Central Places

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Contents Epigraph Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Dedication Acknowledgments About the Author Landmarks Cover Cover Title Page Contents Start Copyright Print Page List iii iv vii 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 v 273 274 275 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Central Places is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 Copyright © 2023 by Delia Cai
 All rights reserved.
 Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
 Ballantine is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Cai, Delia, author.
 Title: Central places: a novel / Delia Cai.
 Description: First edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, [2023]
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022003012 (print) | LCCN 2022003013 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593497913 (hardcover; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593497920 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
 Classification: LCC PS3603.A37866 C46 2023 (print) | LCC PS3603.A37866 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220302
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022003012
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022003013
 Ebook ISBN 9780593497920
 randomhousebooks.com
 Title-page art by robin_ph © Adobe Stock Photos
 Book design by Sara Bereta, adapted for ebook
 Cover design: Cassie Gonzales
 Cover images: Lumina/Stocksy (woman), Ardea-studio/Shutterstock (landscape), Paladin12/Shutterstock (texture)
 ep_prh_6.0_142389081_c0_r0
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 Epigraph
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 Chapter 2
 
 
 Chapter 3
 
 
 Chapter 4
 
 
 Chapter 5
 
 
 Chapter 6
 
 
 Chapter 7
 
 
 Chapter 8
 
 
 Chapter 9
 
 
 Chapter 10
 
 
 Chapter 11
 
 
 Chapter 12
 
 
 Chapter 13
 
 
 Chapter 14
 
 
 Chapter 15
 
 
 Chapter 16
 
 
 Chapter 17
 
 
 Chapter 18
 
 
 Chapter 19
 
 
 Chapter 20
 
 
 Dedication
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 
 
 _142389081_
 
 
 
 
 I have always treated English as a weapon
 in a power struggle, wielding it against
 those who are more powerful than me.
 But I falter when using English
 as an expression of love.
 —Cathy Park Hong, Minor Feelings
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER1
 The baby in first class is drooling all over his mother’s sweater. It’s probably rude to watch this happen without saying anything, but the thought of leaning over and telling a total stranger that her kid is ruining her cashmere while we’re hurtling at cruising altitude somewhere above Lake Erie feels like an overreach. Besides, it’s not worth disturbing the quiet hum of the plane, not when this baby—I think it’s a boy—has been asleep since we left New York, and there’s still another hour to go before we hit the Midwest.
 So instead, I keep staring, likely thanks to that predictable late twenties biological pull, but also out of envy as I try to think of the last time I felt that untroubled, that indifferent to space and time and turbulence. At least the baby is one of those objectively cute ones: fat cheeks weighing down that soft, milky-pale face, lips scrunched in a rosebud, two ghostly eyebrows suggesting a strain of ancestry that my mother would be able to geo-locate immediately, in the way Chinese women always can, even when afforded only a glimpse through the rearview of whoever might be waiting behind us in the McDonald’s drive-through with the same telltale nose bridge. It happened rarely enough in central Illinois that those moments of recognition always resembled a special occasion. From the folds of the baby’s blanket toddles one thick leg, tightly furled like a drumstick wrapped with a little gray sock. Next to me in the window seat, Ben yawns awake from his grown man’s nap. He follows the direction of my stare and nudges me.
 “Hey,” Ben says with a grin. “One thing at a time.”
 I roll my eyes, moving my gaze off the baby and down to Ben’s great-grandmother’s ring, which I slide up and down my finger again. It’s turning into a bad