She would never make that mistake again.
Nor would the daughters of her blood.
12
Hua Qingyang
Northern Song dynasty. Qingyang, who adored luxury, was reprimanded for disobeying the new sumptuary laws in the capital.
Heart note //Higher tolerance for daily irritations
Base note //Myrrh
Rafe knocks again, but I cannot deal with him or anyone at this moment.
“Go away,” I yell.
“Please, Lucy.” His voice is soft. “Just…let me in.”
I’m not ready to be weak in front of Rafe, but I need the company. I’m tired of the empty room. Tired of trying and failing. I’m too tired to keep saying no, and although we may be estranged, we’re not strangers.
The wine means I struggle with the locks and, because I haven’t put down the glass, spill more on my clean shirt. Finally, I crack the door open and step back.
Rafe stands in the doorway and we stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. He’s in a gray zipped hoodie—worn, frayed, and faded, like the one he wore almost every day when he was seventeen. Icould be convinced it’s the same one, except there’s no way the hoodie that had draped over his angular teenage frame would fit the man in front of me. He’s also in jeans and bare feet with ratty slides. He must have been putting the garbage out or something equally domestic. No, a square white bag hangs from his hand. He met a delivery person in the lobby.
I step aside, then turn around and walk into my apartment. Behind me, Rafe closes the door and sets the locks.
“Wine?” I ask, sitting on the couch.
“I’ll get it.”
I listen to Rafe move around the kitchen and try to guess what he’s doing. Getting plates down; that’s easy. There’s the click of a lighter; is one of the burners not working? Why would he need the stove? I could turn around to see, but that seems like so much work when I can barely lift the glass to my lips.
It takes only a minute or two before he comes into the living room and puts a cup down in front of me. “Water,” he says.
As I sip, he opens the bag to reveal Korean fried chicken and tteokbokki, and what look like corn dogs but with an oddly textured exterior. “You should eat,” he says. “Luckily, I bought too much because I didn’t know what I wanted. Is there anything you don’t eat? Meat?”
“No, but I’m not hungry.”
“Lucy, don’t let the food go to waste.” He pulls on the translucent gloves that came with the food and picks up a chicken wing.
He’s halfway through the chicken when I give in and grab one of the corn dogs, its surface cratered with what looks like hash browns. “Does this have potato on it?” I ask, hefting it in my hand by the wooden skewer stuck through the center like a handle and turning it around curiously.
“It’s cheese with potato.” He pushes over the white Styrofoam tub of tteokbokki. “Dip it in this.”
I do, the weight of the food making my hand slip on the skewer, andtake a bite. The coating is soggy from the delivery, the cheese congealed from cooling, but this is a comfort food par excellence. I take another bite, then another, and before I notice, I’ve finished it without offering any to Rafe. Mom would be deeply unimpressed with my greed, but all Rafe does is hand me the second, this one covered in what looks like toasted ramen noodles with a half–hot dog, half-cheese interior.
I drink down the rest of the water—the food is salty—and Rafe pours me another glass from the carafe he brought out. I can already feel the headache coming and rub my temples with my fingers to try to alleviate some of the tension. Then I drink some more wine. Might as well put off the hangover for as long as I can. I’ve settled into a miserable and introspective drunk, not a happy, hyper one.
“What’s going on, Lucy?”
I screw my eyes tight. “You know when people say they want something so bad it hurts?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever wanted something so bad that it went beyond pain? So deep that it almost numbed you?”
There’s a short silence, and then Rafe says, “I have.”
