Jianguomen by the Ancient Observatory, this lopped-off pyramid of gray brick from the Ming Dynasty, now dwarfed by all the big buildings on Chang ’An Boulevard. ‘Vegas, with Chinese characteristics,’ British John calls it – glassy high-rises with green Chinese-style roofs perched on top, like somebody put tiny party hats on the heads of awkward giants.
Fucking Trey, I think, as I walk to Henderson Center. He’s probably lying to me. I’ll meet him, and he’ll try to talk me into signing.
He keeps threatening to file without me. Go ahead, I tell him. You do that, and it’s all coming out. Every bit of it.
You wouldn’t do that, he says. It’ll hurt you as much as it’ll hurt me.
At this point in the conversation, I generally laugh. Yeah, like I have as much to lose as you do.
But I know he’s right. I’ll never tell.
I would sign, though. I’d sign if he’d get me what I keep asking him for. But he won’t, and I don’t really get why.
Let it go, Lao Zhang keeps telling me. You don’t need him. You can figure something else out. You already crossed the river; why carry the boat up the mountain? Let it go.
But I can’t.
You could do it, I always say to Trey. Talk to your friends, the ones who can pull some strings. He just looks at me with those green eyes of his that shine like some kind of gem and says: I’ve tried, babe. I’ll keep trying, I promise. But we gotta get on with our lives, don’t we?
On this one point, I guess I’d have to agree with him. We really do.
It’s not like I want to be married to him any more.
Barton’s is the kind of expat place that’s pretty typical for Beijing, which is to say it looks like any chain place you’d find in the U.S.: a wooden bar with a selection of imported beer and liquor, red leatherette booths, high-def TVs playing sports. Today they’ve got a baseball game on, with promises of basketball to follow.
Trey sits in a booth by the window, taking in the view from the thirtieth floor, drinking a beer and eating fries.
I don’t like the way I feel when I see him. After everything that’s happened, I still feel it, and I can’t decide who I hate more for it: him or me.
Trey smiles when he notices me and half-rises to be polite. ‘Hey, Ellie,’ he says. ‘You look good.’
Bullshit, I want to say. I’m pretty sure I don’t look good. I’m sticky with sweat from my run through Matrix and coated with the general grime of Beijing. I slip into the booth across the table from him. ‘Hey, Trey.’
‘You have lunch? I was gonna get a burger. They make good ones here.’
‘Thought you were on a health kick,’ I mutter.
Trey grins and pats his gut. He’s got a bit of one, but it’s not bad. The truth is, he’s the one who looks good. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, all the better to minimize his slowly receding hairline. He’s tan; his muscles strain the sleeves of his T-shirt. ‘Yeah, well, you gotta make exceptions sometimes, you know?’
I look away. I just can’t meet his eyes. ‘What do you want, Trey?’
‘Some lunch, right now.’ He raises his arm to flag down the waitress. ‘Xiaojie!’ he shouts.
The waitress – a cute little thing who gives Trey the eye – comes over. Trey orders his burger. I’m in one of those moods where nothing sounds good and I don’t know what I want, but I figure I’d better eat something. For one thing, Trey’s paying, and I like making him pay.
‘Spaghetti,’ I finally decide. The Chinese invented it, right? ‘And a Yanjing beer.’
‘No Yanjing. Have Qingdao.’
‘So how you been, Ellie?’ Trey asks, after my beer arrives.
‘Fine. You?’
‘I’m good.’ He stares at me with the utmost sincerity. ‘I really am.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ And then, because I can’t help myself, I say: ‘So, how’s … what’s her name? Ping Li?’
‘Li Ping,’ he corrects me. In point of fact, I knew that. ‘Or Lily, if you like. She’s good, Ellie. Really good.’
I nod.
Trey leans forward, his green eyes glowing. ‘She’s come to Jesus,’ he says huskily. ‘I feel like a part of me’s been reborn with her.’
I chug my beer. ‘That’s just swell, Trey.’
He shakes his head. He looks so sad. ‘Look, I fucked up. I could keep apologizing forever, and that’s not gonna make it up to you. You want to hate me; I get it. But don’t hold what I did against Jesus. It’s not His fault.’
While my loss of faith is not the last thing I feel like discussing, it makes the top-ten list for sure.
‘Why are we talking about this? I mean, what’s Jesus got to do with … with anything right now?’
‘Because He can help you.’ Trey reaches across the table, rests his hand on mine. ‘I know you’re hurting. You’re in the desert, Ellie. But there’s water for you. All you have to do is drink it.’
Oh, if I only could. If I could only sink back into that warm, comfortable place, back when I could feel that glow, that love, that connection and certainty.
And the thrill. That smell of his, the wedge of his triceps, the look in his eyes.
I can’t help it. I still want him.
‘You are so full of it.’ I yank my hand away. ‘What would Jesus say about you dumping me for her? About you fucking her when you’re married to me!’
‘We’re all sinners,’ he says intensely. ‘That’s the point. And I told you what the bottom line was for me. I need to be with somebody who wants to live a Christ-centered life. And you’ve left that, Ellie. You’ve left that, and nothing I can say makes a difference. So what am I supposed to do? I can’t live without it. I just can’t.’
For a moment we stare at each other.
‘Okay,’ I finally say. ‘Okay. We’ve had this discussion how many times? You wanna live with little Miss Come to Jesus, that’s fine. You wanna get divorced, that’s fine with me too. But you know what I want, Trey. You know it. Give me what I want, and I’ll sign anything you want me to sign.’
Trey leans back in his chair. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. I think I got it figured out.’
At that moment, two things happen almost at once. Two foreign men in suits approach our table. ‘Mr Cooper, Mrs Cooper,’ one of them says in an American accent. They sit. And the waitress brings us our food.
‘Parma-san?’ she chirps.
‘Hey, guys.’ Trey flashes
