CHAPTER 11
I’ve been standing on the front steps of Eden’s apartment building for the past five minutes. Tek said four, and like a loser I waited inside the lobby, watching the road for fifteen minutes before coming outside so I don't miss him.
I don’t want to be like this.
It took everything to ask him for a drink last night. And because I’m a freaking idiot it came out sounding all stupid, like I was fumbling over my words to nervously ask him on a date. Which wasn’t what I was doing at all.
I mean, if I thought he’d say yes, I’d ask him in a heart beat.
But I really did just want to get a beer.
To drink somewhere that wasn’t in my brother’s spare bedroom, alone.
And who else do I know to ask? The closest thing I have to a friend is a seventy-something-year-old man who I buy slippers from.
And I don’t want to be on Tinder, or any of those other apps, either.
I don’t want a hook up. I’m sick of the temporary, so getting underneath someone else won’t help because a distraction isn’t what I need.
No. What I need is to stop lusting after someone who will never so much as look at me the way I do him…
It’s golden hour, and every other night as I rode my skateboard home, the sky had the prettiest rays of orange breaking through the gloom. But tonight, the sky is angry. The orange can barely be seen through the big grey, mean-looking clouds.
A large gust of sea air whooshes past, almost like it’s tugging me.
I close my eyes and imagine myself on my surfboard, the low waves that aren’t worth catching bobbing me up and down in the twilight as I wait for the next good one.
When I open my eyes Tek’s van is across the street. It's nothing interesting to look at; just basic white from the outside. But I know about the bed and what he’s likely already done in it, and my brain automatically goes off on fifty different sexual tangents at the thought.
I’m totally fucked.
I suck in a lung full of half-frozen air and start walking towards the van, reminding myself to be grateful. To be thankful for a home-cooked meal instead of instant ramen or The Emerald Dragon.
“Hurry up,” Tek calls through the driver's window, but I keep my pace.
The inside of the van smells just as strong of the pine cladding as it did last night, and with the remaining sunlight I can see the black leather of the front seats and the floor mats with patterns like Tek's tattoos.
I buckle up and Tek puts his foot on the accelerator.
There’s a radio but he doesn’t turn it on.
For several minutes he doesn’t say anything. Then after we pass Main Street, he asks, “Have you ever heard of Chuseok?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Okay, so… ahh…" He hesitates as he turns a corner, but it feels more like he's psyching himself up. "Well, both my parents were born in Korea so… we don’t so much celebrate Thanksgiving as have a Thanksgiving inspired meal, which is more like a casual Chuseok. And… that's just how it’s always been.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but when he doesn’t, I nudge. “I still don’t know what Chuseok is.”
Tek’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “It’s one of Korea’s national holidays… It’s like Thanksgiving… It’s a harvest festival.”
“When is it?”
“September or October. It changes with the lunar calendar.”
“Cool,” I say, genuinely interested. “What’s the food like?”
Tek laughs like I’ve said something wrong.
“The fuck have I done now?”
“Nothing.” Still laughing, he reaches over to grab my thigh, then playfully pushes it away. “I’m just imagining what you’ll think of what my mother makes.”
“So what are we talking about? Bulgogi with a side of pumpkin pie?”
“You know bulgogi?”
“Korean barbecue is everywhere.”
“Well you’re not far off. Her Jeon and Japchae are amazing, but then she goes rogue. Kimbap with turkey and cranberries… She made sweet potato dumplings before and they were… interesting. She does make American stuffing though, and it slaps.”
“I don’t know what—”
“You will.” Tek cuts me off. “You’ll try everything.”
Will I, now?
I'm not a rude person and typically a delight to get along with, but being told what to do when I'm not being paid isn't something I enjoy.
So I shut my mouth, lean my head against the window, and watch the houses get bigger as we make our way up the hill.
Because if I've learned one thing this past week, it's that Jeon Wootek hates it when I don't talk.
As the minutes tick by, I can feel the tension building between us.
It's not necessarily uncomfortable, though I wish it was for a different reason.
Like, I dunno, maybe he's desperate to touch me again and we're both burning up over how forbidden it is...
But alas, I'll have to add that to my growing list of pipe dreams, because it actually feels more like Tek resenting his obligation to take care of me with Eden gone.
Several minutes pass until Tek takes another corner too fast.
The tires skid, and his hand shoots out to press against my chest—holding me firm—until the van stops dead in the middle of the road. I snicker, ready to say something smart, but when I look at him, he's as white as a ghost.
"You good?" I ask.
He turns to me, quickly retracting his hand, but his eyes remain wide while he scans my body. Then he looks down at himself, as if checking he's still in one piece, too.
"Tek?" I speak again, and it snaps him out of whatever trance he's in enough to put his foot back on the accelerator.
“You don’t have to like being there," he says after another bout of silent driving. "But I need you to try for my Omma.”
What does he think I'm going to do? Barge in, guns blazing, ready to insult his parents and his culture?
I ignore him again and lean my head back against the window, watching the houses thin out to the sounds of the road and the heater.
We wind through two more turns and the road changes to newer, crisp black asphalt. There's a set of gates, and on the brick wall they feed out from are the words ‘Alder Estate’.
Pictures from my past flash through my mind like a slide show in quick succession.
“I think I used to live here.”
“You did.” That’s all he offers, and when I think about it, I don’t really need anything more. I know my dad makes a lot of money, I grew up in a condo by the beach. It's literally the reason my mom married him.
All the houses are on large blocks. Mid-century inspired with glass and cedar. The kind of places you see in architecture magazines.
Tek slows down at an already open brown-panel gate. Beyond it the house looks straight out of a seventies TV show; tall windows, stone, dark wood, and—unlike every other house we passed in the estate—there's not a single decoration in sight.
He pulls into the driveway and lets the van idle, his hands still on the wheel.
“Omma doesn’t believe in decorations,” he says, as if reading my mind.
But true to brand, there is no further elaboration.
He just turns off the engine and sits there for several seconds before adding, “She’ll love you,” then unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out.
I follow, quickly rounding the van to catch up with him.
I pause, allowing him to step ahead of me onto the porch where he punches a code into the front door, and after a chime sounds, he opens it.
I step into the warmth and Tek closes the door behind me. For a second, I catch his eyes. They’re dark, almost pleading with me, before he quickly turns away to take off his coat. I do the same and hang it beside his.
One step further in and the house tells me everything I need to know. There are high ceilings slanting down from right to left with black stained wooden floors. It's split level with stairs just past the shoe rack that looks militarily enforced.
I take off my Vans and look at all the pairs of slippers that line the shoe rack's bottom shelf. All the same design, but in different colors and sizes. Tek pulls out a black pair and slides them on.
"They're Eden's." He nods towards the dark, forest-green pair. I shuffle towards them, assuming he's telling me to put them on, but he stops me with a hand against my chest, not dissimilar to how he just did in the van. "Those are for guests." He points to three maroon pairs at the end of the rack.
I remove his hand and guide him back so I can step in front of him, then use my right foot to drag out the largest pair before sliding them on.
Above the shoe rack is a wall of framed family photos. Tek as a toddler with shiny black hair, always on his own—occasionally with his parents—until he's a teenager and his brother was born. Then my brother starts making an appearance.
"I didn't know you did karate," I say, gesturing to a picture of him in a white uniform. "Or… Taekwondo?"
"Hapkido." He corrects. "Black belt. So watch yourself."
I give him a cheeky salute and he glares at me for a second before turning around, unintentionally showing me his wide shoulders and back; my eyes trailing down to his ass and how it looks in sweat pants, because he did not dress up for the occasion.
"What's that smell?" I ask, forcing a distraction.
"Kimchi."
The air is thick with food smells; sweet, sour, and spiced. I hear a voice coming from deeper inside, but it's soft, speaking Korean.
I would be willing to learn…
Tek moves through the house to the kitchen, looking back to see if I'm following.
A woman stands at the stove, back straight, hair pulled tight into a bun, wearing a traditional dress I don't know the name of. She doesn't see me at first, but when she does look up, her eyes go straight to me, bypassing her son.