed, Gan Yang felt restless.
He had deleted Ding Zhitong’s number right after saying “Gong xi fa cai” to her. Yet when he tried to recall it, he realized he hadn’t forgotten at all. The numbers fell into place one by one, as if remembered not by his mind, but by his fingers.
He didn’t dare call her directly. During breaks at work, he intermittently composed a text message, typing and deleting words one by one. Starting with a long-winded explanation, he eventually whittled it down to a brief greeting: “Tongtong, how have you been lately?”
Just as he was about to press the green send arrow, he lost his nerve again.
After repeating this process several times, he finally deleted the message and dialed her number.
To his dismay, the call wouldn’t go through. Even on MSN, she had deleted and blocked him.
Ironically, these consecutive rejections strengthened his resolve. He was determined to find her and say everything he wanted to say, just like hearing that Bob Marley song in the small-town bar in Ithaca. He didn’t expect any particular outcome; he just needed to speak his mind.
He first checked “Mochi.”
That year, Deng’s website was at its peak popularity, with people everywhere using it. Zeng Junjie had even had a big fight with his wife over the virtual cohabitation game.
But Ding Zhitong’s account looked the same as it had two years ago, with nothing but a name and a blurry profile picture. Song Mingmei, on the other hand, was quite the internet celebrity there, often posting job-hunting tips for various financial institutions. The Big Nine banks, the Big Four accounting firms, Boston Consulting, McKinsey—she was quite famous among college graduates and young professionals. She rarely posted selfies, which only elevated her to goddess status in their eyes. Despite her large following, she hadn’t updated in a while.
He sent Song Mingmei a private message asking about Ding Zhitong but received no reply. Perhaps she hadn’t seen it, or maybe she had deliberately ignored it. He couldn’t be sure.
Next, he went to Shanghai.
Wang Yi had already graduated and returned to China, working as a researcher at East China University of Science and Technology. That year, the allure of Ivy League returnees had waned. Wang Yi’s title and salary were the same as other PhDs, but the lab conditions were good, and the school had arranged housing for him. His parents’ home was also close to the school. He went there for meals every day, and in just a few months, he had noticeably filled out.
Wang Yi was somewhat surprised to see Gan Yang. For a long time, they had only seen each other via video calls. Seeing him in person, Wang Yi realized how much Gan Yang had changed. They went out for a meal together, but Gan Yang ate very little, as he often had stomach pain after eating.
Wang Yi observed silently, unsure how to ask. Gan Yang answered before he could, simply saying his stomach hadn’t been good lately, but it wasn’t a big deal.
Although he didn’t think it was that serious, Gan Yang couldn’t help but worry sometimes. What if? Before anything happened, he had to take care of this matter, whether it seemed sentimental or exaggerated. It was just an excuse he made for himself.
Unfortunately, Wang Yi hadn’t been in contact with Ding Zhitong for a long time either. The phone number he had for her was the same one Gan Yang knew. But before returning to China earlier that year, Wang Yi had contacted her once, asking about the cheapest way to transfer money back to China. He had assumed she worked at a bank and would know these things, but he was mistaken—investment banking isn’t the same as commercial banking. In the end, it was her husband who helped, telling Wang Yi to have his parents open an account at the Bank of China in Shanghai, give him the account number, and then he could deposit the money at the Bank of China branch in New York. This method had the lowest fees and wouldn’t be held up for a month or two due to anti-money laundering checks.
There was no need to explain all this in such detail, but Wang Yi did anyway.
Gan Yang could sense the underlying meaning. “Are you planning to be the third wheel?” What was once a joke now took on a different tone, no longer amusing.
After he finished speaking, both fell silent.
Wang Yi wanted to dissuade him but didn’t know how to begin. “You’ll regret it,” he had already said before.
Finally, Gan Yang asked, “Last year, you said she asked you to print out your thesis and mail her a copy. Did you send it?”
Wang Yi nodded instinctively, then realized Gan Yang was asking for Ding Zhitong’s address.
That’s the backstory, in essence.
Despite all the reasons to give up, in early November 2010, Gan Yang still went to New York.
The flight took off in the evening and also landed at night. Due to crossing the International Date Line, the long night seemed to stretch on endlessly. When the plane arrived at JFK Airport, the clock showed that only three hours had passed.
He found a hotel near the airport to stay the night. Early the next morning, he called a car to Queens, using the address Wang Yi had given him.
It was a Sunday.
The weather was pleasant—cloudy with a gentle breeze. The maple trees in the park had turned mostly red, with autumn in full swing. Looking out the car window, everything seemed familiar. It wasn’t until he saw the race course marked out a block away, the crowds of spectators, the police maintaining order, and the TV station’s interview vans that Gan Yang realized it was the day of the New York Marathon.
When was the last time he had run on this road? He calculated in his head—it was only three years ago, yet it felt like a lifetime.
The destination was a nice apartment building, seemingly perfect for a young couple starting. Across the street was a tea restaurant and a Chinese supermarket, and it wasn’t far from the subway station. He got out of the car and went to check the mailboxes at the entrance, scanning down one by one until he found a small label with her and Feng Sheng’s names.
She had ultimately achieved the life she had originally planned—Gan Yang suddenly thought, but then told himself, I just need to see her once, regardless of the outcome. Just once.
He hesitated, not ringing the doorbell, but instead crossing the street and entering the tea restaurant opposite.
The TV hanging on the restaurant wall was broadcasting live coverage of the New York Marathon. This year’s race was particularly noteworthy because one of the participants was a Chilean miner who had been rescued from 700 meters underground just last month, attracting media attention. Gan Yang found a seat by the window, with a clear view of the apartment building’s entrance across the street.
The waiter was an older man who spoke Cantonese. When he came to take the order, Gan Yang randomly chose one of the set meals listed on the glass tabletop.
He had expected to wait until late, but as the second wave of runners passed by, the restaurant gradually filled with customers. The door opened again, and someone walked in wearing a sweatsuit, hair slightly disheveled as if they had just gotten out of bed to buy breakfast.
If they had recognized each other immediately, they might have avoided the encounter. The problem was that they both only felt a sense of familiarity at first, and by the time their eyes met, it was impossible to hide.
Feng Sheng approached him first, smiling as he said, “It’s been a long time.”
He didn’t say “What a coincidence” or ask why Gan Yang was there, as if he had already guessed the reason.
“The marathon,” Gan Yang explained, quickly adding, “I’m here with a friend who’s running.”
He knew he didn’t look like someone who could run a marathon in his current state.
The waiter, seeing Feng Sheng, came over to take his order.
Feng Sheng said, “The usual, two orders, to go.”
A string of tea restaurant jargon was called out to the kitchen, and then they waited.
The two men felt obligated to chat. Feng Sheng sat down across from Gan Yang, and like all not-so-close old classmates meeting again, the awkward conversation began with, “How have you been lately?”
“Still in China, rarely get a chance to come out for a vacation,” Gan Yang replied, completely at a loss for what to say next.
Feng Sheng seemed more at ease and brought up people they both knew: “Song Mingmei got married too, did you know? Just last month, to the CEO of Mochi. The wedding was in Shanghai. Ding Zhitong went alone; I was in the middle of an internship and couldn’t get away…”
Gan Yang listened, noticing the “too” and simultaneously spotting the ring on Feng Sheng’s left ring finger. It was a plain platinum band, polished on the surface. It must have been very shiny when new, but after some time, it had acquired a few scratches, giving it a slightly worn look. Yet it seemed more natural as if it had always been there and would continue to be there forever.
Feng Sheng continued talking, mentioning that he had gone back to school for an MBA last year but chose a one-year program to start earning money sooner. He graduated this June, just as the job market was improving, and smoothly entered a hedge fund on Wall Street, staying on after his internship. He also mentioned that he and Ding Zhitong had bought a house in Flushing Skyview, which would be completed by the end of the year and ready for them to move in next year. When they initially bought it, he didn’t have a job, and money was tight, but New York real estate prices had dropped by about 30% last year, and they didn’t want to miss the opportunity.
“When we paid the deposit, prices were starting to recover. The chief economist at Tongtong’s company had predicted that 2010 would be the bottom, but Chinese buyers couldn’t wait. They had money and were already taking action…”
“This area is technically New York, but it’s a bit cheaper than downtown Shanghai. Plus, there are countless Chinese people around, whether it’s neighbors or future schools for kids, so it’s not much different from living in China…”
“Our house is a condo, which is a bit more expensive than a co-op, but it’s easier for foreigners to buy. We don’t need to go through a board vote, and it’ll be easier to sell in the future…”
Feng Sheng talked mostly about buying the house until their order was ready, and the waiter brought over the plastic bags with their takeout boxes.
Gan Yang had been listening quietly, but now he finally checked the time on his phone and stood up, saying, “…I should probably go meet my friend at the finish line.”
Even though he was so close, just across the street, close enough to see her coffee and ham and cheese sandwich.
“Let’s get together again when we have a chance,” Feng Sheng said, also standing up and extending his hand.
“Sure,” Gan Yang smiled and shook his hand. “We’ll catch up another time.”
They each paid their bills and left the tea restaurant, one heading to the subway station, and the other crossing the street to enter the apartment building. Deep down, they both knew they probably wouldn’t see each other again.
Later, Gan Yang realized he had ordered an iced lemon tea and had unconsciously finished the entire drink.
That iced lemon tea caused him to suffer from stomach pain for a day and a night in his hotel room. He even thought of Ding Zhitong’s miracle drug, ibuprofen, and dragged himself to a pharmacy to buy a box.
Unfortunately, ibuprofen did not affect him and only made him question his existence even more. It wasn’t until he later saw a doctor that he learned it was a completely different type of pain.
But it was during that day and night that he figured out some things, like what he should do next and how to respond to Dr. Chen’s invitation.
He changed his flight to the earliest available one back to China. While still at the airport, he contacted his office assistant and asked her to prepare the documents needed for his Vietnamese visa application.
The reply came quickly, popping up in a QQ chat window with a personal signature that read: “Loving someone means not disturbing them—that’s the ultimate tenderness.”
The young assistant, who had bought too many romance novels for Director Liu and probably read quite a few herself, must have extracted this quote from one of those books.
Looking at it, Gan Yang felt that everyone in this time and space was trying to reason with him gently and subtly.
And that reasoning, he had finally understood.
If he could go back to that moment two years ago, to their last phone call, he might have used a better tone and attitude to break up with Ding Zhitong, but he would still say “Gong xi fa cai” instead of “Wish you happiness.” Because the latter could never be truly heartfelt.