Chapter 4 #2
“No.” Bea tucked her hair behind her ear. “Gage. He’s in town. Just for a few days.” She waited. “He’d like to meet you both.”
Umma turned the heat down. “And you want us to meet him?”
“I do.”
The silence stretched. Then Umma stirred the pan, slow and thoughtful. “Does he eat spice?”
Bea let out a breath that was half a laugh. “He says he does.”
Umma hummed. “They all say that.”
Across the room, Bea’s father flipped a page of his newspaper. He didn’t look up.
“We could go out instead, if that’s easier. Somewhere neutral.”
Papa cleared his throat. “If he wants to meet us, he can eat at our table.”
Umma gave a small smile. “We’ll cook. Better that way.”
Bea smiled, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name.
“And Bea,” her mother added, eyes still on the pan. “Don’t wear that white sweater. The neckline is too low.”
The doorbell rang at 6:01 p.m.
Bea paused mid-stir, one hand still on the spoon. Umma didn’t look up from arranging scallion pancakes, but her voice was soft. “Open the door.”
Bea wiped her hands, exhaled, and walked down the hall.
When she opened the door, Gage stood there.
Navy overcoat, dark trousers, boots with a dusting of snow.
Calm, like he wasn’t about to walk into the next test. His eyes swept over her—long hair down, apron tied around her waist, all the way down to her brown fluffy teddy-bear socks with their pink-cheeked faces. Then he gave a rare smile.
“Hi,” she said, her breath catching stupidly.
He reached out, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. Like he needed to confirm she was real. “You’re flushed.”
“I’m cooking.”
In his left hand, he carried a fruit basket wrapped in cellophane and brimming with everything from winter pears and kiwis, to produce that looked smuggled out of another climate, like pineapple, papaya, and cherimoya.
“That’s—Gage, that’s a lot of fruit.”
“Your mother reads fiction,” he said mildly. “I’m being thorough.”
Bea choked on a laugh. He was ridiculous. And probably right.
“Come in.” When he took a step, she jabbed him lightly with her elbow. “Shoes.”
There was a beat. And then he bent to untie them, stepping carefully onto the mat. Plain black socks, completely devoid of whimsy.
How she would have adored if he secretly wore socks with action heroes.
Her umma appeared from the kitchen, wearing a matching apron to Bea’s. “You must be Gage,” she said, eyes kind even as she clocked every detail.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cruz,” he said with a respectful nod.
“And this?” she asked, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“For you,” he said, placing the heavy basket on the hallway table like a peace offering. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought everything.”
“I like everything.” Umma was clearly trying not to smile. “Thank you.”
Then her papa stepped into the room, freshly changed into a charcoal quarter-zip and pressed slacks, like a man who understood the occasion but had no interest in putting on a show.
“Gage,” Papa said, giving a firm, but not unfriendly, handshake.
“Thanks for having me, sir.”
There was a pause, just long enough that Bea stopped breathing.
Her father gave a nod. Not approval. Permission to enter his house.
“Drink?” Papa asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Sounds great.”
“Red wine, or beer?”
“Red wine if you have it.”
Bea watched every move, her brain already logging details for Claire’s debrief later. Gage took off his coat. She hung it up with hands that were starting to sweat.
The table was set, the galbi-jjim simmering gently on the trivet. Bea untied her apron and slipped into her seat just as Gage took the chair beside her. His eyes lingered on the food for half a second. Then on her.
Recognition. His favorite Korean dish.
She blushed. Her umma caught it and said nothing.
“So,” her papa said, cutting into his rice, “you work in finance?”
“I do.”
Bea placed a serving of beef short ribs onto Gage’s rice. He thanked her with a small quirk of his lips.
“Private firm?”
Gage nodded, attention back to her papa. “King Global Capital.” He placed a zucchini fritter in Bea’s bowl.
“Like…your name, King?” Umma asked, spooning doenjang jjigae over her rice.
“Yes.”
“That’s your family?” her papa asked.
“It is.”
“That must keep you busy.”
“Yes, sir, it does.” He still hadn’t had a single bite.
“So you’re a millionaire or something?”
Bea gripped the side of her rice bowl tightly.
“Billionaire, technically,” Gage replied, tone dry, like he didn’t think much of the word.
Her papa and umma stopped midmotion. Her umma was reaching for the kimchi; her papa was about to have a mouthful of food.
Bea wanted to crawl under the table.
“And you’re…twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six.”
Her father grunted. “So you’ve had money longer than you’ve had a fully developed frontal lobe, huh?”
Bea’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle the choking sound she’d almost made. Don’t make this worse, Bea.
Gage’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Just a glint of restraint. “I was born with it.”
“Money comes and goes. Character stays,” Umma said. A truth, not a judgment.
Gage nodded carefully. “Yes, ma’am. My parents have tried to give me both.”
Her papa set his spoon down with a faint click. “And what do you think? Did they succeed?”
There was a pause. Not long, but deliberate.
“I think so. But I’d rather you be the judge of that than me.”
Umma’s eyes were clear and sharper than usual. Her smile was faint. “We’ll see,” she said. “She’s our only one, you know.”
Bea reached for her water glass with fingers that absolutely, definitely were not trembling.
“So, Gage.” Papa tilted his head, tone curious. “You think you’re good for my daughter?”
Bea’s pulse surged. She resisted the urge to reach under the table and squeeze his hand. Or maybe her own. Her lungs held still. She didn’t need him to win them over. Not with charm, not with money. She just needed him to mean it.
“I think I’m not done proving it yet.”
Bea’s umma sat back. “What if she wants to move back after she graduates from St. Ives?”
There was a long, long silence. His eyes flicked to Bea, then back to her umma.
“That’s up to her,” he said at last. “But I hope she’ll stay.”
Bea felt the precision in his answer. For a time, no one moved.
Then her umma put some kimchi in her bowl. Her papa resumed eating.
Finally, Gage picked up his spoon.
The conversation lightened after that. Gage asked her dad questions she’d never even think to, then listened like every word mattered.
About the port—logistics, unions, winters coming off the lake.
Her father answered with the caution of a man used to outsiders asking too much, but by dessert they were trading stories about boat malfunctions and last-minute negotiations.
Her umma, meanwhile, studied him like a character in a novel—quietly flipping pages, scanning for red flags. She couldn’t imagine there were many, if there were any at all.
Bea and her umma cleared the table.
“Some tea?” Bea offered, at her umma’s insistence. She sliced some pieces of fruit, too, placing them neatly on a small tray. Gage accepted it with a nod of gratitude.
Later, when he stood to leave, he thanked her parents, formal but not stiff.
“Goodnight, Bea,” he said.
She wanted to hug him, to press her face into his coat, to kiss him just once before he walked out into the snow. Instead, he only brushed his fingers along her sleeve, and she gave him a small smile.
Her papa walked him out, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Bea stood at the sink, rinsing the plates, her hands moving as she did a mental replay of the night. Somewhere between the jjigae and the fruit tray, it had hit her: Gage had taken off his shoes like a regular person. Sat at her family table. Survived his first Cruz dinner.
If the meal had been too spicy, he never once telegraphed that. If the questions had gone too deep, he hadn’t bristled. It felt surreal—and yet, somehow, it made everything more real than ever.
Umma was packing leftovers into glass containers with the quiet efficiency of someone who didn’t waste good food.
“He doesn’t talk much,” she said mildly, not looking up.
Papa, towel in hand, dried a plate. “He listens, though. Watched you the whole night like he was taking your lead.”
Bea kept her expression neutral, though her brain was spiraling like a laundromat dryer on high.
Was that a good thing? Was he too quiet? Should she have prepped him more? Should she have made him sit farther from the gochujang?
This was the first time she’d ever brought someone home like this. Not a school crush, not a date. A boyfriend. A billionaire. And still—still—she wasn’t sure it would be enough.
Was that as crazy as it sounded?
“You guys…” she said slowly, trying to sound casual, “…did you like him?”
“I liked him,” Umma said. “But I don’t know him. Yet.”
Papa nodded. “He was respectful. Didn’t pretend to be casual. He’s also…serious.”
“Too serious?” Bea asked, turning off the water.
There was a short delay before he replied, “I didn’t say that.”
Umma stacked the banchan in neat rows inside the fridge. “He didn’t try to impress us. That’s good. But then, he probably doesn’t need to most of the time. He would be used to people adjusting to him.”
Bea wiped the water around the sink as she considered that. Or maybe just swirled it in useless circles. Hard to say.
Papa leaned his hip against the edge of the sink, drying his hands. “He respects you. But a man like that…”
She paused, sponge in hand. Looked up at him. Waited.
“Does he know how to share a life? Or would he more…provide one?”
That one hit. Right in the chest. She reached for a towel she didn’t need. “We’re not even talking about that yet, Papa. It hasn’t been that long.”
Lie. Or at least…a technicality. They hadn’t used the word future, but whatever this was, it didn’t feel temporary. Not even a little bit. And her parents could feel it.
Papa chuckled, easing the tension. “At least he didn’t catch fire at the jjigae. Even took seconds.”
“And only took the pieces closest to him,” Umma added, as if this were the key observation of the night. “Didn’t reach across like a gorilla.”
“Kept the rice spoon clean,” Papa said, eyes twinkling as he glanced at Umma—the look of a man with a long, painful history of rice spoon infractions.
Umma swatted at him, smiling.
Bea exhaled a laugh. “So we’re saying he…passes?”
“Preliminary round, mija,” Papa said. “Don’t get too excited.”
It bordered on absurd. Gage King, who had enough social capital and training to charm royalty, who could command a boardroom and navigate any diplomatic dinner, was still pending review by her parents. She nearly laughed out loud.
“We know he’s rich, Bea. But in our eyes, he’s lucky to have you,” Umma said, voice soft but certain.
Papa wiped his hands on the cloth. “What matters to us most is how he treats you. What he brings out in you. That’s what we’re watching.”
Those two statements, back to back, affirmed her in a way that left her throat tight.
All the tension. All the uncertainty. The part of her that had been trying so hard not to hope too much, not to lean too far, not to somehow mess this up too badly.
Bea blinked hard. Her chest ached. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around both of them, grounding herself in the familiar scent of garlic, soap, and safety.
“I love you guys,” she whispered.
“We love you too.”