13. Chapter Thirteen #2
I walk toward the open doors and step inside, letting my eyes adjust. The place smells like rubber and engine grease.
Three or four guys work at various stations, hunched under hoods or sorting through parts bins.
Mr. Lee’s the first to spot me, standing over the open engine of a Hyundai with a wrench in one hand, and I see his face light with recognition immediately.
He grins, eyes crinkling, and tips his chin toward the far wall without me having to ask a single thing.
I follow his gaze.
There’s a truck parked on the far side, old, blue, dented along one panel. And sticking out from underneath it, a pair of legs in ripped jeans and scuffed sneakers, one foot crossed over the other at the ankle.
My grin stretches so wide my cheeks ache.
I cross the garage floor, stepping over an air hose, weaving past a stack of tires, and stop right beside the truck.
I look down at those beat-up shoes for a second, the feeling inside me settling already.
Then I pull my foot back and kick the sole of his sneaker.
The dolly rattles. The legs jerk, and the rest of him slides out from underneath in one smooth roll, face already twisted in a scowl like he’s prepared to verbally disembowel whoever just interrupted him. His mouth opens, eyebrows drawn down, and his eyes focus on my face.
The scowl vanishes. His face lights up.
“Bastard!”
He’s off the dolly and on his feet like he’s spring-loaded, launching himself at me with a force that sends me stumbling back two steps.
His arms close around me and I’m hit with a wall of body heat and motor oil and the sharp chemical tang of engine degreaser.
His hands clap against my back, leaving what I’m certain are greasy handprints all over my nice button-up, and I couldn’t care less.
I’m laughing, gripping him around the shoulders, feeling him through his shirt, how he’s broader now through the back and chest, real after months of phone calls and nothing else.
“When the fuck did you get in?” he says against my shoulder, voice muffled.
“Couple hours ago.”
“And you’re just now showing up here?”
“Had to see my mom first, obviously.”
A couple of the mechanics hoot from across the floor, one of them banging a wrench against a fender.
“There it is! Dynamic duo’s back!”
Ryowoon pulls back, grinning, white teeth flashing, and flips them off without looking.
He grabs a rag from the dolly and scrubs his hands while I take him in.
Oil smeared across his jaw. Black hair chopped short on the sides but overgrown on top, falling across his forehead in messy pieces.
His forearms are streaked with grime up to the elbows where he’s rolled his sleeves, the muscles in them ropey and defined from work.
He’s tanned dark from being outside. Half a head taller than me, still.
I’ve accepted by now that this gap isn’t closing.
We’re twenty-three. Whatever growing either of us was going to do is done, and Ryowoon’s always going to have those extra inches on me.
He’s lean and wiry through the torso, not bulky, but there’s a tautness to the way he moves that wasn’t there in high school, like his body’s been compressed and tightened by manual labor.
He slings the rag over his shoulder and throws an arm around mine, steering me toward the open bay doors.
“Hey, I’m heading out!” he calls back into the garage, not so much asking as informing. Mr. Moon, if he’s even here, doesn’t appear to contest it. One of the guys waves without looking up.
We’re outside and the evening air wraps around us, cool after the warmth of the garage, and Ryowoon’s arm stays slung over my shoulders as we fall into step together. His stride matches mine automatically, though his legs eat up more ground and I can feel him consciously slowing to keep pace.
“You know who you gotta see next,” he says, grinning sideways at me.
I do.
We crest the hill together and Mrs. Nam’s store comes into view, its doors propped open, the warm glow of the interior lights spilling onto the sidewalk. Ryowoon drops his arm from my shoulders and strides right through the entrance, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Halme! I hope you’ve taken your heart medication this afternoon.”
A clatter from the back, then her voice, sharp as a blade.
“Cha Ryowoon, you had better not be warning me about something you’ve done that’s going to give me a cardiac episode.”
“Not me this time.” He throws a wink over his shoulder at me, his eyes sparking, and steps aside.
Mrs. Nam appears from the doorway behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes sweep Ryowoon first, narrowing with suspicion, and then they land on me.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
“Heo Seyeon!”
I wince, bracing myself instinctively, and I’m glad I do because she’s on me in seconds.
For a woman pushing seventy she moves with terrifying speed, clearing the counter and crossing the store in what feels like three steps.
She seizes both my arms, yanks me down to her height, and crushes me into a hug that compresses my ribs against my lungs.
She pulls back and her hands are on my face, turning it side to side, examining me like she’s soaking in every change.
Her eyes are shining, her lower lip trembling.
“Omo, omo, look at you. Oh my goodness. Oh, so handsome. When did you get so tall? Look at this face. Aigoo, your mother must be beside herself.”
She pinches my cheek hard enough to leave a mark and I smile down at her, my throat suddenly tight. Behind her, Ryowoon leans against the door frame with his arms crossed, watching the whole production with open amusement, lopsided grin hitched up on one side.
“I’m happy to see you too, Halme.”
She swats my arm and then grabs it, towing me through the store with an unbreakable grip.
“Come sit down right this instant. Have you eaten? You look thin. Ryowoon, does he look thin to you?”
“He looks fine.”
“He looks thin. Sit.”
I try to protest as she steers us into the courtyard, the sitting platform still there, still solid, the same potted plants lining the walls. The evening sky opens up above the courtyard, deep blue fading to violet. I lower myself onto the wood, my legs stretching out in front of me.
“My mom already fed me enough to put me in a coma, Halme, honestly.”
“Then she didn’t feed you enough.”
She disappears into the kitchen and I hear pots rattling, the fridge opening and closing, the brisk purposeful sounds of a woman who will not be argued with. Ryowoon drops down beside me on the platform, his shoulder bumping mine as he settles, legs folded.
Mrs. Nam returns with a tray. Rice cakes, sliced fruit, japchae glistening with sesame oil, little dishes of pickled cucumber and seasoned bean sprouts.
She sets it down between us and fixes me with a look that makes refusal feel like a death wish.
So I eat. Ryowoon helps himself to the rice cakes without being asked and Mrs. Nam doesn’t scold him for it, just pats the back of his head as she passes.
Her hand lingers there for a second, fingers in his hair, and Ryowoon doesn’t flinch or pull away. Closes his eyes for half a beat.
I tell them about school between bites. About my final year, the thesis I’m writing on secondary education pedagogy, the classes I’m finishing.
About the internship waiting for me in the fall at a middle school near campus, the one I applied to six times before they finally said yes.
Mrs. Nam listens with her hands folded in her lap, nodding, her eyes soft and proud.
Ryowoon asks questions, more than I expected.
He wants to know what the internship’s like, what grade I’ll be teaching, whether the kids are going to eat me alive.
I tell him middle schoolers are basically feral animals in uniforms and he barks a laugh.
“That was us.”
“We were worse.”
“Speak for yourself.”
The light fades from the sky as we talk.
Crickets start up from somewhere beyond the courtyard walls.
Mrs. Nam keeps bringing things, a pot of barley tea, more fruit, a plate of sweet rice cakes she insists she made this morning but which I suspect she conjured into existence the second she saw my face.
I finally push my plate back and lift both palms in surrender.
“I can’t. I physically cannot.”
She tuts but accepts it, patting my cheek one more time as she gathers the dishes.
She tells me it’s good to have me home, that the town’s been too quiet without the two of us around, and then she disappears into the kitchen with the tray, the clinking of dishes and the sound of running water filtering out through the window.
I groan and collapse backward onto the platform, my arms out, my stomach straining against my waistband. I stare up at the darkening sky above the courtyard, the first stars starting to prick through.
“She’s going to kill me. Between her and my mother I’m going to need a wheelbarrow to get home.”
Ryowoon, still sitting up beside me, leans back on his palms, his grin lopsided. He nudges my thigh with his knee.
“So. What else have you been doing up in the big city?” His voice takes on a wicked edge, meaning he’s about to enjoy himself at my expense. “Keeping up your heartbreaker reputation, I’m guessing. Collecting all the hearts of the Seoul girls like trading cards, I bet.”
I tip my head to the side on the wood and look at him. His face is half in shadow, half lit by the warm glow from the kitchen window, his eyes glinting with mischief. I feel my mouth curve. I think now. If I’m going to tell anyone, it should be him first. It should always be him.
I look back up at the sky. Hum once, like I’m considering the question.
“Girls,” I say. And then, casually: “And boys.”
The air goes still for one beat, then two.