Her:You know that's totally a serial killer thing to have?
Me:I suppose it is. But I don't mind leaving the doors open and giving the security guard a show.
Her:Looks like my Tuesday night just got interesting. Is there anything specific you'd like me to wear?
Me:You got any crop tops?
Her:It's November.
Me:I like stomachs.
Her:Can't say I've ever met a stomach guy before.
Me:I've never been one to follow the crowd.
Her:What if mine isn't flat?
Me:You're a woman. It's not meant to be.
Her:I might have just fallen in love.
Me:Don't ruin it.
Her:I was only joking FFS.
Me:Just get your ass in the car. I'm hungry.
Her:How long will you be?
Me:45 minutes.
Her:Then you need to get your ass in your van.
Me:I'll be at Fred Meyer at 8:30.
I let my head fall against the seat back. A date is set. It makes my shoulders feel lighter, but it doesn't loosen the ache in my stomach.
I reach for the gear stick, and my phone buzzes, my mothers name glowing on the screen. She never calls out of the blue. I'll be seeing her for Thanksgiving next week so what could she possibly want?
My shoulders slouch again as I slide to answer and press the phone to my ear. Her voice spews out in rapid-fire Korean, so panicked I can't make sense of what she's saying
"Jintae." She repeats his name, over and over.
"He's dropped out."
"Disappeared."
"Run away."
"Won't answer his phone."
"Turned the tracking off."
Her voice keeps climbing.
I close my eyes and dig my nails into the lines on my forehead. My guts ache harder now, but in a completely different way.
Jintae is the golden one. The sure bet. The one who didn't fuck up like I did.
