The inside of the van smells just as strong of the pine cladding as it did last night, and with the remaining sunlight I can see the black leather of the front seats and the floor mats with patterns like Tek's tattoos.
I buckle up and Tek puts his foot on the accelerator.
There’s a radio but he doesn’t turn it on.
For several minutes he doesn’t say anything. Then after we pass Main Street, he asks, “Have you ever heard of Chuseok?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Okay, so… ahh…" He hesitates as he turns a corner, but it feels more like he's psyching himself up. "Well, both my parents were born in Korea so… we don’t so much celebrate Thanksgiving as have a Thanksgiving inspired meal, which is more like a casual Chuseok. And… that's just how it’s always been.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but when he doesn’t, I nudge. “I still don’t know what Chuseok is.”
Tek’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “It’s one of Korea’s national holidays… It’s like Thanksgiving… It’s a harvest festival.”
“When is it?”
“September or October. It changes with the lunar calendar.”
“Cool,” I say, genuinely interested. “What’s the food like?”
Tek laughs like I’ve said something wrong.
“The fuck have I done now?”
“Nothing.” Still laughing, he reaches over to grab my thigh, then playfully pushes it away. “I’m just imagining what you’ll think of what my mother makes.”
“So what are we talking about? Bulgogi with a side of pumpkin pie?”
“You know bulgogi?”
“Korean barbecue is everywhere.”
“Well you’re not far off. Her Jeon and Japchae are amazing, but then she goes rogue. Kimbap with turkey and cranberries… She made sweet potato dumplings before and they were… interesting. She does make American stuffing though, and it slaps.”
“I don’t know what—”
“You will.” Tek cuts me off. “You’ll try everything.”
Will I, now?
I'm not a rude person and typically a delight to get along with, but being told what to do when I'm not being paid isn'tsomething I enjoy. So I shut my mouth, lean my head against the window, and watch the houses get bigger as we make our way up the hill. Because if I've learned one thing this past week, it's that Jeon Wootek hates it when I don't talk.
As the minutes tick by, I can feel the tension building between us. It's not necessarily uncomfortable, though I wish it was for a different reason. Like, I dunno, maybe he's desperate to touch me again and we're both burning up over how forbidden it is... But alas, I'll have to add that to my growing list of pipe dreams, because it actually feels more like Tek resenting his obligation to take care of me with Eden gone.
Several minutes pass until Tek takes another corner too fast.
The tires skid, and his hand shoots out to press against my chest—holding me firm—until the van stops dead in the middle of the road. I snicker, ready to say something smart, but when I look at him, he's as white as a ghost.
"You good?" I ask.
He turns to me, quickly retracting his hand, but his eyes remain wide while he scans my body. Then he looks down at himself, as if checking he's still in one piece, too.
"Tek?" I speak again, and it snaps him out of whatever trance he's in enough to put his foot back on the accelerator.
“You don’t have to like being there," he says after another bout of silent driving. "But I need you to try for my Omma.”
What does he think I'm going to do? Barge in, guns blazing, ready to insult his parents and his culture?
