Page 40 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

LEAKING QI

JESSICA

W e creep onto Pell Street and smack into the madness head-on.

It’s peak lunchtime and the block is a sensory ambush—honking cars nose-to-bumper, delivery scooters slicing through the gridlock, and vendors yelling prices with the urgency of a fire sale.

Dumplings, tiger balm, fortune cats, everything’s on the table and going fast.

The air’s a living thing—garlic, grease, and what I’m pretty sure is boiled lizard. Cantonese and Mandarin bounce off brick walls, layered with Mahjong cackles and the clatter of carts bulldozing over sidewalk cracks.

Mom, Sophie, and I unfold ourselves from the car, elbows and bags jostling for space.

Mom adjusts her bag with the same determination she uses before a deposition.

Sophie gives me a playful hip-check. “Back in the gauntlet.” Sophie giggles.

“Two blocks to Wai Po’s, and I bet that chili oil ambush hasn’t moved since last week. ”“

Mom doesn’t flinch. “We don’t dodge. We commit. Hit Canal and don’t stop.”

We plunge into the crowd—tourists gawking at dumpling stacks, old women slapping dead fish onto scales, nurses running takeout back to ER shifts. The street vibrates with motion and steam and urgency. This isn’t a stroll. It’s a tactical operation.

Mom’s eyes sweep over both of us, pausing at my middle, then Sophie’s shoes. “Good. You dressed for the battlefield.”

I glance down—jeans, flats, silk tank, sweater tied at the waist to cover the slight shift I’m pretending isn’t real yet. “Went with ‘functional chic.’ While I can still zip my pants.”

Sophie bumps her shoulder into mine, casual affection and silent backup. “You showed up. That’s the hard part.”

I nod, jaw tight. Because showing up? Costs more than the subway fare. But I came.

We turn onto Mapleglen, where the buildings lean close. Mom points to a familiar brick facade with a carved wood plaque: Chen Family Clinic.

The sight lands soft but deep.

We used to come here on weekends, dropped off with overnight bags while Mom and Dad had their ‘grown-up time.’ We’d spend days barefoot on cool tile floors, sipping soup from mismatched bowls, hair still damp from herbal rinses that made us ‘shine with luck.’ Now we don’t stay over as much, but we still come when we’re in the city.

Birthdays. Moon Festival. Whenever she texts Mom a cryptic emoji that means one of us needs a tune-up.

Inside smells of ginger, lilies, and whatever root-based miracle Wai Po’s been steeping since dawn.

The world outside—spicy, screechy, relentless—cuts off at the threshold.

Here, everything hushes. Light filters through paper screens.

Steam curls off copper pots perched on hot plates. A teacup hums somewhere.

Wai Po stands by the entrance, wrapped in a pearl-gray silk blouse, her face smooth but her stare surgical. Calm, but nothing gets past her.

Mom steps forward first. “Mama.”

They exchange a few low words in Mandarin—quiet, familiar, fond. Wai Po reaches to squeeze Mom’s hand, then turns to us. She opens her arms briefly. “Come. Let me look at you.”

We step forward. Sophie gets a quick embrace. I get one too—brisk, but warm, her hands firm at my back before she pulls away and studies my face. She nods once, a queen taking stock. “Sophie. Jessica.”

Then her eyes fix on me, sharp enough to draw blood. “So. This is the one with the runaway heart and the stubborn uterus.”

I blink. “Wow. Coming in hot.”

“Speak Chinese, girl,” she says, already switching. “Your tones are sloppy, but your ears still work.”

“Didn’t expect a diagnosis on the doorstep,” I reply in Mandarin.

Sophie glances between us like she’s watching tennis. “Wait, can you guys speak a little slower? I’m getting whiplash.”

Wai Po waves her off without looking, continuing in Mandarin. “No one’s talking to you. You’re healthy. Jittery. Too much caffeine. Fix it.”

She turns back to me, gaze narrowing. “You haven’t been here in weeks.”

“I—”

“Don’t bother.” Her voice is crisp. “You ran off to Park City, then vanished. You think I wouldn’t notice? Even Adam came by. Brought pastries, too, and that boy’s been on his nutritionist’s leash since the playoffs.”

My mouth dries. “I was going to?— ”

“You didn’t.” She tsks. “Because you knew what I’d see.”

She motions to the back. “Come. You’re leaking qi all over the entryway. It’s very messy. And I just mopped.”

Sophie raises her brows. “Did she just say you’re leaking?”

“She did,” I mutter, stepping out of my shoes. “And she’s right.”

Sophie shoots Mom a helpless look. Mom shrugs and sits, already sipping tea, completely settled in for the unfolding drama.

“Damp. Too much emotion trapped in the blood,” she mutters, circling me. “Sleeplessness, nausea, mood swings—your qi’s throwing a tantrum, Xiao Jie.”

She sniffs once, then flicks her fingers toward my arm. “And fear. It’s pooling in your joints. You’re leaking out the edges.” She jerks her chin toward a stiff-backed chair parked beneath a red silk talisman, the kind meant to ward off spirits and bull-headed men. “Sit.”

I move without thinking. Because when Wai Po tells you to do something, you obey.

The last time I sat in this very chair, I was sixteen, red-eyed over some AP Chemistry meltdown and the kind of breakup that only lasts until third period.

Wai Po didn’t scold, didn’t comfort. Just brewed something that smelled of boiled hope and scorched ginseng, slapped two cucumber slices on my eyelids, and told me I was suffering from “spleen betrayal” and weak boundaries.

“You give boys too much of your shine,” she’d said, patting my knee. “Let them earn it, not borrow it.” Then she burned a paper talisman, chanted under her breath, and made me chew a dried date soaked in rice wine.

I passed my chem final. The boy transferred to Vermont. Wai Po said that was balance restored .

She pulls open a drawer like she’s preparing for surgery—jade roller, steaming water, prayer beads. Wai Po presses two fingers to my wrist and closes her eyes. The clinic stills, steam curling from copper pots, the faint rattle of beads settling into silence.

“You’ve been storing grief in your stomach,” she mutters. “That’s how you get liver fire. And that’s no good in your condition.”

My spine straightens. Silently, she adjusts her grip and tilts her head, eyes still shut.

A moment passes. Then another. “A heartbeat,” she says finally, tone low. “Strong. Stubborn.”

I exhale. The cat’s out of the bag. Her mouth tugs in the slightest smile.

She turns to my mom. “Ming Yu,” she says, crisp enough to cut paper. “You didn’t tell me this was happening again.”

Mom straightens. “I just found out, Mama.”

“The blood remembers.” Wai Po’s eyes flick back to me. “And now it’s your turn.”

I blink. “What’s happening?”

“She means you,” Mom says tightly. “You were a surprise. A very enthusiastic surprise who showed up seven months after the wedding.”

“Yes,” Wai Po mutters. “You came with fire in your spirit and chaos in your timing. And now, you do it again.”

Wai Po shifts her fingers. Stills. Listens. Her brows twitch. A second hum. Deeper this time.

Finally, she opens one eye. “Ah. There you are.”

My stomach drops. “Is the heartbeat good?” I ask, panicking a little. But she just shushes me.

“There’s another,” she says, now fully alert. “Hiding behind the first one. A quiet little fox.”

Sophie’s voice shoots up. “Wait, what’s happening now? ”

Wai Po lifts her chin toward my belly. “Two heartbeats. Two spirits.”

I just stare, speechless. Wai Po’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Twins,” she announces, quieter now. “One loud. One quiet. One boy. One girl.” Her voice dips with weight. “This family. Always two sides to everything.”

A beat. “Boy’s leading the charge,” she pronounces. “Girl’s watching him wreck everything. Typical.”

Sophie nearly chokes on her tea. “You’re kidding, Wai Po. Like, actual twins? Two humans? At the same time?”

“She never kids,” Mom says, reaching for her cup.

Wai Po rests her palm against my lower belly. Her gaze narrows. “The father,” she murmurs. “Where is he?”

My throat tightens. “Not…here.”

She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t frown. Just breathes.

“His energy clings to yours,” she declares. “It’s pulled thin, stretched like thread caught between teeth. He’s trying to let go. But he can’t.”

My pulse stutters.

“He chased you until his feet bled,” she continues, her voice low.

“Now his heart is cracked open. He bleeds because he loved without return. He thinks you don’t want him.

” I blink fast, breathing shakily. “But your spirits are meant to walk together,” Wai Po says.

“That’s why the ache doesn’t fade. Why the silence roars. ”

She glances toward the altar, fingers still resting on my pulse.

“These children? They’re no accident. They’re here with purpose.

Just like you were.” My breath catches. “You think you were unplanned,” she continues, words quieter now, but unwavering.

“But you were always meant to come. And so are they.”

She tilts her head, her expression knowing and prickling my skin. “This is your path. Not clean, not easy. But yours to walk. Go to him. He’s waiting for you to mend him, whether he knows it or not.”

Mom stays quiet, hands clasped. Sophie swears under her breath and pivots for her ginger tea.

Wai Po pats my shoulder. “Now drink this,” she says, handing me a steaming bowl of something that smells like hope mixed with centuries of questionable life choices. “And then we’ll fix your spleen. It’s been shouting all morning.”

Sophie blinks. “Is that a metaphor?”

“No,” Wai Po says. “Your sister’s spleen is complaining.” She lifts her gaze to me. “Then we fix your qi. Clear what we can. But the rest?” She gestures toward the door. “That path only opens when you start walking it.”