Godson: The Night I Found Out I Was Never Her Boyfriend

Godson

In my junior year of college, I liked a freshman girl. When she smiled, her eyes curved. She spoke softly. She said that a few days after she was born, her biological father ran off. Her mother later found a man, was domestically abused, had another daughter, and in the end raised two girls alone. She said men were all bastards.

I sat on a plastic chair in the cafeteria, listening. Her malatang had barely been touched; a layer of red oil floated on the soup. I said, not all men are like that. She said, maybe. She lowered her head and poked a fish ball with her chopsticks. I wanted to be good to her. I wanted to fill in what she didn't get. I called it love.

In winter, I stood downstairs from her dorm at six thirty. I tucked steamed buns inside my down jacket so they wouldn't get cold. She came down, hair messy, took the buns, and said thanks. I said, eat them while they're hot. She took a bite; the filling fell onto the plastic bag. I reached out to wipe it; she flinched away. I pulled my hand back and said, I'll go save seats. She said, okay.

Her laptop broke. I saved two months of living expenses and bought her a second-hand one. She said, you're so good. I said, it's nothing. She said, when I get paid from my part-time job, I'll pay you back. I said, no need. She didn't bring it up again. Later she got paid and bought a coat. It was beige, and she looked good in it. I didn't ask about the money.

Her younger sister was in middle school and came to campus to see her once. Her sister called her "older sister" in a tiny voice. I took them to KFC. Her sister ate fries and squeezed ketchup onto the lid of the box. Her mother later found out and said on the phone, you're pretty good at taking care of people. I said, it's what I should do. Her mother laughed. The laugh came through the receiver, a little sharp.

Her mother came to campus and treated me to a meal. The restaurant was called Old Hometown, next to the west gate. She ordered a table full of dishes, fish and meat. She asked what my parents did, how much pension they had, how big our house was, where I planned to develop my career. I answered one by one, like an interview. She smiled and said, not a bad young man. Her daughter sat beside me and put food in my bowl. Three pieces of pork ribs piled up in my bowl. I sat up straighter. I answered before she finished asking. I ate the ribs.

Later we held hands. In the bleachers by the field, the wind was strong, her hands were cold, and I held them. She didn't pull away. I kissed her; she didn't dodge. But she never said I was her boyfriend. I asked once. She said, take it slow. So I took it slow.

Once, in the library stairwell, she leaned in, her lips almost touching mine. Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and said, my mom. She turned and took the call, walking down three flights of stairs. When she came back, she said, my mom wants me to go home this weekend. I said, oh. She didn't lean in again.

Two weeks later, she stopped replying. When I called, it rang twice and was hung up. I waited for her at the entrance of the teaching building; she took a detour. A few days later, outside that small motel on the snack street, I saw her arm in arm with another guy. He was twirling car keys in his hand and wearing a jacket I'd never seen. She saw me. Her hand didn't loosen. I stood by a grilled sausage stall; the oil was sizzling. The vendor asked, how many? I said, none. I walked away.

That night I sat on the field until lights-out. Mosquitoes bit my legs into bumps. When I counted the seventh bump, a security guard shone his flashlight at me and said, student, we're closing. I said, I'm leaving.

A few days later, she asked me to meet on the field. She said, thank you for taking care of me these past weeks. You're a good person. I did think about being with you. Being loved feels warm. But my family is too poor, and my mom doesn't agree. And I don't like you enough to turn against my mom.

I said, that's it?

She said, mm. My mom says a man being good to you is useless. Good for a year, two years, but not five, ten, twenty. Only money is closest.

I said, that guy has money?

She said, three apartments in Hangzhou. Actually, if your family had an apartment in Ningbo, I would have chosen you.

I said, then why did your mom pretend to like me so much?

She said, my mom does like you. She said if you're willing to be my older brother, she'd be happy to make you her godson. I'd be willing too.

I stood up and left. There was a trash can by the field. I threw the unopened bottle of water in my hand into it. The bottle hit the bottom with a thud. I walked to the dorm entrance and realized I'd left my access card on the field. I didn't go back for it. I called for the dorm matron to open the door. She said, next time earlier. I said, okay.

The next night, her mother called. She said, I'm sorry. My daughter insists on breaking up; I can't talk her out of it. If you're willing to be her godson, she'd be very happy. She said she felt sorry for me.

I listened, the phone hot against my ear. I said, Auntie, no need. Then I hung up. I blocked that number. As I blocked it, the screen lit up and showed "This number has been blocked." I stared at those words for a few seconds, then went to wash my face. The water from the faucet was cold.

I called my mom. She asked, have you eaten? I said, yes. She said, do you have enough money? I said, yes. She said, then go to bed early. I said, okay. After I hung up, I stood in the dorm hallway for a while. The voice-activated light went out. I stomped my foot again. The light came on. I went upstairs.

After that, I stopped adding girls from single-parent families on WeChat. Coworkers too. When people asked why, I said, I'm scared. I kept crossing the street.

I deleted all her contact info. The cup she gave me had a cat on it. I used it every morning. After the phone call, I put it in a trash bag, tied it tight, and threw it downstairs. The next day the garbage truck came. I stood on the balcony and watched. The truck left. The bin was empty.

Someone told me, there are good people in single-parent families too. I said, I know. Someone told me, you're too extreme. I said, maybe. I still walked around them.

Later I passed by that small motel. A new milk tea shop had opened at the entrance. I bought a lemonade, less sugar. I stuck the straw in, took a sip. It was sour. I kept walking.