04 His heart is as big as a soybean

Gemma's POV.

The bar is lively as always on this rainy day, filled with young people relaxing after work. Charlotte and I are sitting at the bar. I down my mojito in one go.

"Amazing, it's amazing," Charlotte nods, clapping her hands. "The man you accidentally harassed turns out to be your boss? This story is too crazy; I need to put it in a novel."

I frown. Her occupational habit is acting up again.

"Are you here to comfort me and help me figure things out, or are you just gathering material for your writing?"

Charlotte gives an embarrassed smile and nudges me with her elbow. "Why don't you just quit?"

"You're in sales; taking your clients away might be a bit unethical, but there's nothing legally wrong with it. You could easily work at another dealership," she continues.

I sigh softly. "I've thought about it."

"But Allum is a big company. To be honest, their employee benefits are the best in the industry."

And I still have a mortgage to pay. If Luke doesn't dock my bonus next quarter, I'd actually prefer to stay here.

A tall young man walks over at this moment.

"Hey pretty, may I ask you for a dance?" he says to me.

I look up. The man is backlit, so his features aren't very clear, but his silhouette is handsome. He's definitely good-looking.

I remain silent for two seconds, then shake my head. "Sorry, I'd like to be alone."

"Well, alright then." The man walks away.

Charlotte leans in closer to me. "Wasn't that a perfect way to forget your troubles? Why did you turn him down??"

I shake my head. "I feel like I've suddenly become immune to men."

"Thanks to your boss?"

"Yeah." I start counting on my fingers. "Now whether they're handsome, ugly, tall, short, fat, or thin, I find them all annoying."

"Hey, you can't judge an entire group because of one person. That's practically discrimination."

"Maybe," I shrug, freely admitting it. "But I'm sick of men right now."

"You can be sick of them, but I'm not," Charlotte says, taking a sip of her drink, her eyes landing on a man on the dance floor.

She glances between me and the man a few times. "Gemma, you-"

"Go ahead, go ahead." I wave my hand helplessly, then point to my empty glass and shout at the bartender, "Another mojito, please."

I drunk too much, and by the time I get home, I can't even walk straight. I have to lean against the wall to get into the elevator, and after getting out, I continue to support myself against the wall.

I live on the 4th floor, where there are only two apartments on the same floor.

The complex is near the dealership, located in the suburbs, so the housing prices are relatively low. But the property management is excellent, well-regulated, and the landscaping is beautiful.

I've always dreamed of having a home in New York, so I took on a mortgage right after graduating from college.

While my peers spent their money on travel and exploring the world, I worked hard to pay for this little home where I can relax and breathe.

I reach my door and take out my keys.

But I might have drunk too much because it takes me two or three tries to fit the key into the lock.

Finally, I get it in, but I can't turn it.

I frown.

The next second, a slightly familiar but very grim voice sounds behind me, "What are you doing?"

I turn around. Luke's face comes into view.

I remain silent for two seconds, then stagger toward him, looking up. "That's the question I should be asking you, don't you think so?"

"I only accidentally harassed you, and I didn't really touch you. Do you really need to follow me home?"

Luke's face darkens further.

But it seems alcohol has given me a lot of courage. I blurt out all my thoughts and poke him in the chest with a finger. "Honestly, not every man can be mistaken for a sex doll. Can't you just take it as a compliment to your looks? Why make things difficult for me?"

He narrows his eyes and grabs my hand.

I pull my hand out of his and continue, "I was just one sentence away from finishing the exam, and you had to snatch it away. Do you know how much psychological damage that does to a perfectionist like me?"

I shake my head, wagging my finger. "No, you don't get it. Your heart is only as big as a soybean."

Luke's figure starts to blur in front of me, and my head gets dizzier and dizzier.

But I still try to confuse him to protect myself.

I point to the door behind me and sneer at him, "You think I live here?"

"Of course not," he finally speaks.

More than that, he pushes me aside. I take two steps back and steady myself against the wall.

Only now do I notice Luke is holding a package. He takes out a set of keys from his pocket and inserts one into the lock.

The next second, the door opens.

"Because this is my home," he says, turning to look at me.

I tilt my head, watching him walk in and close the door.

"?"

I stand there for a long time, slowly raising my head to look at the number on the door.

"4-0-2," I slowly read out loud.

But my apartment is 401.

401?!

I suddenly sober up. So tonight, I mistook the door and nearly broke into my neighbor's place. And my neighbor just happens to be Luke Shaw, the man I hate most in the world??

As soon as I get inside my own apartment, I collapse onto the bed and lie there motionless.

I can't help but wish that this was a rented place. If it were, I would move out right now.

But I've already bought it, and even though I'm still paying the mortgage, my name is already on the deed.

I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

My phone rings at next moment. I raise my head and pick it up.

It's a text from Charlotte, "Gemma, did you get home safely?"

I think for a few seconds with my muddled brain and then type back: "Charlotte, if you must write a story about me and my boss, it won't be a romance-it'll be a thriller."

Then I bury my face in the pillow again.

The next day is the weekend.

When I wake up, my head is still pounding from the hangover, so I head to the kitchen to make myself a glass of honey water.

I take the cup to the living room, turn on the TV, and sit on the floor in front of the couch, drinking while I watch.

My phone rings-it's a video call from my mom.

I fix my hair a bit before answering.

"Hi, Mom."

"Are you off today?"

"Yeah."

"Any plans for the weekend?"

"I'm planning to stay in, do some laundry, and some chores."

The usual small talk.

I lower the volume on the TV a bit, and then I hear my mom say, "The weather in California is great today."

She holds up her phone, showing me the palm trees and coastline behind her.

"It is beautiful," I glance out the window. "It's still cloudy in New York."

"What's so good about New York? There are too many cars, and too many people," Mom sighs softly. "Gemma, why don't you come back?"

I don't look at her, taking a sip of my honey water. "I'm doing well at work right now. I don't plan on changing jobs."

"Yes, yes," my mom draws out the words, teasing. "My daughter is so busy, busier than the President, with no time to come home."

"Mom-" I chuckle, "I did come home for Easter."

Mom widens her eyes. "And how long ago was that? Plus, you only stayed a day before leaving."

Continuing this topic is pointless. I'll never win an argument with my mom.

So I say, "I'll come home earlier for Christmas and stay a few more days. How about that?"

"Sounds better." Mom smiles.

"Where's Dad?" I take another sip of honey water.

"He's gone fishing again," Mom frowns slightly. "He goes fishing every day but never catches anything. His bucket is always empty when he comes back. I don't know where he gets all that enthusiasm."

I smile.

After a few more minutes of chatting, I hang up.

I think about the sunshine and beaches in California, and suddenly, I feel a giant hand squeezing my heart.

A lot of New Yorkers love to vacation in California, but I practically fled from there.

There's still half a cup of honey water left, and my head still hurts, but suddenly, I don't feel like drinking it anymore.

The TV is playing random news stories, and it starts raining outside again.

After one rain after another, New York finally settles into autumn.

During this time, my work remains stable, and things are peaceful between my boss and me.

Even though I didn't finish the last essay question on the skills test, I still got first place, and my sales performance remains at the top.

And Luke hasn't docked my bonus again.

Actually, I don't see him every day at the dealership. He's the general manager, often traveling for work, flying to various cities across the country, while I'm out running business errands daily.

No one at the company knows we're neighbors.

Occasionally, when I go downstairs to take out the trash and happen to run into him picking up a package, I'll greet him, and he'll nod back.

We've both silently agreed to forget about that drunken night when I insulted him, and we keep a polite but distant relationship, like any normal boss and employee.

It's Monday, and I've been sharing materials online with clients and introducing car models all the morning.

My eyes gradually become sore, so I take out a bottle of eye drops from my bag.

"The pace on Mondays is too fast. I still feel like I'm in weekend mode," my colleague sighs softly. "If only we could work just four days a week."

After using the eye drops, I smile, "By that logic, it'd be even better if we didn't have to work at all."

"Who wouldn't agree with that?"

As we're chatting, the automatic door opens, and a customer walks in.

Just as I'm tightening the cap on the eye drops, my colleague stands up, saying, "Welcome."

I blink a few times, feeling some relief in my sore eyes, and then return to my online work.

A moment later, my colleague calls my name softly, "Gemma."

I look in the direction of the voice and meet the gaze of a middle-aged man.

I walk over, nodding at the man, then ask my coworker, "What's up?"

"He's asking about a model I'm not familiar with. Help me out," my colleague tugs at my sleeve.

"Don't worry," I whisper back, then smile at the man, "Sir, may I ask which model you're interested in?"

"An MPV," he replies, though his eyes keep glancing toward the entrance.

It's then that I notice a woman standing outside the showroom, wearing a brown coat. Her long, curly hair falls over her chest. When she sees me looking at her, she quickly turns away and shakes her head.

"Sorry, I suddenly have something to take care of and won't be looking at cars today," the man says abruptly.

"Why don't you take this brochure with you? If you're interested, feel free to come back," I offer him the MPV model information.

"Thanks." He takes it without even glancing at it and heads out the door.

After they leave, my colleague stares at the slowly closing automatic door and mutters, "Weird."

I look out the window and see the couple standing outside talking after they go out. The man glances back once more and whispers something to the woman, who then nods. Then they get into their car and leave.

I find it weird too.

They seemed around the same age, with attire that suggests they're well-off, and their demeanor exudes the grace of well-educated, elite members of society. They must be a married couple.

But their behavior wasn't typical of people coming to buy a car.

I chalk it up as just a small, odd moment in an otherwise long Monday. But on Friday, the couple reappears.

"Hello, are you Gemma Dawson?"

It's after work, and I'm stepping out of the coffee shop next to the dealership when the man suddenly shows up.

Not far behind him, in a car, the woman with long curly hair is sitting in the passenger seat, discreetly watching us.

"May I ask who you are?" I step back cautiously.

"I mean no harm, Gemma," the man's voice softens. "I just want to ask, do you remember a girl named Mary?"

It's such a common name.

I've known more than five people named Mary throughout my life. I even looked it up online once-there are over two million women named Mary in the United States.

But as I look at the man's face, I instinctively connect him to the Mary who changed my life.

Standing there in the sunlight, the moment I hear that name, my vision goes blank for a moment.

I swallow and cautiously ask, "Are you talking about the Mary who donated her cornea to me?"

The man seems to exhale in relief. "I'm Mary's father."

Then he gestures toward the car and says gently, "And that's Mary's mother."