“You and him... Jintae and Eden…” he brings the glass to his lips a second time. “I just want you to be happy, and…”
“And?” I say because he paused for way too long.
“And for your Omma to shut up.”
I laugh, dry and awkward. “I don’t think she likes it.”
“And what say does she have in the matter?”
I mean, he’s not wrong. “But what if Carey was your son?”
“He isn’t.”
“But what if—”
“Jintae isn’t gay,” he announces with a shake of his head and a final pour of soju.
I love how he doesn’t even consider I might be talking about myself.
I want to shake him and scream because how can he be so stubborn? So willingly non observant. So staunch in the belief that there is no possible way he could ever have a son that isn't theright way around.There’s no question, no room to wiggle in his statement. He wants me to be happy, but just like my mother, it comes with a set of rules. If I showed up with Carey at every holiday for the next thirty years, would he still deny it? Would he believe us life-long friends just so he could die knowing the only way he screwed up as a parent is by having a son covered in tattoos, andnotthat his first-born goes home and fucks a man?
“Not everything is about Jintae,” I say under my breath and leave the kitchen.
Back at the dining table, I slam down both glasses and stand between Carey and Omma as I pour Carey’s full to the brim. As I slide it towards him, he looks up at me and his hair falls aside, bearing his forehead. And I have to fist my hand so I don’t run my fingers through it.
Stepping away, I round the table and return to my seat—leaving the glass in front of my mother empty.
She stares at me, and I glare right back.
It’s a level of disrespect I’m certain is lost on Carey, but she knows exactly my intention.
“Are you gonna have some?” Carey asks, wrapping his fingers around the glass.
I crack the cap on the unopened bottle in front of me.
“I thought you didn’t want to drink today?” my mother asks, and it's prickly.
“You’ve got my keys,” I tell her with as much composure as I can, then drink half the bottle in one go.
“What about the food?”
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.
