Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Bea padded into the medical clinic just before nine, checked in for her appointment, and allowed herself to be led through the motions.
Height, weight, blood pressure. A standard checkup.
Routine blood work. Nothing urgent, just the kind of boring, responsible task she’d promised herself she’d handle before mid-semester exams swallowed her whole.
She tugged at the sleeves of her light sweater, adjusting her tote higher on her arm as she headed back through campus.
The streets were quieter than usual. Most of the students had retreated inside to study, the first hints of exam season already tightening their routines.
Somewhere in the distance, someone was practicing violin with the windows open, the soft, uneven notes floating out over the manicured lawns.
She unlocked her phone. One new voice message.
CLAIRE BEAR: Beya Slaya. I’m assuming you’re still alive. I tried to figure out the time difference to call, but my brain short-circuited. Just text me something. Or, like, grunt into the mic so I know you haven’t drowned in an ocean of rich people.
Her thumb hovered over the microphone button as she slowed her pace.
BEYA SLAYA: I’m still alive. Barely. I’ve been hunting down a doctor who doesn’t charge half a week’s rent just to say hello. Thankfully found one nearby. Got the checkup and blood work done, so I’ve basically hit my adulting quota for today. How’s everything at home?
She fired it off and kept walking.
By the time she reached Mayfield Hall, the weight of the morning had settled deep in her bones. Not just tiredness, but that sustained, low-grade fatigue that came from keeping too many plates spinning. Classes, exams, finding a job, existing in a world that wasn’t built for her.
She just wanted tea. Maybe a nap.
And then she saw the box.
It was propped neatly outside her door. Big, worn at the corners from the trip. Her mother’s handwriting scrawled across the top in thick black marker, her name underlined twice, a little heart tacked on at the end.
Bea blinked, like maybe she was imagining it.
She nudged the box inside her apartment with her foot, dropped her bag on the counter, and stood over it without touching it for a full minute.
She knelt, then peeled back the tape and folded open the flaps.
The smell hit her first.
Not kimchi—nothing fermented would’ve made it past Customs, but something close. Roasted seaweed. Sesame oil and salt clinging to the edges, vacuum-sealed and packed in bulk. Bea reached into the box almost with reverence, inspecting the items one by one.
Everything was familiar. Spicy instant tteokbokki cups, red and ridiculous.
A box of Orion Choco Pies, dented but intact.
Shrimp crackers in two flavors, original and hot, because her umma never missed a chance to make sure she could take heat.
Honey butter almonds. Packets of Yuzu citron tea, her winter staple, tucked beside a bundle of heat packs, the kind her mother insisted were better than medicine.
At the bottom, nestled between crumpled paper and a note scrawled in half English, half Hangul, was a bag of President’s Choice maple cookies.
The kind they used to buy from No Frills on weekends, when her papa took her grocery shopping.
Crushed slightly. Still perfect. A tin of her favorite almond polvorones that she knew her papa would have traveled to the other side of Toronto to find.
Bea’s throat was tight.
It smelled like home. Not exactly. But close enough.
And finally, nested between the snacks like a final layer of padding and care, her old University of Toronto hoodie.
Navy. Massive. Soft from years of washing, the logo across the front faded just enough to look like it belonged to someone who’d worn it to death.
Bea remembered buying it on a freezing day back home, when the only sizes left were men’s larges, and she’d been too cold to care that it fit like a tent.
She pulled it over her head on instinct. The sleeves fell past her fingertips. It smelled faintly like home—her mother’s laundry detergent, the inside of her old car, weekend mornings in the kitchen.
Bea sat down on the floor beside the box, her knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves bunched around her fists.
She pressed her hand over her face. Not full tears, not quite. But close to brimming over.
Outside, the sky was that soft, pale blue it turned in early autumn, like it hadn’t decided whether to warm up or cool down. The breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony door, tugging lightly at the curtains.
Bea reached for her phone, scrolling back to her chat with Claire and hitting Record.
BEYA SLAYA: Claire Bear. I’m officially done for the day.
There’s a care package from Umma and Papa in front of me and I’m sitting on the floor like a mess because apparently all it takes to break me are snacks from the local Asian grocery and Maria’s Tienda.
And they sent my U of T hoodie. You remember that giant navy one we bought when it snowed, and I was freezing, and the only size left was basically a dress? I’m wearing it right now.
She took a breath, continued.
BEYA SLAYA: I miss home. I ask myself sometimes…was this really the right thing? Coming here. Leaving them. Doing something this hard on purpose. And the thing is, I’m not even sure how much of this is for them. And how much is for me.
A pause.
BEYA SLAYA: I don’t know. I’m fine. Just feeling it more today. I’ll be back to pretending I’ve got it all together by lunchtime. Miss you.
She hit Send and set the phone on the floor.
Tea could wait. Dinner could wait. Everything could wait.
For now, it was just her, the hoodie, and the taste of home tucked quietly in a box beside her.
The thrift store smelled of old books and lavender sachets, their scents softened by time, lingering like a memory tucked into the folds of a forgotten sweater.
Dust motes drifted lazily through beams of golden afternoon light, slipping past warped windows that bore the smudges of a decade’s worth of fingerprints.
It was nothing like the curated boutiques near St. Ives.
This was nearly an hour inland, in the quiet sprawl of the suburbs, where the people who kept St. Ives and Northgate running lived.
Baristas, bartenders, surgical nurses working double shifts, analysts who commuted to glass towers by train.
The streets here were wider, more lived-in, lined with family owned bakeries, independent hardware shops, and café strips where the menus were sun-faded but the coffee still came with latte art.
Lillian had asked if Bea wanted to come thrifting, and out of curiosity, both about the store and about Lillian’s particular approach to it, she had agreed.
Bea surveyed the unapologetic maze of clutter. Shelves sagged under the weight of forgotten objects. Clothes hung too tightly together. Lillian was already slipping between the racks with the kind of quiet focus Bea had seen her use in a lecture hall, reading the clothes like a second language.
This was going to take a while.
“So…is there a right way to do this?”
“You need to look deep enough,” Lillian said, as she reached into a bin of scarves and pulled out a silk one, holding it up to the light. After a moment, she folded it neatly and placed it into her basket.
Bea made that face, lips tightening the way they always did when her brain was buffering. “Are you going to explain what ‘deep enough’ means, or is this, like, a sacred art form I have to figure out myself?”
“You just have to find the things that feel right.”
Bea pointedly looked left and right at the overflowing racks. “All of this looks like someone’s storage unit exploded.”
“Look past the mess.” She turned a hanger, revealing a cream-colored jacket—structured but soft, tailored yet unassuming. “Like this.”
Bea blinked. It was…nice. Probably expensive when it was new.
Lillian held it up, tilting her head. “I think this might suit you.”
She placed it gently over Bea’s arm like a wordless suggestion, then went back to flipping through skirts.
Bea slid her arms into the sleeves. The fit was slightly oversized but not sloppy. It looked intentional. She angled toward the mirror mounted on the far wall.
It did suit her.
Of course Lillian had spotted this in the mess. The girl could read clothing like it came with subtitles.
Lillian studied her reflection over her shoulder. “There,” she murmured. “That’s very…scholarship student turned socialite.”
Bea took off the jacket, a small smile playing on her lips. “That sounds like an insult.”
Lillian shook her head, her soft brown braid slipping over her shoulder. “Not an insult. Just an observation.”
They moved through the store, the silence between them companionable, the only sound the soft scrape of coat hangers on metal poles.
“Did you decide if you’re going home for study week?” Bea asked.
“Yeah,” Lillian replied, considering a grey and white dress. “I booked my flight.”
“Nice. When do you leave?”
“The day after tomorrow.” She tucked the dress back into place, uninterested. “I guess…you’re not going back?”
“Nah. It’s not really worth seventeen hours and a couple thousand dollars just to go back for a few days.”
Lillian nodded. “That’s true. Wow…you’re really far from home.”
Bea thought about her care package back at the apartment. She had a little box of home now, at least. “Christmas, I’ll go back. That one I won’t miss.”
Lillian nodded. “Christmas for sure.”
The idea sat between them, stretching the space in a way they both understood. Christmas was seven months away. It felt like a lifetime.
“Christmas here is in summer.” Bea tested the words, rolling them over her tongue like they might start to make sense. “That feels illegal.”
“To you, maybe.”
Bea sighed, flipping absently through another bin of scarves. She pulled out a scarf. Plaid, thick wool, the kind meant for real winters. “Christmas is supposed to be cold. Snow, ice-skating, mistletoe.”
Lillian was deep into a rack of sundresses, fingers brushing the hem of one. “That’s just in the movies. In Australia, it’s hot.”
“What do you even do for Christmas when it’s hot?”
“Barbecues. Go to the beach. Try not to get sunburnt.”
“I mean, it sounds amazing. It just doesn’t sound like Christmas.”
“There’s still Christmas trees and Santas in all the malls. And sometimes we pretend it’s winter. Like people put inflatable snowmen and fake snow on their lawns. Or wear the ugly Christmas sweaters.”
Bea raised a brow. “In thirty-five-degree heat?”
Lillian gave a small shrug. “I guess even Aussies dream of a white Christmas.”
Bea huffed softly. “Hard to argue with Bing Crosby.”
They’d almost worked their way to the back of the store. Lillian’s basket was filled with potential items. Bea’s was still empty except for the white jacket Lillian had chosen for her earlier.
“Do you have a big family Christmas?” Lillian asked her.
“Yeah. My mom goes overboard with food. My dad complains about putting up the lights but does it anyway. All the relatives come over. We do gifts in the morning, nap through the afternoon, and eat leftovers for the next three days. Well, we used to, then all my little cousins hit their growth spurts and now we have to make sure we have Cheerios in the pantry as backup.”
Lillian smiled, turning over a delicate blouse, eyes fixed on the stitching. “That sounds fun.”
“It’s the best.” Bea’s voice dipped. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
She considered a silver dress—it had potential—then placed it into her basket.
“I’d take hot weather and the beach over cold and snow any day of the week. Except Christmas,” she said. Lillian looked up, and Bea offered a faint smile. “That’s the one time snow should exist.”