In the third year of Jiang Yan’s affair, I met a fresh-faced college boy.
He wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans.
His brows held a rebellious slant, his thin lips were pressed together, and his fringe fell a little too long over his eyes.
He bore more than a passing resemblance to Jiang Yan when he was young.
My car had broken down halfway to my destination.
He haggled me up to five hundred yuan and promised he could fix it.
Halfway through the repair, he took a call.
It seemed to be the hospital chasing him for payment.
He held the phone in silence for a long time before pleading in a low voice, “I’m doing everything I can to raise the money.”
“I promise I’ll have it all by the day of the surgery.”
“Please.”
“Just give me a little more time, okay?”
Standing beside him, I suddenly remembered the day I first learned Jiang Yan had been unfaithful.
He had sat slumped on the sofa with his face in his hands.
“Xiuxiu, I swear I never meant for this to happen,” he rasped.
“But she looks so much like you did when you were young.”
“Do you understand?”
“Whenever I look at her, I remember how much you suffered back then—and how powerless I was to help you.”
“I have the means now.”
“I want to help her.”
“I want to give the younger you the care I couldn’t give you the first time.”
“Please don’t blame me.”
At that moment, I suddenly stopped blaming Jiang Yan.
Because at last, I understood him.
