44 Father

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Zhou Suirong’s restless nature always accompanied his happiness with a constant fear of loss. He saw stability as a trap, indulgence as a downfall, and lived every moment on edge, worried that upon waking he would find his joy was nothing but a fleeting illusion.

He knew this was terribly unhealthy, and only when close to Fang Qingzhao could he find healing—escaping the mire of negativity and pessimism to indulge recklessly.

That was why he cherished embraces, kisses, and the mingling of breaths.

Yet even skin-to-skin contact felt insufficiently close; every cell in him was ravenous, eager to absorb and to give, longing for the other to see straight into his heart—even if it meant relinquishing it altogether.

The air conditioning was set a bit too low, and stepping out of the shower, he shivered at the chill.

Half-dried, with a towel draped over his hair, Zhou Suirong made his way to the sofa, collapsing against Fang Qingzhao like a boneless creature.

She was pushed into a corner, unable to work, so she moved her laptop onto a low cabinet nearby. Feeling her pajamas damp from his hair, she lightly pushed his head away.

Zhou Suirong pulled the towel off, placed it on her lap, then slid down to rest his head on it.

Lazily, he said, “I just thought about it carefully. I don’t think it counts.”

Fang Qingzhao was unsure what philosophical insight he had conjured in the bathroom, but the tone didn’t bode well. She played along, asking, “What doesn’t count?”

“No sense of ceremony.” The sudden joy faded, and Zhou Suirong began chasing perfection. “You can’t just agree like that. How could you agree to this?”

Lying on his side, avoiding her gaze, he dared to elaborate, “You should have demands first. Like handing over your salary card—even if you wouldn’t look down on it, it’s a matter of principle. Then there’s the division of responsibilities at home. And flowers—how can you propose without flowers? Are you even listening to me?”

Fang Qingzhao twirled a strand of his hair and said, “I want to hear you tell a story.”

“What story?” Zhou Suirong’s hand lowered to grasp her cold ankle beneath the air conditioner, his attention diverted. “Why aren’t you wearing socks?”

He tried to get up, but Fang Qingzhao pressed him back down, covering his ear with one hand and hesitating before asking, “Do you remember your… your father? Your biological father?”

“Ah…”

Suddenly, Zhou Suirong’s mood darkened, as if plunged into a freezing winter cellar, and he shivered involuntarily.

Instinctively, he tried to brush off the question casually, laughing twice. Then, before speaking, he changed his mind—deciding not to hide or deceive Fang Qingzhao on such an important day—and said, “That man… my mother never let me see him or talk about him, but I must have met him once.”

With her hand still covering his ear, her voice echoed as if inside his skull, startling him. He gently removed her hand, struggling to find the right words, speaking as they came.

“You know, I grew up in a small town. Most of the neighbors knew each other and would gather to chat when they had time.

“The townspeople would deliberately ask about him in front of me, feigning curiosity and loudly saying his name, while giving me looks that implied ‘you know who he is.’ Or when I was kicked out by my family, they would express sympathy to other residents, hinting at my mother’s harshness and alluding to her divorce, watching for my reaction.

“If I looked at them twice, they would exchange knowing glances and chuckle as if amused. Even if I was naive, I understood what was going on. When I was older, they probably thought I was an idiot, so some would straightforwardly ask me, ‘Do you know who your father is?’ Ha.”

Zhou Suirong tried to smile, though it likely failed; the muscles in his cheeks stiffened, as though misfiring.

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Turning his head to ensure Fang Qingzhao couldn’t see his face from this angle, he let go of his guarded expression, keeping his voice light.

“Sounds bad, right? But the people weren’t all bad. When I was hungry, they sometimes fed me. When an uncle beat me, they would step in and help me escape. In winter, when it was too cold, they’d let me shelter inside their shops.

“But, as a child, their personalities were too complicated for me to figure out how to relate to them. Overall, I hated them. Most of my memories of them are unpleasant.”

Fang Qingzhao asked, “Have you never tried to find him?”

Zhou Suirong answered resolutely, “No. So many people know he’s my father; surely he knows I’m his son. If he never reached out, why should I humiliate myself? Besides, I felt it would disappoint my mother. At the time, I was trying to please her completely. But I did see him eventually.”

His narration grew fragmented and detailed.

“When I was in second grade, my school held a sports day, with weather similar to today’s.”

“The town’s elementary school had lax security. The event was open to outsiders, and parents could come in freely. I was standing with a male classmate maintaining order—wearing a small red armband to prevent students from running onto the track during competitions…”

Zhou Suirong paused mid-sentence, realizing he was rambling incoherently, and self-mocked, “What am I saying? I guess my communication skills are lacking.”

Fang Qingzhao kindly said, “I don’t know any of this. I only went to elementary school for two years and wasn’t interested in sports day.”

Zhou Suirong carefully stripped away any negativity from his words, recounting the story with dry objectivity.

“The PE teacher called my name from across the field, and my classmate looked up instinctively. He was neat and refined, with pale skin and large eyes, smiling cheerfully and obediently. I was different. My mother didn’t want to keep me at home, so she pulled strings to get me into school two years early.

“I was tanned like coal from helping with farm work over summer, underdeveloped, barely over a meter tall, with long hair. I looked like a scraggly wild monkey standing there.”

“I heard him boast loudly to those nearby, ‘That’s mine.’ Probably a crude remark. My classmate was surprised, asking, ‘Is that your dad?’ I walked over like a sleepwalker. When he saw me, he just turned and left.”

Zhou Suirong finished calmly, without hearing Fang Qingzhao’s reply, then added, “That was the only time I saw him.”

Fang Qingzhao reached to touch Zhou Suirong’s face but found no tears.

He turned to look at her, lying back.

The light above was harsh; he frowned and closed his thin eyelids, his lashes trembling softly.

Zhou Suirong was often moved to tears by small things, yet his uncrying face was even more heartbreaking.

Fang Qingzhao brushed her lips against his, pinching his cheeks to lift the corners into a clownish smile. Then she lowered her head, casting a shadow over his face.

Zhou Suirong opened clear, dark eyes to look at her, silently mouthing words. As she leaned closer, he hooked an arm around her neck and received a tender kiss.

He laughed heartily, carefree: “Don’t mind him. It has nothing to do with me.”

Zhou Suirong no longer remembered exactly how he felt back then—whether more sadness or humiliation. Nor did he recall if he had stepped forward or how long he stood still after the other person left.

The other was like a background figure who never needed to appear, suddenly thrust into the frame in panic, leaving only a fleeting face before hastily departing.

As long as he was by Fang Qingzhao’s side, he could always find peaceful dreams.

·

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At eight in the morning, on the steps outside Liang Yizheng’s company.

Lu Shengxing was editing a message on his phone. The person across from him was too lazy to type and directly initiated a voice call.

“Ah!” Lu Shengxing scratched his head, reluctantly answering. “I’m coming! I’m working! But who in their right mind would just go straight to find him? It makes me look like a scammer—how could he believe me?”

Ji He said, “He’s your boss.”

Ignoring her reply, Lu Shengxing argued, “I’m just waiting. If he shows up, I’ll know. If he doesn’t, then no problem, right?”

While he was defending his stance, someone patted his shoulder.

He turned and came face to face with an oversized frog head.

Lu Shengxing jumped up, shouting in terror, “Oh my god! A frog!”

The man wearing the frog mask raised both hands in peace, whispering, “If I’m not mistaken, are you Zhou Suirong’s younger brother?”

Lu Shengxing eyed him warily, his gaze drifting down to his feet, noticing the worn, peeling shoes. He guessed the man’s identity and casually asked, “How do you know?”

Xu Youxiang adjusted his slipping mask with his hands and asked, “What are you doing here? There’s been a big fuss about Liang Yizheng in the news recently. Are you still planning to sign with him?”

Lu Shengxing suspected Zhou Suirong was secretly orchestrating something that coincided with his own plans.

He ended the call, holding his phone with both hands, but his instincts won out. Careless of his image, he asked, “Do you really have to talk to me wearing that thing?”

Xu Youxiang tilted his head back, wobbling it side to side. Just as Lu Shengxing thought he was crazy and was about to back off, Lu Shengxing reached out and nudged the mouth of the mask aside, revealing his eyes through the dark opening.

“They’ll kick me out if they recognize me. It’s inconvenient for me to talk here.”

Lu Shengxing was dumbfounded, full of complaints he wanted to hurl at this fool’s face: “Then why only one head?”

Xu Youxiang answered innocently, “Because the full set costs money, and I could only find one unwanted head.”

“Picked it out of the trash?” Lu Shengxing was on the verge of collapse, putting his hand on the frog head to stop him from coming closer, turning his face away as he shouted, “Wait! Don’t move!”