CHAPTER 25 #3
I shrug. “Lost my appetite… Not enough steak.”
Omma stares down at the tablecloth. Her hands flatten against it, and after several seconds she pushes the empty glass away from her and turns to Carey. Reaching out, she strokes his face then cups it. “I’m sorry for his attitude. I don’t know where it comes from.”
“Fuck this,” I mutter, and take the two half bottles with me as I leave Carey and my mother at the table.
“He’s being a good friend to me,” I hear Carey say as I walk past the leather couch and towards the large, floor to ceiling glass wall at the back of the lounge room.
Their voices are faint now, but I don’t look back.
I chug down the remainder of one soju bottle and place it down on the black-stained floor boards.
With the Christmas tree to my left I stare out over Alder Estate and Puget Sound in the distance. It’s a view I know so well but it doesn’t feel right, almost like I shouldn’t be seeing it because I don’t belong here. In this house, or a part of this family.
I remember standing here when I was little, staring out at the setting sun, then, when it darkened, my reflection in the glass.
I’d try to imagine what I’d be like when I grew up, about what I’d look like, and if I’d be able to afford a house as nice as this one.
I always pictured a taller man, more clean cut.
What I know now was an idealized version of my parents plan for me.
I wanted to make them happy. I wanted to show them that taking the risk and moving across the world would pay off.
I wanted them to be proud.
I never saw tattoos, or bleached hair.
I never saw muscles and baggy clothes.
And I sure as hell never saw a man standing beside me.
But that’s the most ironic part of all. There’s never been a version of me that was exactly what my mother wanted. It’s why, after fourteen years, she tried again. And it’s why she needs Carey here.
I never gave her what she wanted.
She’s never told me she was proud. Not once in thirty-four years.
I’ve never been enough.
I used to think the tattoos were part of the rebellion, but now they feel more like a confession. Whether I’m covered in ink, or another sweatsuit, I can’t hide who I am. Not from him.
I catch movement in the faint reflection then hear slippers scuffing.
The moment he walked into the shop he saw me, and he hasn’t stopped looking.
I take another swig of liquor, and it burns because lemongrass soju tastes like shit.
Passing him the bottle, Carey takes it from me and finishes it.
“The table’s cleared. We’re gonna do presents when your parents are finished in the kitchen.”
“You’re an asshole for all of that,” I tell him, ignoring what he said.
He rests his head on my shoulder. “You love it.”
“You’ll be dead by the end of the week.”
“We don’t have to stay,” he says softly.
I remain staring out the window. “I do.”
I uncross my arms, and as the back of Carey’s hand brushes against mine, he says, “I didn’t get them anything.”
“They don’t deserve it.”
“They don’t deserve you.”
I seek out his pinky and wrap mine around it.
I want to tell him I’m falling for him.
I want to kiss him and show my reflection who I really am.
I want the strength to walk into the kitchen with his hand in mine, tell my parents I’m the man he met, and that if they don’t like it then we just shared our last Christmas lunch… But I take my hand back, and point down towards the water. “See that house down there? The one with the pool?”
“With the detached garage?”
“Yeah.”
“What about it?”
“That’s Shawn’s parent’s house.”
“So?”
“So…” I mock Carey’s tone. “That’s where Reeze lives.”
He lifts his head from my shoulder to look at me side on. “The fuck?’
“It’s true. He moved into the pool house a few months back.”
“Is that when they started hooking up?”
“Dunno. Eden’s the one who set it up. Reeze’s landlords were selling his apartment and he had to find somewhere quick. I don’t think Shawn had anything to do with it.”
Carey nods, but doesn’t say anything else.
His head falls back to my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around his.
Let my parents see.
Let Appa question my happiness.
I don’t know how long we stand here, just staring out the window to the faint ambient sounds of my parents talking Korean. Then, when I think maybe I can sneak a kiss, my mother’s voice slices right down between us. “Gift time!”
“Jesus Christ,” Carey says with a start—his body jolting, my arm falling from around him.
I push him playfully in the chest. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“I didn’t put anything under the tree for you, either.”
The bottle and a half of soju hits me all at once, and I float behind Carey, collapsing onto the firm leather couch beside him so close our legs touch.
Omma puts on some Korean Trot music then sets aside the pile meant for Jintae and Eden.
I stretch my arms high above me, then rest them along the back of the couch.
Carey crosses his arms, then pokes me secretly in the ribs.
My fingers find the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
This is why I shouldn’t have drunk, but the exact reason I needed to.