Misplaced Summer - Part 9

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Rumor

We got back to Hangzhou close to ten at night.

Coco was quiet on the drive. She held the white rabbit, leaned against the passenger seat, listened to the music. She'd say something every so often. Mostly she was silent. And when she went silent, the cabin felt smaller; the faint floral scent had more room to get under the skin. I drove, eyes on the highway, but my head kept replaying her face in the accessory shop that afternoon — picking out a gift for Su Man.

When we pulled up outside her apartment building, she unbuckled, lifted the rabbit, then bent forward to pull the gift bag out of the glovebox and hand it to me.

"Don't forget this."

"Mm."

She didn't rush to get out. Her hand stayed on the door handle. She turned her head. "Tired?"

"I'm fine."

"Liar." A small smile. "You've been driving all day."

I didn't pick that up. Just said: "Go up. Get some sleep. You don't need to be in early tomorrow."

"Got it, Manager Li."

She did the Manager on purpose, lifting the tail of it lightly, like brushing a feather against my ear. I frowned; she had already pushed the door open. The night wind caught the hem of her trench. She stood outside, waved at me through the half-open door. "Drive safe. Don't forget to bring Su Man her present."

"Mm."

"And — " she paused, eyes crescent, "today really was a good day."

She turned and walked into the complex, the rabbit under her arm, her step light.

I sat in the car until her back vanished, then started the engine again.

When I got home, Su Man was still up — in her nightdress on the couch, waiting. On the coffee table sat a bowl of white-fungus dessert kept warm for me.

"You're back." She got up and took my bag. "Did you get the contract?"

"Got it." Changing my shoes, I handed her the gift. "Coco picked this out for you."

"For me?" Su Man paused, then her face broke into that surprised-and-touched smile. "She really shouldn't have bought me anything."

She opened the box. First the pale cream silk pocket scarf — she lifted it, held it against her neck, eyes lighting up. "The color is so gentle. I love it."

Then the candle. She unwrapped it, took a sniff, smiled more. "She has great taste."

I stood and watched her turn the items over in her hands, happily — and that heaviness inside me rose another notch.

"She wrote a card too." Su Man pulled a small folded card from the box, read aloud: "Ms. Su, the wind in Ningbo is sharp — I brought you a little softness from there. Have me over for hotpot again sometime. — Coco."

She looked up at me, smiling. "Listen to her. No wonder everyone at your office adores her."

My throat had gone tight. All I managed was a mm.

Su Man tied the scarf at her throat, checked herself in the mirror, then turned around. "This trip — was it hard on her?"

"Not too bad," I said. "She really did most of the work on the project."

"Then take care of her." Su Man said it offhand. "It's not easy for a young woman to be out chasing clients."

I looked at her. Something inside me had closed up. After a long moment I said, low, "Mm."

That night I lay in bed and could not get to sleep for a long time. Su Man slept well, as always — she leaned against me, fell under quickly, breathing even, her hand resting habitually at my waist. But the moment I closed my eyes, the two days played back through my head.

Coco at the table, taking the cup of baijiu for me.

Coco at the river, leaning on the rail in the wind.

Coco in the accessory shop, head bent, writing the card for Su Man.

Coco standing in the night before she got out of the car, telling me she had a good day.

I turned over, stared at the ceiling, my chest knotted.

The next morning, the news about Ningbo had already gone around the office before I'd reached my desk.

In sales, information always travels faster than email. I'd barely set foot on the floor before someone yelled across the room: "Ethan, you really closed Ningbo?"

"Yeah." I set my laptop bag down. "Legal's running the contract through."

"Massive," another said. "If this lands cleanly, you've got Q-champ locked in again."

Before I could answer, Chen stuck his head up over a partition. "Yeah, but the real story isn't Ethan staying on top — it's that Coco's about to take off. Word on the ground is the client raved about her to the higher-ups. Leadership knows."

The teasing started up around the floor.

"Right? Coco's been on a tear."

"You guys haven't noticed? Her signing speed the last six months is unreal."

"Honestly — corporate has been talking about setting up a Key Accounts unit. She might get pulled up."

"Watch out, Ethan — don't let the apprentice climb over the master."

A laugh rolled around the room.

I laughed too. Said the right thing: "Best case scenario. We're one team."

The words came out clean. Inside, something was being poked at with a small needle.

I'll admit it. I have, at the end of the day, a streak of old-school male pride.

I know Coco is talented. I genuinely think she's good. Closing, client management, proposals — she's strong at all of it. I respect that. But respect is one thing, and underneath it there's a thing I don't quite know how to put into words. I'm the man. I'm four years older. I'm her direct manager. She is someone I hired and someone I trained, one step at a time. And if one day she sits above me on title and on numbers, there is no version of me that feels nothing.

Especially with everyone making jokes about it.

Male pride can be that small and ridiculous. You know it shouldn't matter. The breath still won't quite go down.

I sat down and opened my laptop. On the surface I was fine. Inside, the weight had started to settle.

A while later, Coco came in.

Pale blue blouse, hair pulled up high, a paper bag of breakfast in her hand. She greeted everyone on the way in, smile as bright as usual.

"Morning."

"It's Coco — our Ningbo hero!"

"Make room — future leadership coming through."

She didn't take offense. The smile only sweetened. "Stop. I'm not at that level."

She came up to my workstation and set the bag down on my desk. "Brought you breakfast. Soymilk's still hot."

I looked up at her.

She winked at me — completely unbothered by the surrounding noise.

Someone laughed: "Coco, that's a bit much though — you're going to make it big and only get Ethan breakfast?"

"Of course it's different." She caught the line in stride, light. "Ethan trained me. I have to suck up to him a little, no?"

The room cracked up.

But hearing suck up sat wrong with me. Because she and I both knew what was actually true. She didn't need to suck up to me. I was the one who increasingly needed her.

Ten AM. Department meeting.

The director ran through the Ningbo deal, praised me, then called out Coco's name specifically: "We closed this because Coco delivered. The client's impression of her is excellent. It's good to see young people with drive — the company is considering more opportunities ahead."

Eyes traded around the conference room.

I was seated next to Coco. The pen in my hand paused.

More opportunities. In a sales department, the phrase translated easily enough.

After the meeting, the rumor ran faster than before. Some were saying HQ was actually moving on a Key Accounts unit. Some said the East Region director had already used Coco's name. Some said in two months she might no longer be an ordinary account manager.

The more I heard, the worse it got.

Not about her getting promoted. Honestly, she has the chops for it. It was the half-truth, half-spectacle tone — like next, the apprentice was going to climb over the master, and everyone got to watch.

By lunch, I had no appetite.

Coco set her tray down opposite mine, looked at me, then took her time picking up a chopstickful of greens. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Liar." She took a sip of soup. "Your face has been off since morning."

"Has it?"

"Yes." Without hesitation. "Is it because everyone's saying I'm going to get promoted?"

My chopsticks paused.

She'd just said it. Out loud.

I looked up. Her face was calm, almost amused — as though she was watching how long I was going to pretend.

"No," I said.

She poked at her rice, voice low. "Ethan — do you think men aren't supposed to lose to women?"

My stomach dropped.

The line was too straight; there was no room to dodge it.

I frowned. "Don't read into things."

"I'm not reading into anything." She lifted her eyes to mine. Bright. "I just think you're actually pretty easy to read sometimes."

I felt heat rise. My voice dropped. "I said it's not that. I just think promotions should be based on experience and seniority too. Not on signing one or two contracts."

It came out heavier than I'd meant.

Coco didn't bristle. She looked at me quietly for two seconds, then smiled.

"See," she said, low, "you do care."

I didn't answer.

She pushed her tray forward an inch, leaned in slightly, voice softer. "But Ethan — the way you care, it's actually kind of cute."

"Coco." My voice dropped in warning.

She wasn't intimidated; the smile only softened more. "Okay. I'll stop teasing."

She sat back, then dutifully lowered her head to eat, as if afraid she'd really pushed me.

But inside, I was more knotted than before.

Because she was right. I did care. Not just about the title. Not just about the male face of it. Also because once she really walked out from under my line and became part of a different reporting structure, I would no longer be able to do what I do now — see her any time I wanted, call her into my office any time I wanted, know any time I wanted where she was today and who she was meeting.

The thought caught me off guard.

That afternoon, like I had something to prove, I made fifteen straight client calls and resurrected two leads I'd been letting drift. The harder I worked, the more it felt like a performance. Proof that I was still the one carrying the numbers. Proof that a twenty-four-year-old hadn't outpaced me. Proof that, as a man, I was still standing.

The harder I proved it, the more hollow it felt.

Around four, the director called me into his office and laid something out.

HQ was, in fact, moving on a Key Accounts division. Projects at Ningbo's level were going to be routed under it. He didn't commit to specifics, but the picture was clear — the org was going to shift, resources were going to be redistributed, who got promoted, who stayed, who got pulled out — all of it was just a matter of time.

"Keep this in mind," he said, looking at me. "Coco's on a fast track right now. The company is going to be watching her closely. You're her direct manager — keep developing her, but also prepare yourself."

"Prepare for what?" I asked.

He smiled. "For her not always being under you."

When I walked out of his office, something in me had sunk.

The floor was emptying out for the day. People were starting to pack up. Coco's seat was empty — she was probably off making a client call. I stood in the aisle, looked at her empty chair, and a strange hollowness moved through my chest.

I had always thought she was the one chasing me, sticking close, pushing me one step at a time backward.

But in that moment, looking at her empty seat, I felt as if something had vacuumed out a section of my chest.

I had an absurd thought — what if she actually leaves?

What if she's no longer in this department, no longer calling me Ethan, no longer bringing me proposals to sign, no longer sitting in my passenger seat sorting documents, no longer slipping the iced americano onto my desk on overtime nights without a word.

What would I be like.

I stood there with my head a mess. And then I heard her voice behind me.

"Ethan."

I turned.

Coco stood a few steps away, her phone in her hand — she had clearly just finished a call. She looked at me for a moment, as if reading the unhappiness in me but also as if leaving it untouched, and then smiled.

"The client just called to tell me you held the contract details together yesterday," she said as she walked over. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried. "So stop worrying about winning and losing."

I looked at her, frowned. "I'm not worrying."

"Mm." She nodded — clearly not buying it. "Anyway. I know. You're the best."

She moved to walk past me to her desk.

I caught her, almost on reflex. "Coco."

She stopped, turned.

I had wanted to ask her — Have you been hearing the rumors? Have you already heard the org is going to be reshuffled? Are you going to leave this department someday? But what came out, when it reached my mouth, was a flat, throwaway line: "On Ningbo. You stay on the project for the kickoff."

Her eyes crinkled. "Sure."

"And — " I paused, dropped my voice. "Don't get too pleased with yourself."

She laughed — a real laugh.

"Got it," she said. "I won't let you lose to me. Okay?"

She was so plainly humoring me. So plainly, so lightly. As if she had seen through every piece of inarticulate male pride in me, and seen through every piece of stiffness I didn't want to acknowledge, and decided to soothe both.

I stood watching her go back to her station, sit down, open the laptop, a few loose strands of hair falling at her ears, her face shifting back into the focused, working version of itself.

And the weight in my chest didn't lift.

It only sat heavier.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Announcement

A rumor, once it sets out, grows its own legs.

The week after Ningbo closed, I went at things like I was fighting a war. Days running clients, evenings rewriting proposals, one phone call after another, one dinner after another. I had a knot of something in my chest — not entirely about KPIs, not entirely about promotion, more like the inarticulate male stiffness of I'm not going to be the manager who lets himself get coolly outpaced by a twenty-four-year-old. Yes, Coco was sharp. Yes, she was on a tear. I just didn't want anyone watching it happen.

Men shouldn't lose to women.

It sounded childish, even slightly ridiculous when I put it that way. But it had lodged itself solidly inside me.

So I worked.

I tore through the clients I'd been letting drift — pricing, cadence, decision chain, key-stakeholder preferences, every piece rebuilt. Wednesday night I drank with a manufacturing client until almost eleven, came home with cigarette and liquor in the collar of my shirt. Next morning 7:30 I was in Binjiang with another client, no time for breakfast.

I wasn't faking the effort.

I was genuinely working.

And there were results. Inside ten days I pulled back two deals that had been about to die and locked in a mid-size pilot. Friday afternoon I walked out of the conference room with the confirmation email open on my phone, finally let out a breath, even felt a flicker of an old kind of pride.

Right. You all think Coco's about to take off?

I'm not made of paper either.

But the relief didn't last long. Reality came back around to slap me, unhurried.

First was Monday morning. A client I'd been working for nearly two months called and said he wanted to "optimize the next round" of the proposal. I'd expected a routine second pass. Then the procurement lead on the other end pivoted, smiling, and asked: "Manager Li — on that Ningbo project, was there a Ms. Li Jiaxin working on it?"

I paused. "Yes. Why?"

"Nothing. Our director knows people on the Ningbo side. Heard she was excellent — presented well. Tell you what — next time you come over, bring her with you. We'd like a conversation with her too."

The pen rolling between my fingers stopped.

"I'm pretty familiar with the proposal," I said, keeping my tone level. "I can handle this round myself."

"I know, I know." Still smiling. "But you've got the resource — bring her. Different perspective. Better conversation."

After the call, I stared at my screen for several seconds.

Resource.

He had called Coco a resource.

I should have been pleased. A client asking for someone on the team by name was only good for the project. But something was sitting wrong in my chest, like the stage I'd been building all these months had finally come together — and the brightest spotlight on it wasn't on me.

That was only the beginning.

Tuesday afternoon, another prospective client. I'd barely sat down before the marketing director said, "Manager Li, pleasure. By the way — your company has someone called Coco Li? I saw a video of her presenting a case in an industry chat group recently — really compelling. Would have been even better if you'd brought her today."

I was holding a teacup; I almost didn't keep it steady.

"Today's session is fine without her," I said, setting the cup down, smiling. "Next time, if there's a need, I'll have her join."

He nodded, said sure, but didn't quite hide the what a shame in his face.

The third time was even more direct.

Major client. I'd spent weeks laying the groundwork. We were about to enter the formal pricing stage. Halfway through dinner, the boss clapped me on the shoulder. "Manager Li, when we sit down for the real talk next time, bring that Coco Li of yours. Honestly, my wife really likes her style — young, approachable, easy. You handle the strategy, she handles the pitch. Perfect."

I kept smiling. Inside, something was clogged.

You handle the strategy. She handles the pitch.

Translated: Bring her.

I'll admit it. My mood those few days was twisted.

On one side was male pride. On the other was something I didn't want to acknowledge — the more clients named her, the more it irritated me; and yet, hearing them praise her, an obscure pride would surface anyway. Like a blade I had personally sharpened — its edge bright enough that everyone could see. And once the blade was bright enough to hurt the eyes, my instinct was: maybe she's no longer mine to wield.

Wednesday night, I was working past nine. Coco was still there.

She had her laptop open in the conference room, revising a client proposal. The light fell on her face, making her skin look almost too bright. I watched from the doorway, then knocked.

"Still not off?"

She looked up. Smiled. "Soon. Two more pages."

I walked in, set a coffee on the corner of her desk. "Don't drink too late. You won't sleep."

"Okay." Her hand was already on the cup. She bent to smell it. "For me?"

"On the way back."

"Oh." She drew the syllable out, eyes crescent. "Then I'll savor it."

I'd meant to turn and walk. But thinking of those three calls, my steps slowed.

"Coco."

"Mm?"

"Have a lot of clients been asking for you recently?"

She blinked. "Some."

"Some?" I looked at her. "I've got three. All asked for you by name."

She had the audacity to look slightly innocent, fingers around the cup, a quiet oh. "Then what should I do?"

She said what should I do too softly, too lightly — as though she had no idea what these past days had been doing to whatever I'd been propping up inside.

I frowned. "Pretty pleased with yourself?"

"I am not." Instant head shake. Her gaze pure.

But the lift at the corner of her mouth — she couldn't quite hide it.

Like a small fox that had stolen the chicken and still knew how to look obedient.

I held her eyes for two seconds, dropped my voice. "Stop performing."

She finally laughed out loud, her shoulders shaking. Eyes bright. "Ethan — are you mad at me?"

"You tell me."

"But clients are asking for me, it's not as if I told them to." She held the cup in both hands. Voice infuriatingly innocent. "I'm troubled too."

When she said troubled, her eyes were laughing.

I'd been holding the line, but looking at her in that moment — the inexplicable irritation cooled and what was left was a quiet, hidden pleasure.

Yes. Clients were asking for her by name.

She was good.

I trained her.

I had worked, I had pushed, and I couldn't outpace the warmth she had with people and the edge she had in the work. By rights I should have felt worse. But strangely — watching her sit under the conference room light, smiling at me like a small fox — the winning and losing suddenly felt less important.

I might even have felt something close to happy.

I am, evidently, broken.

I'd told myself a man shouldn't lose to a woman. And when I actually lost to her, something inside me softened.

I made myself look stern, knocked on the table. "Finish. Go home."

"Yes." Then, two seconds later, eyes lifting. "Ethan."

"What."

"Even your angry face isn't very scary."

My face dropped. "Li Jiaxin."

She lowered her head obediently, but her shoulders were still shaking from suppressed laughter.

I watched her for a moment, said nothing, turned, walked out.

At the doorway, I heard her add, softly:

"Whatever the clients say, I listen to you."

My step caught.

I didn't turn back.

I didn't dare turn back.

Friday morning, the GM's office sent an all-hands meeting notice.

One line subject: Organizational Restructuring Briefing.

The instant the email landed the floor lit up again. Sales, Marketing, Ops — everyone was whispering. The Key Accounts unit was about to be real.

I looked at the email and felt the sense of dust about to finally settle.

Three PM. The big conference room was packed.

The GM opened with the usual — market outlook, strategy, the importance of major accounts. I wasn't really listening to the macro talk. I was waiting for the line.

Twenty minutes in, he flipped the slide. Onscreen:

Establishment of the East China Key Accounts Division.

A small wave of motion went through the room.

He raised a hand to settle it, continued: "The new division will consolidate major-account resources from the current sales department, focusing on enterprise development, breakthrough deals, and delivery coordination. Core members will be reassigned from existing teams. A head of the division will be appointed to lead operations end-to-end."

He paused. His eyes swept the room, and landed in our direction.

My pulse jumped.

"After deliberation by management, the East China Key Accounts Division will be led by Coco Li."

Half a second of silence. Then applause.

It wasn't a surprise, really. By any measure of recent performance she had earned it. Ningbo was the textbook case. Client sentiment was excellent. It made sense.

But hearing the line actually come out of the GM's mouth made my back tighten.

Coco Li.

Division head.

Meaning, from today, she was no longer just the sharpest junior on my team. She was the head of a separate vertical.

And because I held several of the major accounts, I was going to be moved into that division too.

In other words, she had become my boss.

In the applause, I instinctively looked over at her.

She was a row in front of me, slightly to the side. For a beat she looked genuinely caught off guard — as if she had not expected it this soon. Then she stood up, gave a small bow toward the room, smiled, said thank you.

She was in a simple white suit. Hair pulled back neatly. Standing, she looked light and steady at once. For an instant the world skidded — she was still the girl who used to trail me with a stack of documents calling me Ethan, and in a single turn she was suddenly in front of me.

The GM gestured for her to say a few words.

She took the mic. Thanked the company. Thanked the team. Thanked the clients for their trust. Paused. Her gaze drifted, naturally, to me.

"Also," she smiled, "I want to specifically thank Li Yu — Ethan. So much of what I know was learned with him. Without him, I wouldn't be where I am."

She said it with sincerity.

Several people in the room turned to look at me. A couple smiled warmly — the way you smile at the moment of the student finally surpassing the master.

I smiled too, lifted my hands, applauded lightly.

But only I knew what was inside me in that instant.

Pride was real.

Resentment was real.

And underneath both there was a third, more obscure agitation — like a string inside my chest had been plucked, and the vibration was traveling everywhere.

After the meeting, people swarmed her to congratulate.

"Coco, amazing."

"Owe us drinks."

"It's Director Li now."

She was in the middle of it, laughing, red-cheeked, waving them off saying stop it — and looking still like the small sweet-mouthed girl. But everyone knew, plainly, that she was no longer in the seat she had been in.

I stayed at the perimeter. Didn't go over right away.

The male knot inside me was tugging again.

She was promoted.

Promoted past me.

I knew she had earned it. Knowing and immediately accepting I report to her now were not the same thing. I wasn't there yet.

The crowd around her thinned.

She looked up — and saw me.

She pushed through with the haul of snacks and folders people had stuffed at her and walked right over.

"Ethan."

"Mm." I looked at her. "Congratulations, Director."

The eyes crinkled at Director. She caught it instantly, then forced her face back into something appropriately serious. "Thank you, Manager Li."

The performance was deliberate.

I kept my face flat. "Pretty pleased with yourself, huh?"

"Not really." She said not really, but the light in her eyes could not be tamped down.

I let out a short sound. "Little upstart."

Her eyes went wide. Instant innocence. "I am not."

But a second later, the corner of her mouth lifted again.

The fox smile again.

The one that says I got the chicken AND I look pitiful.

I'd been trying to hold the line, but watching her standing in front of me, visibly unable to hide the joy, still putting on the I'm innocent face — something in me eased. Almost wanted to laugh.

I was, in fact, a little bit happy.

Even with the resentment laced in it. Even with the male can't-lose knot. Still — happy.

Because the person standing in front of me was her.

If I had to lose to anyone, losing to her didn't seem like such a bad outcome.

"Enough." I reached out and took the top folder off the stack in her arms. "Stop carrying so much. You look like you're moving apartments."

"Oh." She let go obediently and walked beside me toward the workstations.

A few steps in, she turned her head, voice dropping low. "Are you really mad?"

I kept my face cool. "You tell me."

"Then what do I do?" She blinked. "I'm your boss now. Shouldn't I be the one humoring you?"

My step caught. I turned.

She was beside me, that innocent-but-can't-quite-hide-the-laugh face still in place, eyes bright as lit lamps. The floor was full of foot traffic; no one was paying attention to our corner. But I had the abrupt sense that what she had just said was over a line somewhere.

"Coco," I said, low. "Tone it down."

"I'm already toning it down." Light, fast.

I looked at her, wanted to say something, finally only gave her a sharp look and kept walking.

She laughed behind me. Small, light, but barbed somewhere.

At my workstation, she leaned in, when nobody was looking, and said softly:

"By the way — I saw how hard you've been working."

My hand paused.

"You're already very good," she said.

I didn't look at her. Just set the folder down. "Cut it out."

"I mean it." Her voice quiet. "It's just — clients like me. I can't help it, can I."

The line should have made me angrier.

It didn't. The corner of my mouth twitched faintly without my permission.

She caught it instantly. Her eyes lit. "Look — you're smiling."

"I'm not."

"You are." Maddeningly certain.

I ignored her and sat down to open my laptop.

She didn't push it further. She stood there for two seconds, watching me. Then her smile turned fully into the fox version again.

"Manager Li," she said, "6 o'clock. The new division head needs to meet you, one-on-one, on the Key Accounts agenda. Come by my office to report."

She turned and walked away. The white suit moved quick and clean.

I lifted my eyes after her. A strange angry-itchy thing rose in my chest at the same time.

Her office.

Report.

Her office.

And from today, I realized, some things genuinely had changed.

The more absurd part was this:

Even as I worked at looking displeased, I was already, somewhere underneath, beginning to anticipate — what she would be like, after six, sitting in that office, waiting for me.