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chapter 1
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Rod Arnold was a notorious playboy. He treated every girlfriend well, giving them whatever they wanted. Except marriage. Everyone knew that since breaking up with his first love, he never got over it, unable to take that step with any other woman. In our fifth month together, my family was pressuring me about commitment. I had no choice but to say goodbye: “I heard your first love is coming back too, congratulations.” He smiled: “Mm–hmm.” That night, his friends threw him a bachelor party. The venue was large and lively. Someone mentioned me: “Rod, I think I just saw Hulda with some guy, quite handsome.” After that comment, everyone started gossiping, making quite a scene. But Rod suddenly lost his temper, crushing out his cigarette and sneering: “She’s the one who started the relationship, and she’s the one who ended it. Who gets to have it that good?”
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When Rod and I first got together, his friends placed bets. They made substantial wagers on whether our relationship would last more than a month. He came from a prestigious family with quite a reputation. When I first met him, my roommate had warned me: “The Ironhavens aren’t ordinary people, best not to mess with them.” “Though this Rod is different. I heard he’s quite approachable, never loses his temper with girls, and ends things amicably with every girlfriend.” Those words weren’t empty.
But between us, there wasn’t really a matter of who pursued
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whom. I was in my second year of graduate school then, working on research with my advisor. I needed a specific English academic book that was out of print and very difficult to find. I posted online many times, but got no response. Just when I thought it was hopeless, someone finally replied. The tone was somewhat cynical yet quite serious-[My old man might have it at home. Contact me if you want it. Consider it my good deed for the day.]
I contacted him right away. Afterward, to thank him, we met twice more and got along quite well. The last time, he stood under a streetlight, his handsome features illuminated. Thinking of something, he raised an eyebrow and asked: “Shall we meet again?”
In the future, as springs pass and autumns come, one Christmas after another, would we see each other again? The moonlight was cold, the moment perfect. If I said no, it would inevitably be disappointing. As if possessed, I smiled and asked defiantly: “I heard you’re easy to win over, is that true?”
He looked at me, unable to stop smiling: “Why don’t you try and see?”
When you’re inexperienced and meet someone like that- carefree, composed, and powerful–you can’t help but want to get closer. Besides, I had seen him long before. I had just arrived in this city when someone stole my wallet at the station. I had nothing on me. After filing a police report, it started raining. I was in a miserable state, crying heavily.
He drove by, slowing down to say: “Where are you headed? I’ll
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give you a lift.”
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Naturally, I didn’t dare get into his car. He was patient, trying to persuade me: “I’m not a bad person. Trust me just this once, and stop crying, okay?”
I always wanted to thank him afterward, but we never crossed paths again. In a city with so many people, having a brief encounter and exchanging a few words is truly a rare thing.
Not long after that day, we got together. When my roommate found out, she was shocked for quite a while before saying: “Dating someone like him must be pretty nice, right? Though I heard he never stays with any girlfriend for more than half a month. Just enjoy it while it lasts.”
I said, yes, I’ll enjoy the moment.
Everyone has moments of naivety. At that time, I thought love was about following your heart. When I liked him, I didn’t care about his past, only wanting a future with him. But later I realized that wasn’t the case.
Take that bet, for instance. If Rod’s relationships never lasted more than half a month, why would his friends, those young gentlemen, bet on a month?
Much later, I discovered the truth. Those extra two weeks were because I resembled his first love, just a little.
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That bet–most people lost. Because, to everyone’s surprise, Rod and I had a great relationship. It was quite different from his previous ones.
He was unusually proactive, meeting me every day for lunch or dinner. During a particularly busy period, he would wait for me outside the school, sometimes for half an hour. Feeling guilty about making him wait, I offered to treat him to a nice meal, but he tugged at my sleeve, suppressing a smile: “Your boyfriend wants to eat at the cafeteria.” Then, after a pause, he asked for my opinion: “Is that okay?”
I understood. He didn’t want me going back and forth. Before this, I had heard that during his school days, he was extremely proud and never ate at the cafeteria. The young master of the Ironhaven family had every right to be arrogant.
We never broke up. Our relationship was surprisingly good. In our third month together, he moved near my school. We spent more and more time together. He set up a home theater specifically for us. During our free time, we would curl up on the sofa watching movies. He wasn’t particularly interested in them, but I loved them. Each time, he would patiently watch from beginning to end. For films I especially liked, he would even take careful notes and write reviews.
His grandfather was a famous painter, and he had learned a bit from him over the years, showing considerable talent. During those days, he would occasionally paint me. One particular painting left a deep impression—a girl standing under a camphor tree, holding a stack of books, with delicate features and a bright smile. But I always wanted to ask him: when we
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first met, I was still quite reserved. How could I have smiled so radiantly?
Later, one deep night. It was our first time. My research had hit some problems. When he found out, he patiently guided me through, his fingers lightly tapping on my waist, his posture relaxed: “Understand now?”
I had a sudden realization and hugged him back excitedly. He looked at me, his gaze gradually deepening. Finally, he leaned forward, his thin lips moving, the touch cool. He was a bit nervous, but his expression remained nonchalant as he gripped my hand: “Hulda.”
“Mm–hmm.”
Halfway through, he lowered his voice and mentioned that painting, saying: “The first time we met, you were standing there, and I really wanted to capture that moment.”
I smiled, kissing his neck, hinting: “Did you do this with your previous girlfriends too?” In the midst of tenderness and intimacyIn our tender embrace, he murmured softly, recounting our first meeting. He clicked his tongue, leaning against me casually: “Go ask around if you want. Have I ever gone this far with any other girl?” The intimacy flowed silently between us, but later, I couldn’t smile anymore. Held in his arms, I cried softly.
September in Ironhaven was awash with autumn colors. Social media was flooded with videos of tourists seeking blessings, and I begged him to take me there. He had worked several late
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nights to clear his schedule, specifically setting aside a day for me. On the winding mountain path, he held my hand as we climbed hundreds of stone steps, watching my every move, terrified I might slip. But later, when I left him, I realized–in life, how can one never stumble? Back then, I truly had feelings for him.
When did things start to change? Probably from the moment I saw that photograph. It was during our fifth month together. Rod had many friends, and when his birthday approached, everyone was eagerly competing to throw him the best celebration, planning weeks in advance. I was on break then, so I joined in the preparations.
As I spent more time with them, they never filtered their conversations around me. Gradually, I learned that Rod had once taken relationships seriously–he had proposed earnestly, carefully selected a ring, chosen an engagement venue. But in the end, because of some minor issue, the girl felt he didn’t love her enough. After a huge fight, they both grew weary–one left in anger, the other didn’t try to stop her. And so they broke up. They had almost married.
By the end of the story, someone showed me a photo, making no attempt to be discreet: “Come to think of it, you look a bit like Afra. That’s why we started that wager about your relationship in the first place.”
In the photo, Afra Francis smiled brightly. She looked so similar to the girl standing under the camphor tree in that painting. When I first learned about this bet, I thought they were just being childish. Now, looking back, I realized I was the truly
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naive one. Everyone knew he still harbored unresolved feelings for his first love.He still kept tabs on her activities. Every year on her birthday, he would specially send someone thousands of miles to deliver the most expensive jewelry to her. Whenever she encountered any difficulties there, someone would quickly inform him, and regardless of the circumstances, he would go to her and quietly resolve everything. Never letting her know, never contacting her, yet never truly letting go. Only I was foolish enough to believe that I was special to him.
Finally, someone joked, “After Afra left, Rod has been dating constantly, but we all guess he’s just doing this to force Afra to come back.”
Everyone laughed after that. Rod returned from his phone call, sat beside me, squeezed my palm, and chuckled softly, “What are you all talking about? You seem happy.”
I looked at him, feeling a chill spread through my heart, and replied woodenly, “We were talking about your first love.”
He froze, unusually distracted, and in the end couldn’t even say her name, only responding flatly, “What’s there to talk about?”
This was the first time I thought about breaking up with him. Actually, I should thank his friends for not keeping me in the dark. Precisely because they didn’t consider my feelings and told me these things, I was able to wake up and see the situation clearly. They made me understand that I was just a passerby in Rod’s life, a means to love someone else.
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