Tiananmen Square isn’t what I expected. Of course, the square isn’t crowded with protesters. But I just didn’t expect it to seem so ordinary—especially since the thirtieth anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre was just two months ago. Today, everyone seems to be on their way to somewhere else, most of them barely glancing at the monuments all around them—not even the looming Gate of Heavenly Peace that Tiananmen Square is named for—a huge structure of red pillars, a gold roof, and hundreds of broad stone stairs. But grand as the Gate of Heavenly Peace is, even it doesn’t distract me from thinking about what happened here thirty years ago. I expected Tiananmen Square to be a place weighted with history and revolution, maybe with bloodstains still on the ground. Instead, it’s just a big square paved with gray stone. No blood in sight.
“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” Eric asks, having walked me here after we exchanged contact information. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.
It feels disrespectful to treat a place of revolution like a tourist attraction, but I don’t know how to explain this. Stomach squirming, I let him take my picture. But I’m thinking of ghosts and tanks as he takes it.
Eric lowers his phone. “Something wrong?”
“It’s just that . . .” I stop and try again. “Do people remember the Tiananmen Square massacre?”
“Some do—yes,” he says slowly. “But it’s not only a matter of remembering. The government censors all mention of the massacre. You won’t find it in history books or online here.”
“I see,” I say, thinking of the error message when I tried to search for the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. “But wouldn’t people alive back then still talk about it?”
“Not necessarily. Fewer people knew about it than you might think. Back then, unless you were in Beijing or knew someone in the protest, chances were that you didn’t know what was happening. As for those who knew about it—well, some just want to forget or don’t want to burden the younger generation with such a tragic history.” His mouth sets. “Anyway, it’s still a dangerous topic.”
“Then how do you know so much about the Tiananmen Square protests and massacre?” I ask. “Were your parents in the protest?”
Eric shakes his head. “No, my parents didn’t protest. My dad was a college student in Beijing, but he wasn’t the revolutionary type, and my mom was still in high school in Shanghai at the time.”
“I don’t think my dad was in Beijing at the time either. He grew up in Anhui Province.” Not that my dad would be waving around protest signs and shouting revolutionary slogans even if he were in Beijing.
“What about your mother?” Then he says, “Never mind. I forgot whose daughter she was. Your grandfather is a high-ranking Communist Party official. No daughter of his would have taken part in those protests.”
Your grandfather is a high-ranking Communist Party official. That’s not something you hear every day. My blood turns to ice. The officials of the Communist Party who were threatened by the protesters’ demands for freedom from censorship and control . . . were the same ones who were responsible for the massacre. What if my grandfather was one of those officials? I think about the blocked search I tried to do on my grandfather. Is that why information on him is censored? Because he’s so high up in the Communist Party? Then I remember what Alyssa said. Gong Gong doesn’t know you’re here, and you’d better hope that he doesn’t find out. Just how dangerous is my grandfather?
Eric’s expression is somber as he looks across the span of gray stone to the red gate. “My mother told me,” he says abruptly, “about Tiananmen Square. She wasn’t at the protests, but she lost a lot. Her older brother was killed in the massacre, and her best friend was later arrested as a counterrevolutionary.”
I gasp. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes. Mom said hundreds—maybe a thousand—were killed. And thousands were arrested. My mother honors her brother’s memory every year on the day of his death.” He bends over his phone while I’m still reeling from what he’s told me. I knew the estimate of how many had died in the massacre. But knowing that Eric lost an uncle before he was even born makes this history seem more . . . real. And sad.
What my own mother said about the Tiananmen Square protests pops into my head. It wasn’t allowed. I thought she’d meant that in the general sense. But maybe she meant that she, as the daughter of a Communist Party official, wasn’t allowed to protest. Of course she wouldn’t have gone against her father in this. Not my mother. Except there must have been a time when she hadn’t followed the rules and got herself banished from her family. But what could my rule-following mother have done that would cause her to leave the country and break off all ties with her family?
My phone dings. Eric has sent me the picture he took of me, unsmiling and solemn, with the red-and-gold gate in the background. I zoom in to look at a large placard on the gate. “What does the sign say?”
He says it in Chinese and then translates. “‘Celebrate the togetherness of the people of the world.’ Or something like that.”
“That’s a nice sentiment for a place that’s seen so much violence, and it’s kind of funny that Tiananmen means ‘Gate of Heavenly Peace.’”
Eric smiles in ironic agreement. “Yeah.” He pauses. “But Tiananmen Square isn’t just a place where people died. It’s a place where people came together to fight for their beliefs. People our age who believed in something bigger than themselves. So, in a way, the words on the gate are true.”
I turn this over in my head. Just when I think I have a read on Eric . . . he reveals another, even more interesting layer.
He gestures toward the gate. “We talk about peace and unity like it’s the absence of fighting, but that doesn’t feel quite right to me—I don’t think unity and peace are things that just happen. I believe they’re something we have to fight for.”
“Yes.” My whole body thrums at his words. “I think that too.” The pressure on my chest eases. I glance around at the people walking through Tiananmen Square, and the place doesn’t seem quite so haunted anymore.
Eric is looking at me, his eyes hooded and intense. Unaccountably, my heart beats faster. Time to lighten things up. “Thanks for taking my first tourist pic,” I say, zooming back out until the gate is normal-size and in the background of the picture, “if you don’t count the hundreds of pictures taken of me in the Forbidden City by complete strangers.”
The color suddenly drains from his face. He starts frantically scrolling through his phone.
“What’s the matter?” I demand. What now?
He groans and looks up from his phone. “The gossip sites are going nuts,” he explains. “Apparently, pictures of me escorting Alyssa away from a mob at the Forbidden City are popping up on Weibo. According to multiple sites, rumors of our forbidden romance have just been confirmed.”
Laughter bubbles up in me—and then is cut off. “Oh hell, Alyssa’s going to think I did this on purpose. She did tell me to be careful and lie low.” I pat the sunglasses on my face to make sure they’re still in place.
Eric, in contrast, looks more cheerful. “Alyssa’s going to be furious,” he predicts. “It’s almost worth having my name linked with hers.” He smiles at me. “So, what other tourist sites are you visiting today? Need any company?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Planning to push Alyssa’s buttons by feeding the rumor mill, are we?”
“No, no,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying that I do have a car, and if you had more sightseeing to do . . .” His eyes glitter with mischief.
Tempting. And not just to annoy Alyssa either. There are worse fates than sightseeing with a fun, cute guy . . . But I don’t want to throw Alyssa into a tizzy. “I think I’ve had enough sightseeing and excitement for one day.” I put my phone back in my bag, and my fingers brush against the food wish list. “Don’t laugh, but the main thing I’m interested in anyway is food.”
Eric, of course, laughs.
“Didn’t I tell you,” I demand, “not to laugh?”
“Sorry!” He holds up his hands in apology. “Now I know you’re not Alyssa!”
“Doesn’t Alyssa like food? How is that even possible? I personally don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like food.” I might be trying a little too hard to distinguish myself from Alyssa, but it’s true that I don’t trust anyone with a “take it or leave it” attitude about food. I mean, I don’t need people to be as obsessed with food as I am, but a little enthusiasm for, say, a perfect chocolate chip cookie goes a long way to winning my heart.
“I love food,” Eric says promptly. “Big fan of it.” A tinge of red sweeps into his cheeks. “Big fan of people who love food too.”
Um. What’s going on here? He can’t possibly be flirting, can he? No, I assure myself, I’m imagining things. He just wants to hang out with me to irritate Alyssa. Eric Liu is definitely not flirting with me. Almost definitely not. Probably not . . . OK, face it, Gemma, the man is flirting with you.
Stomach tightening, I blurt out, “My boyfriend laughed too.” Ken did think my food wish list was hilarious. But that’s not why I mentioned Ken. I brought up my boyfriend out of pure panicked instinct. Because I’m not ready for this sizzling, crackling thing between Eric and me.
“Boyfriend. I see.” Eric looks away, and the redness in his face deepens.
My own face goes supernova hot in response. I’m tempted to tell him that Ken and I aren’t exclusive, but what’s the point? I’m leaving Beijing in a few short months. Then there’s the not-so-minor detail of Eric hating my estranged relatives. All in all, it’s probably better not to explain my exact relationship status with Ken. Besides, Eric’s not my type. So, there must be some other perfectly logical explanation for why my heart is thudding out of control—except I know exactly why there’s a percussion band in my chest. And he’s standing right in front of me, blushing and waiting for me to say something.
Maybe a tiny bit of flirting wouldn’t hurt. “Again, don’t laugh.” I hand Eric my list, my fingers brushing against his. Whoa. Suddenly, my skin is a tangle of heated nerves, making me snatch my hand away. Eric takes a step back, the list clutched in his hand.
Apparently, the line between a little flirting and total out-of-control, fiery attraction is nonexistent in this case. OK—good to know. “Uh, so that’s my food wish list.” I take a step back myself.
“Right.” He snaps his mouth shut and tears his eyes from me, swallowing hard. Guess I’m not the only one who felt that. He smooths out the list in his hand, and his eyebrows skyrocket as he reads it.
My breathing evens out as I watch him read the list from a safe distance. “Too ambitious?”
“Not at all. I love everything on this list. In fact, I can tell you where to go for good egg tarts. But are you telling me that you came to Beijing for the food?”
“Of course not,” I say with an injured air. “I came to Beijing to start riots at cultural sites, threaten a rich socialite’s inheritance, form an alliance with my ancestral enemy, and eat food!”
Eric laughs again, revealing an adorable dimple in his cheek. “Sounds like a great vacation!”
“Actually, I’m not really on vacation.” I tell him all about the movie, my hesitations about it—everything.
I may not have millions of social media followers or a rich, über-hip lifestyle, but Eric listens to every word with his complete, undivided attention. I’m not going to lie—it feels pretty awesome.
Did I make the right call in not revealing the whole truth about my relationship with Ken? But what could I have said? Thanks for the tip about the egg tarts—by the way, did I mention that I’m free to see other people? He’d assume I was interested in him. Which I’m definitely not. And he’s not interested in me either. Except that maybe he is.
The old me would have been thrilled by this situation—a relationship with a gorgeous, cool boyfriend and a flirtation with an equally gorgeous, fascinating stranger. In fact, it wasn’t that long ago that I was watching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before for the millionth time and talking to my roommates about what it would be like to be Lara Jean Song Covey, with all those great guys interested in her.
Well, now I know. It’s pure hell.
But it doesn’t have to be. I could put the brakes on this little pseudo-flirtation before it goes any further. In any case, I tell myself sternly, you’re leaving in a couple of months and going back to your boyfriend. Remember him? Ken? Fun, sexy, and doesn’t mistake you for his family’s mortal enemy?
While these thoughts are rushing through my head, Eric starts to hand back my notebook. A breeze flips up the page, and he glances down at it. “The Great Wall. Tiananmen Square. The Forbidden City. That’s it? You’re going to be here for two to three months, and that’s all you’ve got on your list?”
“I didn’t have time to plan more,” I say with all the dignity I can muster.
“You should put the Summer Palace on your list.”
“I was planning on it.” My pulse picks up. Is he going to offer to take me there?
But he just hands me back my notebook. “Good. It’s worth seeing.”
Probably better that I’m not making fun tourist plans with Eric anyway. Let’s keep this uncomplicated.
Good sense restored, I say, “I guess this is goodbye.”
“We’ll stay in touch,” he promises.
“Sure.” See? No need to get into a tizzy. Eric and I are parting in a perfectly platonic way . . . the way two people who just met each other would. Two people who are plotting against one of the richest families in China, that is.