“Is this what you want, Tek?”I can hear him, clear as if he was pressed against my fucking ear.“You want to see me ruin you?”
“Yes,”I beg, trying to lean in.
But then he pulls away, spits in my face, calls me a filthy old man—and I choke on how much I want it to be true.
I want him to ruin me.
I want him to wring me out like a rag and throw me away.
The first spasm hits, my knees nearly giving out.
Then I hear my mother’s voice echoing through the floorboards.
I fight to keep standing, hand locked tight as I come with the force of my inflated ego; ribbons of white streaking up the side of the basin.
I can’t breathe…
For a long time I just stand, hunched over, my lungs desperate for air like I’ve run a marathon.
I study my face in the mirror, trying to memorize the look of disgust and regret so I never do this again. But even as I wash my hands and wipe down the sink I know it’s a fucking lie. I’m already too far gone. This desire I have for him will continue to fester under the surface, just deep enough that he doesn’t know, because no one can know. It would destroy everything I’ve built. My business, my closest friendship, and the already strained relationship with my parents.
“You’re a fucking mess,” I whisper, and my reflection agrees.
When I finally make it out of the bathroom the den is empty. The lights are on, but there’s no sign of him. I follow the sound of voices upstairs and find my mother pouring out a row of soju shots on the kitchen bench with Carey perched on the granite counter beside her. His arm is around her shoulders, his head lolling into her neck as he laughs in time with her cackle like they’re best friends. Like she wouldn’t slap me clear across the face for treating an elder of mine—especially one I just met—the exact same way. But she always treated Eden like her favorite son, so why would his brother be any different?
My father has a stool pulled up on the far side of the island. Between them the Uno cards are fanned out. A fresh coaster and paper napkin are positioned in front of four of the six kitchen stools, and my mother places a shot glass onto each of them. Her flower-print Hanbok has been replaced with a black Michael Kors tracksuit, and her hair is down. She looks ten years younger like this. Softer. Less formal.
“Tek-ah,” she laughs. “Are you going to play, or are you worried that Carey will beat you at this, too?”
“I thought we were playing downstairs?”
“Carey said you left him, and he came up stairs. Then your abeoji showed his face too, so now we are playing here.”
My eyes meet Carey’s and he looks at me with a glint that tells me he knows exactly what I was just doing. Reaching below his t-shirt, he scratches his stomach, and I know it’s a targeted attack.
Sliding down from beside my mother, he walks slowly to the stool between my father and I so he has to pass me, his eyes still locked on mine, his smile holding a fake innocence like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But I remember all the suggestive things he’s been saying to me for the past two weeks, then there’s a flash of him wearing the same smile, his face splattered in my cum—like a glitch—then it flickers away.
I quickly take a seat.
My mother gathers up the deck and deals, fast as a machine. The snap-snap-snap of the cards gives me something to focus on other than Carey’s gaze burning into the side of my head.
The game starts and my mother plays with no mercy, just like she lives her life.
My father shows no emotion. He’s just there on the sidelines to back her up when needed, then he shuts his mouth again.
We’re part way through the third game when thunder rolls so deep and low that the windows groan in their frames. Then, within seconds, there’s a crack so shrewd it cuts through us all.
“Storm’s started,” my mother says without looking up from her hand.
“Blizzard,” I correct her.
She smiles. “So pedantic, Tek-ha.” Then looks at Carey. “You’re lucky you stayed. No one should be driving in this. It’s perfect accident weather."
Carey laughs and says something back, but I’m not listening. My chest is cinched so tight I can barely breathe. Like an elephant is sitting on me, the weight just hangs there.
Flashing lights.
Sirens.
