“Let me show you.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through a series of videos that show a tall Chinese man with a shaved head entering and exiting a small restaurant.

“I never guessed he was born in Vietnam.”

“He’s not Chinese enough for the Chinese—even the Zhangs, who he was loyal to until the end, called him by a Vietnamese name that isn’t even his—but he’s too Chinese for the locals.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” I say.

He laughs quietly to himself and then turns off the AC. He opens a window, letting the fresh sea breeze in. There’s something easy about him standing there. Comfortable, even.

“Back at that chalet in the mountain,” he begins, bringing up the subject we have avoided for this long.

“Do you really want to go there?”

“I could be up for it, Nora. Do you?”

I feel like one of those people who only cheat on their spouses when they go away on business trips. Maybe it’s because I’m out of my comfort zone and in this lovely hotel room. Remembering the last time.

Away from home, no one has to know. “I could be up for it, too.” As soon as I say it, I realize it’s true. This is a night full of surprises.

He looks at me for a long moment. “Can I tie you up this time?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“Come on then.”

We go into his room where he ties my hands to the bedposts, but not my legs. Then he disappears for a moment and comes back with a cold bottle of beer from the mini fridge in the living room. I meet his eyes.

This is repayment for what I did to him.

Two years ago, I tied him up, straddled his chest, opened little bottles of liquor, poured them into his mouth to fuck up his sobriety.

Because he’d lied to me and I felt angry and betrayed. But now those lies don’t seem to matter.

This is what has been building between us since I slapped him at that jungle bar.

Part of me wants him to pop the top off the bottle. A very big part, one that used to consume every part of my life. He knows this. Smiles and straddles my hips. He puts the cold bottle against my neck, gets lost at the sight of it there. I can feel the condensation pooling on my throat. He takes the bottle away, but the chill stays. I think he’s going to open it. Want that badly.

Instead, he touches his lips to mine and whispers, “I would never do that to you.”

There’s a moment of relief and frustration. Part of me wanted him to, badly. That little demon in my head that’s always there, begging for a drink. “You think you’re better than me?”