CHAPTER 10
The click of the lock on the shop's front door has got to be one of the most satisfying sounds in existence. Especially when you know you don’t have to work again for the next five days.
Ah the joys of being a business owner.
Set your own hours.
Open when you like.
Though I might recommend not going into partnership with your best friend. Specifically one with a penchant for avoiding his problems and an inability to handle his emotions.
With a sigh, I let out what feels like years worth of tension and turn to the reception desk where Carey is standing. His eyes are avoiding me but he's wearing an expression that screams of a hundred different questions he wants to ask.
We didn’t talk again today. Not about yesterday, or last Saturday night. Not about anything.
He was waiting in the lot when I arrived this morning, leaning against the roller door, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up, just started humming as I let us both in. But I could smell the ocean on him when he moved to stand behind me.
He did his work like a damn angel in disguise, always knowing exactly what I needed without ever asking. It’s everything I could have dreamed of from an assistant… Except for the silence.
The artificial warmth, the indie rock then nineties punk playlists, the client that was so nervous he didn’t shut up meant the shop was full all day.
But apart from his humming, Carey didn’t make a contribution to it.
Not a stupid joke, or one of his questions where he already knows the answer before asking it. And that's so, so much worse.
With my eyes on him, I walk towards the desk, and when I’m half-way there, he finally looks at me. Taking one more step, I pause, and give him a chance to speak first without music and nonsense conversation cluttering the space around us.
Ten seconds goes by without a word before I grunt, “Thanks for coming back. You can go now,” and march to the break room.
Inside, I turn back, and see that he still hasn’t moved.
Out of pure desperation, I ask, “What is it that you want, Carey?”
His head shoots in my direction and his stupid hair falls in his face.
“I did it. I spoke first. I said thank you.”
His head slowly pans back around until he’s staring down at the counter, his fingers curling in on themselves against the glass before straightening back out.
I storm towards him, catching myself with both hands on the door frame. “There’s no gun at your head. If you didn’t want to be here, you didn’t have to come.”
He blinks, his eyes remaining closed for what feels like hours.
“I can’t do this, Carey. I need you to talk.”
He looks back at me, the whites of his eyes tinged pink like he’s doing everything he can to not cry.
“I want you here, but it needs to be how it was.”
“I—” He catches himself like you do when you know that if you say another word the tears will start flowing.
My hands fall to my sides.
He runs his fingers through his hair, positioning it back off his forehead, and smiles a small, tight-lipped smile.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
I shake my head, no, and move closer.
He counters my movements by shuffling back.
“Are you expecting me to say sorry?”
He pushes his lips together and shakes his head, then stops and shrugs, reiterating it with a small nod.
“Fucking, fine. I’m sorry. Will you say something now?”
Carey’s eyes are still pink, but now it’s more like he’s just taken a hit from a joint.
“Fuck this.” I backtrack, gathering my laptop, backpack, and keys. “Hurry up and get your shit, cause I’m leaving now, and I won’t be back till next Tuesday.” I hear him smirk in that cocky way he does, and I slam the locker door closed. “You’re just like your brother.”
“I’m nothing like my brother,” he says, now standing beside me, shoulder to shoulder..
I smile to myself. “So you can talk?”
“So you can apologize?” He takes down the jacket and puts it on.
“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath.
“For someone who says they're against sex in the workplace, you sure do bring it up a lot.”
I glance to my left and he’s looking right at me, our shoulders no more than an inch apart. We're so similar in height. So similar in ways I'm trying not to think about. “It’s not my job to fulfil your fucking the boss fantasies,” I tell him, and make a B-line to the back door.
Carey laughs, but offers no follow up, and I’m glad for it. Because I swear I can hear the desk drawer rattling like my sketch is fighting to show itself to him.
Outside, he helps me pull down the roller door, but when it’s locked, he makes no attempt to move. He just stands there, leaning on his skateboard with one hand.
“Is this your way of asking me for a ride?”
He shakes his head. “Where are you going?”
“There’s a case of beer in my fridge with my name on it.”
“Oh.”
Goddamnit. “Why?”
“I just thought… Um… You might come for a drink?”
I smirk at him the same way he does to me. “Are you asking me out?”
“Piss off,” he bites back, all defensive.
“I can’t tell with you kid. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it feels like you might be secretly obsessed with me.”
“Forget it,” he huffs and starts walking away.
“Look," I say, and he turns back. “I don’t drink when I’m driving.”
“It’s only one beer.”
I know it’s something people say. I know that for some, it really is only ever one beer. And I know that Carey means no harm, but that doesn’t stop my rage from boiling. “If there’s keys around, and a journey between a person and their bed, anyone who has even one drink, is a fucking asshole.”
In the light of the setting sun I can see the shift in his expression. It’s the exact way he looked right before leaving with his slippers in hand. “I’m sorry,” he almost stutters out, like he’s scared I’ll snap completely if he doesn’t apologize.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” I turn away to my van’s front door. “Do you want a ride?”
“I—no. It’s fine.”
I climb into the driver's seat. “Get in the fucking van, Carey.”
I shut the door and turn on the engine so the heater can start.
He climbs in, positioning his skateboard sideways between the floor and his spread knees.
“I just…” he starts when we're half way to his brother’s apartment. “I didn’t want to spend another night alone.”
His words feel like a punch in my chest. It’s a feeling I know so well I sometimes can’t distinguish who I am separate from the loneliness.
But it’s by design. I’m not looking for more friends.
Everything is just compounded right now, and…
I need him at work. I need his energy and sunshine, but only there.
“It must be hard when you’ve lived like you have for the past few years.”
He sighs. “Yeah. For so long I never had to think about what I was gonna do next because there were always a hundred people around me. I surfed every day. Partied nearly every night.”
“So why did you leave?”
“It was a lot. And… I might go back. I just wanted to be normal for a while, I guess. With family who might check up on me and ask where I’ve been if I was out all night.”
I scoff. “And you thought you’d get that from Eden?”
“You know what he went through with my parents… They never hit us, or like, hurt us, or anything. But you can be neglected with a full stomach in a nice house.”
It’s statements like that that make me question which is worse. Too much expectation, or none at all.
“Shit really hit the fan all at once, didn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Carey gives a dry chuckle. “Maybe the universe sent me here on purpose to help out knowing that Shawn was cheating and Eden would do a runner.”
“I mean, I’m thankful for the help. But the universe is pretty fucked, if that’s the case.”
“God. You can’t even let me feel important for five seconds.” I glance over and Carey gives me a cheeky grin.
“Have you got a praise kink, kid?”
“No,” he shrugs, and we both look forward again. “I like feeling wanted, but I don’t need praise… Eden was always good at that.”
“Yeah,” I agree, because it’s true. He’s not great with words, and there’s not many he’s ever let close. But if you’re his people, he’d throw himself in front of a train for you. It’s why I had to let him go. He’d been there for me, and it took years to pull me back up again.
“It's no secret he did badly in school and didn’t get into any colleges. But what no one knows is that he’d rush home from school just to spend time with me. To make sure I never felt like he did...”
But then your parents moved you away and left him behind.
“...I honestly think they would have left me with him, if they could have. When Dad got the job in California, I mean.”
“I bet that’s not true,” I tell him. Not because I believe it necessarily, but because I think he needs to hear it.
“Thanks,” he says, like he knows my reasoning and doesn’t believe it for shit.
“Had you and Eden spoken about what you were gonna do for Christmas this year?”
“No.”
Jesus Christ, Eden. “Thanksgiving?”
“No.”
For the love of fuck.
Every holiday, every year since he was sixteen, Eden has been at my house, with my family.
Was that gonna change, or did he plan on just showing up with Carey in tow to spend eight days drinking on the couch in my parent’s basement with no forewarning?
“Maybe you should go back to California for the Holidays.”
“No.”
“Carey. You haven’t been home in three years. I bet your parents would be glad to see you.”
“They never called me, you know.” I quickly glance at him and see his head is down as he weaves his fingers.
“I was gone for two Christmases, and three birthdays. And all I ever got was a text from Dad when I turned twenty-one. But it felt more like a final send off, like he was saying, there, you made it all the way to adulthood. Like he was expecting me to say thank you to him.”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
I used to try with Eden, but getting him to talk was like drawing blood from a stone. It’s not healthy, but for him—and me—ignoring our pasts is how we cope.
“It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it?”
“What is?” I ask, trying to keep my tone as mellow as possible, when I’m itching to tell him that he needs to just find someone to fuck because it’s the only advice I have to give.
“That I came half way around the world. And if I went back to my parent's house I'd still feel more lonely than I do here, where I'm actually alone. I must be pretty fucking awful to be around if my brother would rather isolate himself than ask me to go to that damn cabin with him.”
I pull into a free space by the building's front doors. “It’s not like that.”
“You might have known him longer. You might be closer. But he’s still my brother, and he fucking left me.” Gripping the handle, Carey pushes open the door and has one foot on the ground before I force the words out of my mouth—
“So did mine.”
He swivels back to me.
I can’t look at him. None of this is his fault. But— “You aren’t the only one who had their brother run away. At least yours answers his phone.”
“I… Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We spent the last two days not talking to each other on purpose.”
“When did he leave? Where did he go?”
“Last week, and I’ve got no fucking idea.
” I pause, and Carey doesn’t move. I don’t want to keep talking, but my lips start moving and the words just spew out.
“I’m really sorry for the situation you’re in.
I genuinely am. But you’re not the only one whose been dealt a really fucked up hand, and…
I don’t share. I don’t talk. I don’t even know why I’m saying any of this right now.
But shit still needs to get done and I’m the one who has to hold it all together.
The shop. My mother’s sanity. It’s all a delicate balancing act, and without you, I think I’d drop it all. So please, I can’t see you like this.”
When people say the silence was deafening this is what they’re talking about. It’s like that moment in disaster movies when all the water recedes and everything hangs in a weird suspended animation.
Carey steps out of the van completely, and turns to face me properly. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m so sick of people saying they’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and when I look at him, he smiles, and I catch it.
“You’re the worst.” I shake my head.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“No worries.” I give the kind of lackluster wave where you just raise your hand. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at four.”
“But it’s Thanksgiving.”
“And you suddenly have plans?”
“Maybe I got Brooklyn’s number out of the computer and was planning on hitting her up.”
God he's good. “Are you that desperate?”
“Are you that jealous, old man?”
“Of you, or her?”
Carey stares, his eyebrows pushed together.
“Relax, kid. I don’t care who you fuck. But I think—”
“I’ll be fine tomorrow. I don’t need your charity.” He goes to close the door.
“I’ll pick you up at four. This isn’t about you, or me. You’ll bring your magic fucking energy, and help make my mom forget that Jintae isn’t there."