“Very.”
Carey Novak has a weird way of making time pass; quick, then slow, then gone.
For the second day in a row I’ve watched him clean and organize the shop like it’s nothing. He’s taken to the programming like it’s second nature. He’s talked his way out of that many confrontations on the phone with Eden’s pissed off clients like it’s his damn birthright to right his brother’s wrongs, all while I dig myself into a hole with back-to-back clients.
He doesn’t complain, if he sees something that needs doing, he just does it with a smile on his face or with sass on his tongue. And he runs that damn mouth like a marathon, but—and I hate to admit it—it's already growing on me. I mean, I'd rather him take shots at my expense than hear him bitch and moan.
By the time I’m wrapping the wrist of my second to last client for the day, Carey is humming to himself and chewing on his lip with a zoned out expression that should look dumb but instead looks infuriatingly… cute.
So annoying.
He catches me and straightens up, his lip slipping from between his teeth all swollen and red, like he’s been waiting all day to be a shit. “What ya staring at, old man?”
I snap the black gloves off my hands and drop them in the trash.
Why is he so damn hard to ignore?
I walk to the counter and rummage under it for the aftercare instructions. I hold them out for the client, a wiry dude in a Seahawks hoodie, and I swear I can feel Carey’s eyes burning holes in the side of my skull.
The guy pays, leaves a tip, and pauses by one of the open flash art books to take a Snapchat of his new ink on his way out.
I slip into the back room, sliding the door closed behind me.
I can’t hear Carey humming anymore, just one of the playlists that circles on repeat muted by the walls. But I still know he’s out there, and that fact is more comforting than it should be.
My phone rings in my pocket. I try to ignore it, but when I rub my hand on the back of my neck it feels hot to touch, so I know exactly who's trying to call and that they won't stop until I answer. Reluctantly I take it out, and my suspicions are immediately confirmed.
“Have you eaten?” my mother asks in Korean.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Have you heard from Jintae?”
“No.”
“The police still won’t do anything. They said the voicemail he sent means he isn’t missing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you really?” she asks curtly. And honestly, what the fuck does she want from me?
“I don’t know, Omma. I want to know that he’s safe, but he is an adult.”
“He’s still a child.”
“You didn’t think that when you forced him off to college.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
I sigh. “I’m not. I’m just tired.”
“Make sure you eat.”
“I already told you I did.”
“You can’t lie to your mother.”
“Okay,” I say because nothing else will placate her.
