Chapter 11
ON TUESDAY MORNING, Zhang Yuwen worked on the manuscript for his new novel, feeling a little depressed. His thoughts swirled, running wild one moment with his characters’ relationships and predicaments before jumping in the next moment to the harsh blows of reality that life had dealt Yan Jun. The deputy editor’s condescending critiques were tangled up in there, too: his characters were too fake, the story lacked empathy, the whole thing was littered with grammatical errors, and so on.
“What the hell have I been writing?” Zhang Yuwen, unable to get himself into the right frame of mind for writing, grew more irritable the more he wrote. He resisted the urge to toss his computer out the window.
“Trash” was right. Each time Zhang Yuwen looked over the masterpieces he had painstakingly written, he felt the truth of the deputy editor’s verdict. The electricity he’d wasted creating trash would be humiliating enough on its own, but he’d also wasted paper printing his trash out.
He considered revising the draft to add some delightful wisecracks, like putting eyeshadow on an ugly child to brighten him up—but if other people didn’t like your child, was it because he didn’t have eyeshadow? No. It was because he was ugly. In the end, he would open a new document, create new trash, submit it, get rejected, and return to square one. Rinse and repeat. New day, new trash. But he didn’t want to go through the same steps today, so he shut down his computer and allowed himself to take a breather.
Disheartened, Zhang Yuwen went downstairs to relax by making coffee and chatting with his subjects. The two night owls, Zheng Weize and Chang Jinxing, were asleep in their rooms. Yan Jun was at work, and Xiao-Qi, having recovered from her fever, was at the childcare center. Only Chen Hong was around at this time of day.
Zhang Yuwen found him in the gym, panting heavily with lifting straps wrapped around his wrists. He wore shorts but no shirt, revealing the gorgeous contours of his shoulders and back. For a muscular man, he had a very sexy physique, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist instead of bulky muscles all over. His pecs were well-defined, but not so defined that it made you think about breastfeeding. He was good-looking, too, with clearly defined facial features: a high nose bridge, large eyes, thick eyebrows, and a strong jawline—you name it, he had it. He was lying on the bench working out, offering a front-row view of an absolute unit of a bulge. It was so impressive, it single-handedly shattered the myth that muscular men were overcompensating for something. His face was flushed as he strained to lift the barbell, making strange gasp—a sound common in gyms and widely known as “power grunts.”
Zhang Yuwen’s arrival made Chen Hong self-conscious about how he looked. With some effort, he put down the barbell and sat up straight. “Wassup?”
“Nothing,” Zhang Yuwen replied from the side. He just wanted someone to talk to.
Chen Hong assumed for a moment that Zhang Yuwen was there to remind him about the rent, but he sensed that Zhang Yuwen had something to say. This was the perfect opportunity to close the distance between them.
“Need help?” Chen Hong undid the straps on his hands. “I can help you work out. Cardio will make you feel better. Here, this is all yours.”
“No, no.” Just looking at the barbell made Zhang Yuwen tired. He thought about it, then added, “I’ll just run for a while.”
Zhang Yuwen changed his clothes, and it wasn’t long before he broke out in a sweat. It soaked his white T-shirt, making it stick to his back and revealing the shape of his body underneath. As he got off the treadmill, he sensed Chen Hong’s eyes on his back, so he glanced at him in the full-length mirror. Their eyes met.
Instead of averting his gaze, Chen Hong smiled. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” Zhang Yuwen replied. “Work stuff.”
Although Chen Hong couldn’t picture what kind of stress might befall a proofreader, whose job was just correcting typos and grammatical errors, he respected that every profession had its own difficulties. “That’s how it goes. Those who fail to plan ahead find themselves beset by worries closer at hand.”
“True.” Zhang Yuwen found it easy to talk to Chen Hong, maybe because the two of them were the oldest residents of the house and had more life experience under their belts. They could understand each other without having to spell everything out in words. It felt good to have rapport right from the beginning.
“You’re always holed up at home,” Chen Hong said. He’d noticed that Zhang Yuwen didn’t seem to have any friends and that, week after week, he only went out on Tuesdays. “Life becomes monotonous when there’s only so much to do or look forward to. You should try to widen your social circle.”
“Yeah,” Zhang Yuwen lamented. “It’s just that it gets tough at work sometimes. No matter how hard I try, I can’t do it well, and that makes me want to fight with it.”
“There’s no job in this world that can be mastered with effort alone. Even with a barbell, you can’t just use brute force,” Chen Hong said. “But sometimes, you have to remember that other people’s opinions aren’t everything. Besides, you don’t seem like the type to care what other people think.”
That was true, but now that he’d switched careers from director to writer, Zhang Yuwen was a rookie again. Even the slightest criticism from an editor could make him doubt himself. “But feedback is important for fitness, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Of course. You can get injured if you train indiscriminately. That isn’t necessarily true about everything in life, though.”
This statement was so broad as to be meaningless, but Zhang Yuwen understood what Chen Hong meant.
Chen Hong smiled at him again. “To me, only two kinds of opinions matter: the investors’ and the customers’.”
Zhang Yuwen nodded. Chen Hong was like an older brother the way he eased Zhang Yuwen’s irritability. Or maybe it was just the cardio. Either way, he felt a lot better.
“You want to go out for a stroll?” Chen Hong asked. “It’s a beautiful day out there.”
Zhang Yuwen thought about it and looked down at his phone. “Okay. Thanks, Hong-ge.” Chen Hong was actually asking Zhang Yuwen to come out for a stroll with him, but it flew right over Zhang Yuwen’s head.
Zhang Yuwen went to shower. To a certain extent, Chen Hong’s words had inspired him, and he felt like he should show his manuscript to other people and hear the readers’ opinions. But who? Zhang Yuwen didn’t want to go looking for that frivolous childhood friend of his.
Wat r u doing? Zhang Yuwen messaged Huo Sichen.
His reply was instantaneous. At the office getting ready to head out for a meeting later. Y?
They’d been keeping in touch for a while by now. After they parted ways at the gathering that day, they got to know each other and chatted about marksmanship. As it turned out, they both enjoyed playing first-person shooter games like Delta Force and Call of Duty, and they’d both played a lot of them before. Gaming brought them closer together. Huo Sichen had even asked Zhang Yuwen out to the arcade once, but he was busy with work and only had spare time to unwind on Saturdays. As it happened, Zhang Yuwen had dinner planned with his tenants that Saturday, so he didn’t go.
Huo Sichen never probed into Zhang Yuwen’s private life. In fact, he’d never even asked if Zhang Yuwen had a girlfriend or whether he was married. Their conversations occasionally revealed a tacit agreement between them that real life was boring and only games could save them. It was this kind of mutual understanding that Zhang Yuwen liked. They’d become friends through games, so they only chatted about games and refrained from prying into each other’s professions or family backgrounds while their friendship was so new.
Zhang Yuwen understood Huo Sichen’s boredom and even suspected he might be married. That was what happened with his childhood friend, Liang Zheng. Now that he was married, he had very little time to himself, and he often fielded criticism for the hobbies he cherished in his youth. Even drinking a cola got him chastised by his family. Straight guys like these desperately needed friends who had nothing to do with their present lives, friends to whom they could call out longingly: Come play with me.
There would be no boundaries crossed. The idea would never even occur to Zhang Yuwen.
Every day, when Zhang Yuwen set about creating his trash, he logged into the instant messaging software on his computer. If he was using a computer at work, Huo Sichen did the same. They became the most frequent online contact on each other’s list. Occasionally, they made small talk or shared news links, and just like that, they gradually grew familiar.
Zhang Yuwen: nice weather tdy.
Huo Sichen: a shame I’m here wasting time on work instead.