“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the show tune type.”
“I’m not, but I’m big into those flashy jukebox musicals. Give me a diva belting a pop hit in a shiny costume, and I’m there.” The playlist we’ve been listening to since we started cooking included a lot of Carly Rae Jepsen, Katy Perry, and Beyoncé.
“We should go toMoulin Rouge, then. You’d love it. The cast recording is awesome. I wanted to go with my ex, but he said it was all style and no substance.” At the time, I took it solely as an insult to the show, but in hindsight, I wonder if he was judging my tastes as well, turning his nose up at the prospect of spending a hundred dollars on escapism.
In a way, being with Leo feels like escapism, except...tangible.
“Look, no offense, but your ex sounds like a massive jerk. Everything you’ve told me about the guy sounds like a high-flying red flag.”
“No. I’m making it out to be worse than it was.” I arrange three small glass bowls on the countertop. “He just didn’t want to spend money on things he knew he wouldn’t enjoy. Then again, he knew I wouldn’t enjoy his work holiday mixer at some virtual golf establishment, but I went anyway with a smile on my face.”
“That sounds, uh, not exactly fun, but at least intriguing.”
“It was neither fun nor intriguing,” I admit, setting the table. The clock tells me Mrs. Min will be back soon. “To make matters worse, he didn’t even introduce me. Instead, he called me over, ‘H! H, come here!’ He was three drinks down the rabbit hole at this point. I stood there, cocktail sweating in my hand, forehead slick, too, wondering what he’d told them about me. Everyone in the room appeared straight-presenting, and he was weird about introductions back in college.”
“He was out, though?” Leo asks.
“Oh, yeah. He was out, but I guess not to his coworkers because this woman Helena with short curly hair wearing a poinsettia-patterned shirt asked how long we’d beenroommates.”
“Christ, that’s fucked-up.”
I shrug. “I excused myself for a drink refill, but really, I dipped into the bathroom. In a stall with a TV screen built into the door playing some old golf game, dozens of men in polos, I sobbed into a roll of single-ply toilet paper.”
Leo stops what he’s doing, eyes softening. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“Hey, it’s fine. We’re over now. It’s cool,” I say, even though I’m boiling with the memories. “Maybe he had homophobic coworkers. I’m sure he had his reasons.”
Leo crosses to the table, unspeaking. For a moment, I think he might not say anything at all. It’s not until he flips up the end of the table I’m going to be sitting at that he finally looks toward me. “I think anyone who ditches out on you is an idiot.”
My excuses peel away like price tag stickers, and the compliment cozies up inside my heart. I smile, I nod, but I don’t say anything because the front door is opening. Mrs. Min comes inside and sniffs the air.
“Smells delicious.” She sets her bags beside the doorway.
“Wash up, Umma. Dinner’s almost ready.” As if to punctuate his point, the timer for the pork goes off.
Thirteen
The pork may be cooked to perfection, but Mrs. Min drops me and Leo in the Dutch oven—heat turned all the way up—the moment we set our napkins on our laps to eat.
From there, her line of questioning is pointed, and the sweat beads at my hairline immediately. We trained for this, so how do I still feel woefully unprepared to answer her? Even the softball questions are lobbed from a haywire machine in a batting cage, each shot rattling the chain-link fence we tried to build up around us.
I try to focus on the tasty meal we cooked. I wasn’t too familiar with Korean cuisine prior, but now I’m certain I’m going to need Leo to share more recipes with me before I go. When I get my own place back in New York, I think about how I’m going to teach myself to cook. Meals for one may sound sad and solitary to some, but each bite of this dish is made more delicious because it came from my hands. I want to bottle that pride and hold tight to it.
“How long have you two known each other?” Mrs. Min asks.
“About five months.” Leo takes a bite of cabbage wrap so he doesn’t have to elaborate, which he’s been doing this whole time. Skillful. The last thing we need is to contradict ourselves. I wish there were a stenographer in the corner typing all this out, keeping a running record of our masterful lies for posterity and to study later.
Mrs. Min’s knife scrapes the bottom of her plate, making me jump. “Weren’t you seeing that guy from the hotel in South Park, near that music museum you liked, five months ago?” Her eyes never lift from her meal. It’s apparent she thinks she’s trapped him in a lie because she evidently knows his tells.
Strangely, I have no way to swoop in and save this one for him. Leo said on our hike that he had a dating history yet had never had an official partner. Are he and his mom that close that he’d talk about someone he was seeing casually? It seems suspicious, and I’m lightly jealous.
“I was.” Leo’s plate is clean and his glass is empty. His eyes grow panicked without a stall tactic. “Holden and I were just friends then. You knew about Carter, right?”
Carter. I don’t think I’ve ever even met a Carter. “Yeah, of course I knew about Carter.”
“He was a nice man. Very polite.” I can tell by her tone that this isn’t a slight to me, but her spoon has become a trowel because she’s digging for answers. It’s both concerning and sweet. She cares about Leo enough to want to be abreast with what’s going on in his life. Right now, though, I wish her curiosity would satiate itself for the sake of my sweat glands.
“Umma, I told you, Carter won’t be coming around anymore.” Leo’s firm on this.
