by Jessica Pan
I wish I’d had more time with the fortune-teller. In addition to his vague advice about The One, he also talked about my having a creative career. Does that mean I should keep going with film? Or that writing will eventually take over? Or some combination of both? I should have asked him when I had the chance.
Maybe it just means that he thought I looked “arty” and spoke accordingly.
Love,
I Paid Twenty Euros for a Man in a Ruffled Shirt to Tell Me Someone Loves Me
APRIL 22
Jess to Rachel
Why are you guys doing things like visiting fortune-tellers? Did we ever do this before? Also, I want to come. I want to hang out under heat lamps with you and Astrid and discuss our destinies. But I know what you mean about Astrid changing—I think I saw glimmers of it when we were in Beijing together and she was working three completely different jobs at once. I love her but I can’t keep up with her because she always has a new life plan and a new life philosophy that she wants me to embrace. This month the plan is buying a mountain chalet and the philosophy is Dostoyevsky-based.
Whatever you do, don’t get drunk and ask Olivier if he thinks he’s The One or the one before The One. Promise me.
However, do as I say, not as I do.
I couldn’t stand the mixed signals from flirting anymore, so I invited Sam to a friend’s going-away party, and he showed up at the bar at 2 A.M., completely drunk. At work, he is polite, almost too polite, responsible, and very buttoned-up, but tonight he became the online persona I’ve been flirting with for the past few weeks. When he showed up at the party, he was loose and carefree and greeted me with a big hug—the first time we’ve ever touched.
We sat alone in a corner talking and quietly making fun of everyone else at the party. If true love isn’t sitting in the corner with someone and gossiping about everybody else while they press their leg against yours, then I don’t know what is.
At one point, an acquaintance came over to say hello and Sam introduced himself as my favorite intern. I blamed my red face on the effect of the alcohol and then pretended to fire him again and again. Every time he brought me another drink, I rehired him.
We decided to leave around 4 A.M., but we had nowhere to go. This is where things became tricky. It was too soon to invite him over to my place, and yet we both didn’t want the night to end so quickly. We shared a taxi to our respective homes. After all of our joking, he suddenly became serious as we entered my neighborhood. He said, “I’m glad we’re finally talking in person. But you’ve got to remember that I’m leaving Beijing in two weeks.” The cab driver arrived at my building. “But you also have to know that you’re my favorite person in China.”
Not sure how to take this. Why only in China? Does he have a girlfriend in the United Kingdom? In Australia? Oh God, the insecure doubts are upon me.
The night was late, my eyeliner had migrated down my cheeks, my apartment was in shambles, and I was exhausted. I got out of the cab alone, promising that we would continue this another night.
He called out from the window, “Hey, Boss!” I turned around and he grinned. “Good night!”
This interlude before anything begins is always my favorite moment. So much unknown, but everything is already set up and we both know something is going to happen—but we just don’t know how or when yet.
Although it better happen soon, because he is leaving in two weeks.
Love,
Worst Boss Ever/Best Boss Ever
P.S. He did not climb Mt. Everest—he went to Mt. Everest base camp. Apparently, climbing Mt. Everest requires superhuman strength and dangling your life in front of death’s jaws. From what I gather, in comparison, Mt. Everest base camp is like wandering through the hills in The Sound of Music, except you have altitude sickness.
MAY 1
Rachel to Jess
I feel like I’m bad for encouraging your Sam affair, because his departure is imminent. He sounds great, but we need to listen to the warnings that guys give about themselves.
Oh, like what I say is going to make any difference anyway!
More important—do you have pictures? Send pictures.
You’re lucky that you get to see him every day, for the moment at least. Don’t take this for granted! I haven’t seen Olivier in a couple weeks, although he invited me to a poker game they were having last Thursday night. Unfortunately, I had class that night. Also, Jon once told me that playing poker with me is like taking broccoli from a baby. Not candy, because taking candy from a baby is actually hard.
There’s been another strange development in my life. A neighbor I used to see only in passing has started trying to strike up conversations with me; once I let that happen, he started showing up at my door with trays full of couscous and tagines around dinnertime. He reeks of cologne, uses way too much hair gel, wears lots of gold necklaces, and is thirty-five and unemployed. And nearly every night I come home, he swoops up to my door (he can see the courtyard from his window) with a tray of food, and he says, “Eat dinner with me!”
I made the mistake of eating with him the first time, after which point he tried to kiss me and I ducked under his shoulder. He tried to kiss me again and I ducked under his shoulder again. Finally he laughed. “You seem so tense,” he said.
“I am,” I said. “Very tense. My back is...rocks.” (He doesn’t speak English and I don’t know the French word for knots.)
He asked for my number to call me later.
I can literally hear you asking me, “Why did you give it to him?” Well, I panicked. And also, he knows where I live.
Now, three to four times a week, I get this message, more or less verbatim: “massage? i have the very good hands ;)”
These messages make me feel .
I’ve been taking extra French classes at school, trying like hell to prepare for my exams. I’ve written the final papers for the classes that will let me, but I desperately need someone to correct them! I’m going to have to ask Jacques and Marc for a big favor.
With my own writing, when I have time, I’m trying to take Lee’s advice and be more plot focused, but everything I come up with ends up sounding like a Lifetime movie. Girl in car accident learns to love again. British Duke falls in love with sassy American girl. Famous painter gets Alzheimer’s disease.
There are so many unknowns right now. Maybe the fortune-teller is rubbing off on me, but I’m starting to think there are no wrong choices in life. I mean, meth is a bad choice. But with things as unclear as what to do with Sam, I think you should go with your instincts and just let it play out. You really like him. Start from there.
Love,
Rach
P.S. Get a French person to try to read the word hodgepodge out loud. They will say, “hogey-pogey,” and it will be the best moment of your life. Olivier tried to use this word and it totally made up for the bedroom friend translation debacle.
MAY 13
Jess to Rachel
First of all, I don’t know what you want. A man is offering to cook for you every night! He’s offering you free massages! This could be great material for your book: A French cabana boy waits for a nice American girl on her doorstep—and then kills her. This is your warning. Lock your doors.
You need to be here for a marathon session in the kitchen from senior year where we stay up all night talking and drinking and stealing Rosabelle’s chocolate banana bread. Wish I could call you, but...
I just crept out of Sam Singer’s bed!
So, you may have noticed that since I last wrote to you, things have changed. Like I have slept with my intern. I have slept with Sam Singer. Many times. Because I am accidentally dating Sam Singer, who is also my intern.
We finally ended up in bed after Sam finally asked me out for dinner and we had our first official date.
We met up after work, but were s
till wearing our work personas for the first hour at the restaurant. Even though I’m supposed to be his boss, he makes me so nervous because I like him so much. He’s done so much that I’ve always wanted to do—he told me more about how he spent a month backpacking around India, and while I tried to pay attention, I was distracted by how much I liked his dark eyelashes and his hands.
At the restaurant, we overheard an Englishman with a very posh accent talking about his old Oxford buddies and as a joke, Sam transformed from his native lyrical Northern accent to a regal, upscale voice. When I attempted to imitate him, he told me I sounded like a Russian who had lived in India for the past twenty years. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about—I definitely sounded like Prince William.
Afterward, we went for a walk in a nearby park and Sam’s phone rang. He leaned against a wall to answer it, so I milled about the park, not knowing what was going to happen next and watching Chinese people taking their dogs on evening walks. After Sam hung up, we stood there facing each other, rambling about nothing. And then finally—finally!—he pulled me toward him and kissed me. He put his arms around me and I could smell his shampoo. It was a great moment.
First kisses and their aftermath are almost always clumsy, but Sam has this ability to disperse awkwardness. I think it has something to do with being English and used to an abundance of awkward, fumbling encounters.
Also, I don’t know how people kiss without one of the parties resting against a wall, because it allowed for my body to lean into his without knocking him to the ground.
From the first raised eyebrow, I think we both knew what was going to happen. Traditional dating rituals of waiting three dates before sleeping together are just ridiculous in our situation. We don’t have time for this! Why would we bother with that when we’re already moving at a million miles per hour? And we already like each other so much.
So Sam came home with me that night.
Since then, we’ve spent every free moment together. Every day after ignoring each other at work, he waits for me around the corner and greets me with a kiss after making sure no one is around to spot us. We always have grand ambitions of going to a museum or a different part of town, but inevitably we always end up at my place or his, because our time is so limited.
That first night with Sam, I had a brief moment when we were lying on my bed before anything heavy had happened and I thought, “What am I doing? Why am I sleeping with my intern?” But then Sam took off his shirt. He has a six-pack. I have never seen one of these in person before. I was convinced they were just myths, like unicorns. I am not only attracted to his abs, but fascinated. I had to immediately touch them, like examining an ancient scroll.
And I had forgotten what good sex is like. No, great sex. The kind where you don’t care what you look like. The kind where you find yourself thinking about it and him and nothing else for the rest of the day.
He makes my heart race, but at the same time he’s reassuring—I don’t doubt his affection or feel insecure. He caught me taking a photo of him while sleeping (what? He looked great.) and while he made fun of me, he also laughed a lot about it. Sam studies me, noticing my chicken-pox scar over my right eye, or the way I always sleep on my right side. He holds me so closely and looks into my eyes.
I don’t know where our relationship will stand after he flies out of Beijing in two days, and I’m just so confused and lost thinking about it. Sam doesn’t say, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” He doesn’t say, “Visit me in Australia.” He doesn’t say, “I don’t want this to end. I need to see you again.” I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a girl in India and a girl in Nepal, just like me, who waited for Sam to say these things but he never did. A girl in every port.
Last night, he arrived at my apartment at midnight after being out with his friends. He was very drunk and when he came into my apartment, he pulled me close, and buried his face into my neck and mumbled, “I like you so much. Everyone else is rubbish compared to you.”
When we woke up together this morning, we talked for a long time in bed. I can’t get over how I can actually fall asleep next to him (without roofie-ing myself) and how much I love his scent.
He asked me about living in Beijing and if it was permanent. I told him that I was used to my life here and that I was content with the way things were for now. And then he asked, “Content? I think you deserve more than that.”
I like that he’s someone who doesn’t want to settle. I like the way he’s led his life: by working hard to save money so that he can travel to exotic places for months at a time. But talking about the future just reminds me how every moment is shadowed by the dread that he is leaving. He is leaving. Sam is leaving Beijing forever in two days. Our relationship has been accelerating at 120 mph and now it’s just going to drop off into an abyss.
I know it’s early for me to say this, but I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t know if I will ever find someone like him again. He’s fun and sexy and kind. He was also a really good intern.
There’s something about him that stands out from everyone else I’ve been with. I feel like I might be losing something that I should try very hard to hold on to, but this is all going to end when he flies out in two days. I think I might be alone for a very long time after Sam.
I can’t tell anyone about him because I’m always surrounded by my colleagues or people who are friends with my colleagues. I even considered asking a taxi driver here what he would do in my situation (“if your soulmate had to move to Australia but your taxi business was based in Beijing”), but I managed to rein in the crazy.
I save that for you.
Love,
Jess
P.S. I would totally read that “British Duke Falls in Love with Sassy American” book.
MAY 14
Rachel to Jess
I think a six-pack is actually the opposite of a unicorn—you have to be nonvirgin to come across the perfect abs.
Is Sam gone? How are you doing? Remember that British men never know how to express their feelings. This is why Hugh Grant stutters so much in movies—you might have to be the first one to say the things you wish he’d say.
Love you,
Rach
MAY 15
Jess to Rachel
He left this morning.
When I came home from work today, I went straight for my bed and just lay there, staring at the spot where Sam used to sleep. And I cried. I cried a lot. An embarrassing amount, but I don’t care. I was so deeply unhappy and frustrated and devastated. I never knew this exact feeling before. Exhausted from the tears, I fell asleep before the sun had even set and then I awoke suddenly at midnight, confused about my whereabouts. There’s always that delicate moment when my brain knows something bad has happened but still doesn’t remember what it is until suddenly it all comes rushing back: Sam’s gone. Forever.
In my mind, there exists a clear divide between before I met him and after and I don’t know how to go back to the before. When he was here, he sent me twenty texts a day. I was excited to see him every night. Sitting next to him in my office every day. And now, nothing.
Beijing suddenly feels very loud to me—the people, the traffic, the construction, the bustle. In comparison, I feel so morose. Work isn’t even an escape, because for the past five weeks, I would walk in and see him sitting at his desk every day. But he’s gone. It was all I could do to not turn my head and stare wistfully at his empty seat next to Isla. Instead, I faced forward and looked at my computer, trying to make myself care about work again. Even now, nobody in my office knows that Sam and I dated.
He’s in Hong Kong now, before he travels to Vietnam and Malaysia and then flies on a one-way ticket to Sydney.
In the days before he left, I tried to summon the courage to tell Sam how I really felt about him, but every time I came close, I couldn’t. I needed
him to say it first and he never did. He must have some idea of how I feel, though. I slipped a postcard into his backpack and I made him an incredibly mushy playlist for his plane ride, so if he’s intuitive at all, there’s no way he won’t pick up on my feelings.
I’ve never been this scared to tell someone how I feel, but I don’t think I could have handled it if Sam said he merely thought of us as a fun fling. On our last night together, when I once more looked at him and failed to articulate my feelings, I tried to will him to read my mind. “I like you. I am crazy about you. I am terrified that I will never find someone who makes me as happy as you do.” Every time I tried to say something serious, my voice started to crack and I kept clearing my throat and making up some excuse about maybe getting a cold.
The closest thing to the truth I could say to him was that I had lived in Beijing for two years and that people had left me before, but that I had never felt as sad as I do now. I told him, “Whatever happens, if you still miss me in a few months, tell me. Let me know. And if you don’t miss me, then don’t tell me. That’s okay too.” I delivered this so casually, but it was incredibly hard to say.
What I meant was, “If you feel a crushing sadness and hole in your life the way I will in mine, please, please, please tell me.” I don’t want to be the one to make contact first. I want the next move to be his. It’s so hard to be the one who’s left behind, while he goes on to travel and have adventures alone before moving to Australia. I can’t ask him to forgo that and stay behind for me.
He was silent. He didn’t say anything in response to this, which I interpreted as rejection. We had drinks last night before going back to his place, and it seemed like he was not in love with me. I kept looking for signs or evidence and read too much into everything. I kissed him good-bye this morning still looking for answers, but I still don’t have any.
Right now, I’m listening to the saddest Ryan Adams album in the world. Wallowing while listening to it is the only thing I’m remotely enjoying right now.
