Xishan Peaches

The interesting thing Wen Jiuze wanted to share with Xia Jiao was, of course, not about a friendly match with a fellow from the hometown of the Huai Black Pig.

It was that an old friend, who had helped him set up a tutoring institution many years ago, had suddenly called. The friend informed Wen Jiuze that he had found some archived test papers and assignments from the students Wen Jiuze had taught back then.

Among them was Xia Jiao’s.

Xia Jiao was stunned. “After all this time, how are they still kept?”

“No way around it,” Wen Jiuze sighed. “Li Lian is a hoarder.”

Li Lian, the partner who had worked with Wen Jiuze to establish the tutoring institution, was someone Xia Jiao had heard about during writing classes. Her impression of him was that he was tall and thin, always wearing black-framed glasses, and an absolute germaphobe.

He hardly ever sat down. The first thing he did every day when teaching was to pull out disinfecting wipes and meticulously wipe the podium five times before gingerly placing his books down.

As a severe collector, Li Lian had two houses. He didn’t live in them. They were used solely as storage spaces where he meticulously organized and stored all his “souvenirs.”

He believed these were the marks he left on his life. If one day he became successful and famous, these things could easily end up in a museum.

Xia Jiao didn’t think this was particularly interesting. By now, she had already forgotten what kind of English essay she had written back then.

However, she could imagine it must have been quite embarrassing.

Once, while cleaning her room, Xia Jiao found an old Chinese essay she had written. The very same essay that had been highly praised by her teacher now made her want to faint from embarrassment.

Three days later, Wen Chongyue received Xia Jiao’s archived assignments and exam papers that Li Lian had mailed to him.

In fact, Wen Chongyue’s impression of Xia Jiao had faded to almost nothing. If Xia Jiao hadn’t brought it up, he would have long forgotten that he had ever taught her, let alone remembered the small gesture of driving her home on a rainy day.

Wen Chongyue didn’t have a bad memory, but small details like these never left a deep impression on him. Looking back through the years felt like observing faint pencil marks, blurred and barely visible.

When Wen Chongyue was teaching Xia Jiao, he was already in university and had mellowed significantly.

In his younger days, he was bold and headstrong. Right after graduating from high school, he formed an underground band with some friends, where he played the bass. Among the group, he had the best temperament (relatively speaking) and was the quietest when fights broke out. When conflicts arose between bands, Wen Chongyue would silently grab someone’s head and slam it against the wall.

Not long after, the band disbanded, and Wen Chongyue went off to university. There, he became obsessed with learning new technologies and formed a hacker team with a few classmates. By then, the Red Hacker Alliance had already disbanded, and there was less oversight in the online environment. Wen Chongyue and his teammates took the opportunity to fly around and participate in various competitions. Some of his teammates were financially struggling, so Wen Chongyue covered all the team’s competition expenses. Of course, he didn’t ask Father Wen for money—he earned it himself.

One of Wen Chongyue’s ways of making money was by co-running a tutoring business during school breaks with some friends.

Wen Chongyue had traveled a lot and done many things in his youth. Unlike other privileged kids raised in sheltered environments, his parents’ failed marriage had exposed him early on to the selfishness of the world and human nature.

He didn’t have many material desires but enjoyed trying new things, especially those that involved a bit of danger. He had tried skydiving in Stuttgart, glacier trekking in Fox Glacier, heli-skiing in Alaska, and had even gotten a sailing license with his cousin to go yachting.

With all these experiences, Wen Chongyue had long forgotten the students he once taught. He never would have thought that the shy girl he helped on a whim would one day become his wife, his lifelong companion, the one he would share his bed with.

On Saturday, while Xia Jiao visited her parents, Wen Chongyue went outdoor rock climbing during the day. After returning home, he opened the package Li Lian had sent, which contained his wife’s old assignments and a few scattered photos from her school days.

It must have taken a lot of effort for Li Lian to gather everything. Wen Chongyue called to thank him, to which Li Lian joked, “Wow, Old Wen, who would have thought the proper teacher back then ended up marrying his student.”

Wen Chongyue laughed and scolded him, “Watch your mouth.”

It is said that handwriting reflects the character of the person. Xia Jiao’s English handwriting was neat and normal, which was the so-called “Hengshui style” that all students practiced at that time.

After all, it was for the college entrance exam, where neatness and clarity were key. Wen Chongyue didn’t spend much time criticizing the handwriting. He simply read through what Xia Jiao had written, trying to piece together an image of this socially awkward girl from back then.

The tutoring class he taught had small groups, with only a few students in each. Wen Chongyue was responsible in his work. Subtle influences over time made him more like his father—calm and composed. This quality had only become more pronounced as he aged, making him patient when teaching.

Many students came to Wen Chongyue after class to ask questions or share their worries, but Xia Jiao never did.

Li Lian had also sent some old photos. Xia Jiao stood by the window in the picture. Back then, her body hadn’t fully developed, and she appeared even more fragile and delicate than she does now. She looked like a helpless bird, her head slightly lowered in group photos, with a distant, confused look in her eyes, as if she were a young deer unable to blend into the herd or a fledgling lost from its group.

Wen Chongyue held the photo and recalled what Xia Jiao had said during the blind date.

“One evening, I missed my bus, and you drove me home.”

The house was quiet, with only the wind rustling the branches outside. Moonlight gently streamed in through the window. Wen Chongyue stroked his obedient cat, Wen Quan, on his lap, and finally managed to retrieve a fragment of memory.

He did indeed drive Xia Jiao home once, but it was only because he felt sorry for her. Out of all the students, she was the only one from another city. Her Mandarin was far from standard, often mixing up the sounds for “n” and “l.” When her classmates teased her to say “Granny Liu” and “Granny Niu”, Xia Jiao couldn’t say it, and her face and eyes turned red.

Perhaps the students’ jokes weren’t meant to hurt, but they undoubtedly caused her pain. Wen Chongyue had never seen her chatting or laughing with others. During breaks, she always kept her head down, reading or doing homework, her thin figure like a stray ink blot.

Wen Chongyue couldn’t recall any specific conversations with her. A quiet and timid student often made a teacher choose their words carefully. Perhaps he had offered her some words of encouragement—just encouragement, nothing that would hurt a sensitive and fragile heart.

That was all.

Xia Mi burrowed into the trash can. Even though his wandering days were over, he still had a habit of rummaging through it to see if there was anything interesting. The can was light, and with a wobble, it toppled over with a loud crash, startling Wen Chongyue. He put down the photo, lost in thought.

Back then, Wen Chongyue had never imagined that he would one day marry the student he had casually helped.

Xia Jiao also hadn’t imagined that she would choose to settle in Suzhou.

She had grown up in the water towns of Jiangnan, where she was used to nearly a month of continuous rainy weather. Clothes had to be dried in a machine, and everything felt damp. The air seemed filled with the lingering moisture of the rain. Xia Jiao once thought she would stay in Jiangsu forever. But then she set her sights on a goal, studied hard, and finally attended university in her dream city. She lived in the north for many years, where there was no rainy season and the four seasons were distinct. Winters were no longer damp and cold, and she enjoyed the warm floors under her feet. The only downsides were the short springs and occasional smog, but Xia Jiao worked hard to adapt to this dry, fast-paced city.

Returning once again to the rainy season, Xia Jiao didn’t feel any discomfort.

Perhaps the feeling of comfort never came from the city itself but from the people within it.

The flower shop had a designated area for employees to eat and rest, equipped with a microwave. While most of her colleagues ordered takeout or went to nearby restaurants, Xia Jiao didn’t need to—she had bento boxes prepared by Wen Chongyue.

Wen Chongyue had chosen a glass bento box that could be directly heated in the microwave. It had excellent sealing properties, so she didn’t have to worry about her books absorbing the smell of food when packed in her bag. Other than being a bit heavy, it was flawless.

Back in college, Xia Jiao marveled at how mothers in Japanese dramas prepared bento boxes for their children. She never expected that after starting her job, she would enjoy this same treatment.

The night before, Xia Jiao would help Wen Chongyue marinate chicken using yogurt, ketchup, honey, curry powder, and soy sauce. The next morning, while she was still asleep, Wen Chongyue would wake up early, pat the marinated chicken dry with a paper towel, and bake it in the oven.

Another dish Wen Chongyue loved to prepare for her was mushroom rice. Using premium rice from Wuchang, he mixed it with shiitake mushrooms, crab mushrooms, and white jade mushrooms, letting them absorb the rich aroma of sesame oil and bonito flakes. Each time she reheated it at work, her colleagues would shower her with compliments.

Of course, Xia Jiao’s absolute favorite was sandwiches. She was a sandwich enthusiast, having made them her go-to breakfast while working. They were convenient, quick, and clean to eat, with no mess—perfect for tossing the wrapper into the trash afterward.

Wen Chongyue got creative with the sandwiches. The simplest version was a vegetable sandwich with smoked salmon. Sometimes, he’d make a baguette sandwich filled with endive, avocado, and poached shrimp, always paired with neatly sliced tamagoyaki.

After Xia Jiao decided to skip morning exercise on workdays, Wen Chongyue, full of energy with nowhere to channel it, resumed his morning runs. However, before running, he would bake vegetable egg muffins or blueberry scones in the oven. By the time he returned from his run, the kitchen would be filled with the fragrant aroma of freshly baked treats. Wen Chongyue would pack the baked goods into Xia Jiao’s bento box, adding to the weight of her workbag and increasing her calorie intake. It was his silent protest against the loss of his morning exercise routine.

Yes, the couple’s exercise routine had now been limited to the evenings.

After several failed attempts to energize herself with early morning workouts, Xia Jiao and Wen Chongyue had an open and honest discussion. Weighing the pros and cons—using their health check reports as critical evidence—the newlyweds reached a consensus.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they would maintain a routine of three healthy meals a day. No exceptions.

After testing out this new household rule, Xia Jiao was thrilled with the results. She had more sleep time, felt more energized at work, and even had more opportunities to play with their cat.

Wen Chongyue refused to comment on this.

The days in July were long.

With lush greenery and the rain finally gone, the ponds were filled with clear water. There was a local nursery rhyme in the Wujiang area: “On the sixth day of the sixth month, buy some wontons; on the seventh day of the seventh month, get a watermelon and slice it.”

In fact, July in Suzhou was about more than just watermelons. The bayberries from Xishan in Taihu had ripened, plums had turned red, and peaches had grown sweet.

Xia Jiao was allergic to peach fuzz and couldn’t touch them. However, she loved peaches so much that she awkwardly wore gloves to peel them. The water peaches from Xishan were incredibly sweet—large, white, with a hint of pink. One could barely hold them with one hand. She had to cup the fruit in both hands, carefully poke a hole in it, and lower her head to suck out the sweet juice. But being allergic to peach fuzz, Xia Jiao couldn’t enjoy them like that. Pitifully, she had to peel the peach and try her best to avoid touching the fuzz while eating the flesh.

The best thing about Xishan water peaches was how juicy they were. Xia Jiao knew peeling them this way was wasteful, but she had no other choice.

That was until Wen Chongyue noticed.

“You should’ve told me earlier,” Wen Chongyue sighed, a bit helpless. With practiced skill, he peeled the peach, offering the clean flesh to Xia Jiao’s lips. “Bite—what do you think your husband is for?”

Xia Jiao bit into the sweet peach and sighed contentedly. Wen Chongyue’s skill in the kitchen extended even to peeling fruit. She smiled and answered his question, “Hmm… Is a husband’s role to be the pillar of the house?”

Wen Chongyue replied, “Jiao Jiao, speaking from your heart isn’t a crime.”

Relieved, Xia Jiao thought for a moment and seriously said, “Providing stability in life? Fulfilling desires—both for food and… other things?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Wen Chongyue said. “We’re partners, Jiao Jiao. Do you understand what it means to be partners? If you ever face these small troubles again, I hope I’ll be the first person you think of to help. Okay?”

With Wen Chongyue’s help, Xia Jiao ate the peach, bite by bite. Worried, she asked, “But won’t it be too much trouble for you?”

Wen Chongyue replied, “Not at all.”

And indeed, it wasn’t.

Wen Chongyue didn’t mind peeling peaches for his wife, who was allergic to the fuzz. It wasn’t without its rewards either—Xia Jiao would often offer him the peach to eat, biting into its flesh until it turned a deep, reddish-purple, like a ripe bayberry. Only when Xia Jiao furrowed her brows and bit her lip did Wen Chongyue stop.

As July arrived, the ancient lotus in Jinxi blossomed along its long causeway, the waves in the Garden of the Humble Administrator shimmered in green, and the fruits and flowers in Taihu’s East and West Mountains filled the air with their fragrance. Visitors to Suzhou increased, including couples and families alike. The lines in front of the Suzhou Museum stretched for hundreds of meters. Tourist spots were packed, and even the farmhouses near Taihu were fully booked during the holidays.

Business at the flower shop also thrived.

Although Xia Jiao wasn’t yet qualified to participate in large-scale designs, working with plants in the shop made her feel relaxed and at ease. Her current work environment no longer required her to buy expensive clothing or accessories to dress herself up. A simple, clean look with light makeup was enough. Her previous job had been too exhausting. Now, Xia Jiao went to work fresh and clean every day. Besides, dealing with flowers often led to unexpected messes, making delicate fabrics unsuitable.

The elderly man who had visited the shop before became a regular customer. He still had that serious expression and didn’t talk much. He always came in a hurry, buying only one rose each day without fail.

Xia Jiao once tried to introduce the store’s membership program to him, explaining the discounts available. Unfortunately, the old man didn’t appreciate her efforts and coldly interrupted, “Don’t try to trick me into getting a membership card. I’m not putting money into it.”

Xia Jiao said, “Here’s the situation, sir. You don’t need to top up your card. We just need your phone number and name—”

“No,” the elderly man firmly interrupted. He insisted on paying with cash, pulling out his wallet. “No need.”

Xia Jiao didn’t dwell on this matter, but Yu Qingzhen chuckled softly and patted Xia Jiao on the shoulder with a hint of sympathy. “I told you, there’s no point wasting your energy on customers with such low purchasing power.”

Xia Jiao didn’t agree with her.

“All customers are the same,” Xia Jiao said.

Yu Qingzhen saw things differently. She had little regard for those who only bought flowers in small quantities, one stem at a time. In her eyes, high-level clients like Bai Ruolang, who spent hundreds of thousands without batting an eye, buying truckloads of flowers, were the ones worth the effort.

The last time they went to set up a venue, Yu Qingzhen had seen a photo of Song Zhaocong. While not extraordinarily handsome, he had decent features. It was Yu Qingzhen’s first encounter with a world so different from hers, and it made her somewhat restless.

Yu Qingzhen mused, “A single flower order from a wealthy person could earn us commissions equivalent to several months’ salary, right?”

Xia Jiao didn’t argue with her. She was busy worrying about her first custom order.

The flower shop offered a special service where clients would provide a budget and describe the recipient’s personality and the occasion. The florist would then design a bouquet tailored to these details.

Xia Jiao received an order from a shy, introverted female college student. With a budget of only 150 yuan, she wanted to send flowers to the boy she had a crush on.

She requested a bouquet that subtly expressed her feelings, but without using roses, as they were too bold.

Xia Jiao experimented with various flower combinations but couldn’t find the right feel. To make matters worse, four days before the deadline, she caught a cold.

She didn’t have a fever, just a stuffy nose and dizziness. The symptoms started on Friday evening. All the original weekend travel plans were cancelled. Wen Chongyue made some sweet soup for her, and Xia Jiao drank it sickly. She lay on the sofa wrapped in a small quilt, hugging a cat with one arm, and sweating profusely.

An old movie, Suzhou River, played on the screen, while the jasmine on the balcony bloomed, its delicate fragrance wafting slowly into the living room.

Wen Chongyue brewed tea in a pot that Xia Jiao had given him, moving about in his usual unhurried manner.

Two cats dozed contentedly on Xia Jiao’s lap, purring softly. She pulled her arm out from under them and wiped her reddened nose with a tissue.

She asked, “Teacher Wen, have you ever had a secret crush?”

Wen Chongyue replied calmly, “I don’t do secret crushes.”

As the water boiled, small bubbles formed and steam rose. Wen Chongyue added, “If I like someone, I confess. A secret crush only moves oneself.”

Xia Jiao blew her nose hard.

Wen Chongyue turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Have you had one, Jiao Jiao?”

Xia Jiao’s reply was a muffled “Mm.”

It wasn’t unusual.

Young girls, experiencing their first love, often fall for someone—even if they know the gap between them is too wide, even if they realize it’s impossible, even if they are fully aware the chances are zero…

If you could control it, it wouldn’t be called first love.

Wen Chongyue watched Xia Jiao pull out another tissue to blow her nose, then his gaze returned to the teapot in front of him.

He should have said something like, “That sounds interesting.”

But he didn’t. Instead, in his usual calm tone, he asked, “What do you feel like eating today?”

Xia Jiao mumbled, “Fengzhen braised pork noodles.”

—Had she not gotten sick, their original plan was to visit Tiger Hill, stroll along Shantang Street, and go to Hanshan Temple. They had planned to enjoy a bowl of Fengzhen braised pork noodles in the early morning—a dish made famous by A Bite of China.

Unfortunately, with Xia Jiao feeling unwell, it was best to stay indoors.

Wen Chongyue thought for a moment and suggested, “Want to try making it ourselves?”

Xia Jiao responded with surprise, “Huh?”

Wen Chongyue was always up for trying new things. Beyond simply asking “What do you want to eat today?” he also liked to propose, “Shall we try making it?”

This wasn’t limited to just the bed, the sofa, the bathtub, or the balcony.

Xia Jiao was afraid of failure, so she found it hard to take the first step. Wen Chongyue, on the other hand, was different. Success was nice, but failure didn’t bother him. He didn’t mind trying—after all, making mistakes was just another way to gain experience.

Thanks to his encouragement, Xia Jiao had already tried many things.

This time, it was Fengzhen braised pork noodles.

For Suzhou locals, the key to enjoying noodles lies in the toppings. The noodles themselves are secondary; the crucial part is the soup. The broth must be rich and flavorful, often prepared with red or white stock depending on the type of topping. Some people even wake up early just to get a bowl of “first broth noodles.”

A simple bowl of plain noodles, paired with a variety of toppings, is both elegant and refined.

Sophisticated Suzhou natives even align their choice of toppings with the seasons: shrimp noodles in spring, Fengzhen braised pork noodles in summer, “bald butter” noodles in autumn, and chicken noodles in the cold of winter.

Fengzhen braised pork is only available in the summer, and while getting the pork wasn’t difficult, the challenge was making the broth.

Noodle chefs usually start preparing the broth at three in the morning, and each old establishment guards its own secret recipe.

As the tea brewed gently, Wen Chongyue scrolled through information online, contemplating how to make Fengzhen braised pork noodles at home.

Xia Jiao leaned closer, her voice softened by her cold. “Aunt wants me to accompany her to Kunming on Thursday to look at flowers. She said we’d fly there first, then drive once we arrive.”

Wen Chongyue murmured in acknowledgment, “Kunming? Old Qin has a car there. If you need it, I’ll send you his WeChat. Oh, by the way, do you even have a driver’s license?”

It wasn’t until then that Wen Chongyue realized he didn’t know whether his wife had ever gotten her license, or if she could drive at all.

“I do! Got it back in 2014,” Xia Jiao replied.

Wen Chongyue was about to offer her his car keys but paused, calculating the time. Surprised, he said, “2014? Weren’t you still underage back then?”

Xia Jiao nodded: “Yes.”

Wen Chongyue was puzzled: “What kind of driver’s license do you have?”

Xia Jiao smiled innocently: “QQ Speed ​​driver’s license.”

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