We could kiss like this. The treacherous thought floats, unbidden, to the surface of my consciousness. I know, of course, that we won’t. That he’s too disciplined, and I’m too stubborn. But the possibility still hangs thick in the air, in the spaces we do not touch, the thought written all over his face, his half-parted lips, his black, burning gaze.

“Alice,” he says, and his accent—

God, his accent. His voice.

Him.

And I’m about to say something clever, something that will not betray the mad fluttering in my chest or how distracted I am by the beads of sweat on his neck but still make him want me, when a heavy hand slaps my shoulder. Hard.

I jerk back with a startled yelp and look up.

The businessman still snoring away above us has shifted position in his sleep, one arm now dangling innocently over the bed rails.

“Are you quite all right?” Henry asks, sounding a little choked up—not out of concern, but badly suppressed laughter. It’s incredible how fast I can vacillate between wanting to kiss this guy and kill him.

I shoot him a withering glare, rubbing the sore spot on my shoulder. “Could you maybe act a little more concerned? I could’ve gotten hit in the head. I could’ve been concussed.”

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry,” he says, though the corners of his lips continue to twitch upward. “Let me rephrase: Would you like me to fetch some ice for your potentially mortal wound? Perhaps some painkillers? Give you a massage?”

“Shut up,” I grumble.

He grins at me then, and despite my annoyance, despite my throbbing shoulder, I am relieved. I would rather spend the rest of this train ride fighting with him than let him be trapped alone with his thoughts and fears again.

14

After we arrive in Suzhou, sleep deprived and starving from the long train ride, the first thing the teachers do is take us out to eat.

It’s warmer here in the south, humid, like the inside of a sauna, and most of us are sweating by the time our rented bus pulls up outside some fancy restaurant that ranked first on Dazhong Dianping. As the only teacher here who can speak Chinese, Wei Laoshi quickly assumes the role of tour guide. We watch through the tinted windows as he approaches the waitress out front, gesturing to his school ID and then to us (a few students in the front seats wave; the waitress frowns).

Then the waitress and Wei Laoshi seem to get into a heated argument, both of them shaking their heads and fanning their faces, and even though we can’t hear a single word they’re saying, the message is clear: there aren’t enough tables in the restaurant for all of us.

“Well, fuck me,” Jake Nguyen grumbles from the row behind me. “I’m starving.”

“Language, Mr. Nguyen,” Julie Walsh says sharply.

“Shit—my bad,” Jake says.

“Language!”

“Right, got it, Mrs. Walsh.”

“It’s Dr. Walsh.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.