Adam Wright said, "Didn't see it."

"You’re lying, aren’t you, Boss Wright?"

"I’m not lying. I hardly read my messages. When unread messages hit the limit, there’s no notification." Adam Wright pulled out his phone, unlocked the screen, tapped a few times, then asked Eric Clark, "What’s up with you?"

"You really didn’t see it?" Eric Clark was a bit incredulous.

"No need to lie to you," Adam Wright said coolly.

Eric Clark shot him a sidelong glance. "So if you had seen it? Would you have replied?"

Adam Wright said, "Don’t know."

Eric Clark guessed that even if he had seen it, he wouldn’t have replied, but honestly, it didn’t matter to him. He was thirty now, not seventeen or eighteen, no longer hung up on these little things. Eric Clark said, "Boss Wright, let’s add each other on WeChat."

Adam Wright didn’t refuse, just tossed his phone over for him to handle it himself. Eric Clark thought, the way he throws his phone every time, you can tell this guy is single—nothing in his phone he’s afraid of anyone seeing.

Eric Clark didn’t stay much longer before leaving. Over at Samuel Reed’s, the color touch-up was quick; by the time Eric Clark went downstairs, he was already bent over next to Jack Morgan at a computer, the two of them gaming together.

Eric Clark patted him. "I’m off."

"So soon?" Samuel Reed looked shocked. "I thought it’d take at least two or three hours. Which one of you is it? So lacking in stamina."

It took Eric Clark a moment to realize what nonsense Samuel Reed was spouting. He kicked him before he could say anything, and Jack Morgan chimed in from the side, "It definitely isn’t my big bro."

"You shut up too," Eric Clark thought. I’d love to have a chance to be ‘lacking in stamina,’ but with the way things are, we’re nowhere near that stage.

Adam Wright had been in the back the whole time, and though he heard their conversation, he didn’t say anything. Eric Clark felt a bit awkward, turned back to Adam Wright and said, "I’m leaving."

"Mm," Adam Wright responded.

Eric Clark didn’t bother to see if Samuel Reed was done gaming, just grabbed his clothes and dragged him out. He’d already gained a lot today—a painting, and they’d added each other on WeChat.

That day, Eric Clark ostentatiously posted the painting Adam Wright gave him on his Moments. Quite a few people asked who painted it, but Eric Clark didn’t reply to any of them.

Because he didn’t know how to describe Adam Wright. Calling him a friend was too vague, but anything else didn’t quite fit either. He found a frame and hung the painting by his bed, planning to look at it every morning and night, but after a few days he took it down. That monkey was just too fierce—sometimes, if he wasn’t mentally prepared, it gave him a fright.

Eric Clark sent a WeChat message to Adam Wright: Mr. Wright, could you give me another painting?

This time Adam Wright actually replied, a simple word: Sure.

Eric Clark smiled and sent another: I only want ones you painted, is that okay, Mr. Wright?

Adam Wright replied: Mm.

Eric Clark pocketed his phone, feeling pretty pleased. Adam Wright seemed cold at first glance, but the more you interacted with him, the more comfortable it felt. He didn’t talk much, but he never let the atmosphere get awkward—he wasn’t as distant as he looked. Eric Clark always said he was cool, but not unfeeling. More like easygoing, as if nothing really mattered to him.

Later, Eric Clark really did go pick up the painting, early on a weekend morning before the shop had even opened. The same young woman from before arrived first, greeted him proactively, and said good morning.

Eric Clark said, "I’m looking for Adam Wright."

"But he probably won’t be here this morning. The client’s not coming until the afternoon, so I doubt he’ll come early. Do you need something from him? Want me to give him a call?" The young woman poured him a glass of water and pulled out her phone to call.

Eric Clark stopped her. "No need, I’m not in a hurry. I’ll just wait for him."

"Alright, you can sit here or wait inside, either is fine. I’ll find you some magazines."

That day, Eric Clark really did wait for Adam Wright in the shop for several hours. He arrived a bit after nine, but Adam Wright didn’t show up until two in the afternoon. Eric Clark spent the whole time in the front room watching the young woman do manicures for others—they all looked great, and she did it cheerfully, not charging a cent.

Eric Clark asked her why she didn’t charge. She said she was still practicing, didn’t plan to take money, and besides, this was the boss’s tattoo shop, a well-known place—if she charged for manicures, she’d be taking advantage of the boss.

Eric Clark asked her, "The boss is Adam Wright?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you all call him that?" Eric Clark said with a smile. "It’s kind of funny."

The young woman laughed too. "At first we just followed Jack Morgan and called him that for fun, then it became a habit. He’s too cool—boss, teacher, Brother Wright, none of those really fit."

Eric Clark made a sound of agreement.

The young woman packed up her manicure tools, put them in a box under the bar, and asked Eric Clark with a smile, "Don’t you think he has a real martial-arts-hero vibe?"

Eric Clark nodded. "Yeah."

Later, two guys came in, also tattoo artists here, both with clients booked, each busy with their own work. One of them was quite talkative, always chiming in when Eric Clark spoke.

The whole morning passed like that. At noon, Eric Clark even ordered a fancy lunch and ate with them. Jack Morgan was always blunt; after lunch, he squatted on a chair and said to Eric Clark, "Bro, you’ve got no chance."

Eric Clark raised an eyebrow at him. "What do you mean?"

Jack Morgan shook his head. "Don’t waste your time, bro. You really don’t have a shot."

Eric Clark asked, "He’s got someone in his heart?"