Chapter 28 #2
Papa’s eyes warmed. He wasn’t a man who scorned the rich. He just had a soft spot for those who’d earned their calluses before their wealth, who still remembered what sweat felt like.
“So you prefer not to do the public works?” Umma asked, digging her spoon into her rice.
“Not unless there’s something else to be gained besides money,” Rafael responded, passing Bea the kimchi. “Our usual strategy is to retain ownership over a portion of what we build. You can’t do that with public buildings or infrastructure.”
“You make those calls?” Papa asked.
“Depends whether the deal size requires a Griffin. My father’s still CEO,” he said. “On Thailand, I’m leading.”
“You’re young,” Papa said bluntly.
“I know.” Rafael lifted his soju cup in toast. “That’s why I move twice as fast.”
Papa barked a laugh, clinking their glasses. “Good answer.”
Umma turned to Bea. “How is your work?”
Bea stabbed a piece of kimchi with her chopsticks. “It’s good. Busy. I’m on a policy research project right now.”
“She’s underselling it,” Rafael said. “She’s doing work senior analysts hesitate to touch. Her team lead pulled her into the project because she caught an error no one else saw.”
He remembered that? She’d tossed it out once between bites of takeout, half a rant, never thinking it was something worth storing.
“She always worked hard,” Umma said softly. “Even when she was small. She used to make flashcards for her dolls.”
“They needed to learn to read,” Bea said, mock defensive.
“I’ve seen her spreadsheets,” Rafael said, solemn. “Those dolls are probably CFOs by now.”
“I can help with the dishes,” Rafael said once everyone was stuffed to the brim.
Bea raised one eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since always,” he said, pushing back his chair. “You think I grew up rinsing nothing but blood and ambition?”
Papa snorted. “You don’t know what a sponge is.”
“Try me.” Rafael pushed his sleeves up. “I’ve been yelled at in Greek by experts.”
Umma blocked his path with a dish towel. “You’re a guest.”
“Exactly,” Rafael said, stepping past her. “Which is why it’d be rude not to offer.”
It should’ve felt surreal. Instead, it felt terrifyingly right.
“We don’t have a dishwasher, Rafael.”
“Luckily I have two hands, little Bea.”
He claimed the sink like it was his. No questions, no fumbling. Turned the tap, tested the temperature with a flick of his wrist, adjusted the pressure.
It did something strange in her chest, watching him stand in her childhood kitchen like he belonged. Like he’d been here before and just hadn’t mentioned it.
“You’re serious?” she asked, bringing the tableware over.
He gave her a sideways glance. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
Bea didn’t know why it surprised her that he was good at it.
Bowls, banchan trays, the heavy-bottomed pot of jjigae—he rinsed and passed them without so much as a misstep. Even when Umma loomed beside him, arms crossed, prepared to pounce if he mishandled her cookware.
Her parents, seeing that they had things well in hand, had wandered back to the dining room with steaming cups of tea and a block of chocolate.
“You’re actually decent at this,” Bea commented.
He handed her a ladle, fingers brushing hers. “From ten to twelve, I was the designated dishwasher. Five nights a week. No complaints were permitted.”
Then, soft enough it was only for her, “I’ve always been good with my hands. Especially when something’s curved. And slippery.”
Bea’s eyes narrowed. “Dishes, right?”
He smiled without looking at her. “Sure.” Then added, quieter still, “Or the girl I washed in the tub last week.”
Her elbow found his ribs. “Rafael.”
They finished in silence, tension simmering between glass bowls and stolen glances. Rafael dried his hands with a dish towel, folded it once, and tucked it neatly beside the sink.
His phone buzzed on the counter. He answered with a swipe. “Mm. I’ll be out in two minutes.” He turned to Bea. “My car’s outside.”
“We could have dropped you off.”
He shook his head. “It’s late. Rest.”
They walked back into the dining room together.
“Thank you for dinner. Before I go…” He crossed to his suitcase by the door, unzipped the front, and pulled out a smaller bag.
Bea watched as he handed a rolled leather kit to Papa, who frowned before unscrolling it on the table. Inside gleamed a row of hand-tied fishing lures, iridescent with shell and feather.
“These are the UR-style ones we used on the beach. I had a set made for you.”
Papa’s eyes lit, his thumb brushing the shimmer of one. “Beautiful. They brought in that monster we caught. Gracias, hijo.”
“May they work here as well as they do back home,” Rafael said like a benediction.
He turned then to Umma, withdrawing a slim, linen-wrapped parcel.
She untied it, the gilt spine catching the light. “The English Patient.”
Bea peeked over her shoulder as she turned to the title page. Signed by the author, first edition.
“My mother told me you like stories that break you a little. I thought this belonged with you.”
Umma’s hands touched the cover reverently. “Thank you, Rafael. This is…very special. It’s almost…too much.”
Bea could have laughed. Her mother had no idea she’d just summed up exactly what it was like to be with him. What Bea had always believed about him.
“Not at all. Consider it an early Christmas gift.” He reached for his coat. “My car’s waiting. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Papa said, patting his shoulder.
Rafael nodded once. “Imo. Tio.” To Bea: “Sleep well.”
Papa walked him to the door, Rafael’s presence leaving the room like the tide pulling out.
“So…opinions?”
Bea wrapped her hands around her mug of tea, letting the warmth soak into her palms. Across the table, Umma was blowing on hers. Papa had already drained half like it was juice—throat of steel, forged from dawn shifts at the port.
“He folded the towel,” Umma said, as if that settled the matter.
Bea’s mouth scrunched sideways. “And that means…?”
“Men who rinse and run are easy to find,” Umma said, as though quoting an ancient proverb. “Men who rinse and reset the kitchen are rare.”
Bea giggled. “Umma, you just made that up.”
“And I stand by it.”
They sipped in silence for a moment. The quiet made room for the real question to rise.
“So,” Bea said again. “Do you guys like him?”
“We do.” Umma exchanged a glance with Papa. “He’s…different from Gage.”
She should have expected the comparison, but it still made her heart thump. “Different how?”
“You tell us, mija. You know him best. What’s the first difference that comes to mind?”
A hundred wildly inappropriate answers lit up her brain like fireworks. Her collarbone was suddenly sweltering.
Say something neutral. Anything.
“He won’t let me call him Griffin,” she blurted. “Not even as a joke. Gage didn’t mind when I called him King.”
Papa’s brow lifted. “That’s because Gage is always both. Gage and King.”
Bea went still.
“He’s a good man. But he’ll never just be Gage.”
It was one of those truths that felt obvious and brand new at the same time. She’d known it. But hearing her papa say it somehow made their breakup feel less like a failure.
“If Rafael doesn’t want you to call him Griffin, I think he’s saying he wants to just be Rafael to you,” Papa continued.
Umma’s fingers brushed the cover of the novel Rafael had gifted. “It takes thought to choose a book like this.”
“And the lures,” Papa added, sounding more pleased than he wanted to admit.
Bea nodded, but something warm and deep moved beneath the surface. “Gage was always good to me. That was never the problem.” She traced the rim of the ceramic with her thumb. “He offered me everything too soon, and I wasn’t ready. That and…” She exhaled. “It wasn’t quite mine.”
Her parents took matching sips of tea, giving her space and time to assemble her thoughts.
“Rafael is straightforward. That makes a lot of things easier. But he’s also…more to handle, not less.”
“It’s not about who’s easier, though, is it?” Papa said. “It’s about who you are when you’re with them.”
Umma tapped her fingers gently against Bea’s. “I have read a lot of stories, Beatriz. The best ones always have a little chaos. That’s how you know you’re alive.”