“Mostly. People move on fast.”
“Mm.” Another silence. Then, abruptly, “Come into the study a moment, will you?”
As we stand, mum rises to fetch something from the kitchen. The second her back is turned, I crouch again, holding my hand out to Gongju.
“Come on,” I murmur. “We’re family. You’rebasicallymy sister.”
She looks at my hand. Then she lifts her chin, pointedly, and walks away with her head held high, following my mother back into the kitchen without a backward glance. My father watches the entire exchange, mouth twitching.
“Clever dog,” he says. “She knows what side her bread’s buttered on.” I sigh and follow him towards the study. I swear, that dog is the spirit of all my ancestors,judging mefor every mistake I’ve ever made.
The study smells of old books and aftershave, things that remind me of being small and in awe of my father. His stillness used to intimidate me, now I understand it. I see it in Kasia’s eyes too, thatcontemplationbefore speech and it feels like home.
He closes the door and stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back like he’s about to deliver a lecture. Paper still held in one hand like it’s helping him compose his words.
“I know when a man’s defending a lady,” he says finally.
It shocks me for a second, then I laugh softly. “You do, huh?”
“Don’t lookso surprised. I was young once.” He glances at me, the faintest smile breaking his reserved composure. “Your mother and I watched the clip. You didn’t take joy in it. He was clearly antagonistic.”
“I didn’t. He was.”
He nods. “Still, try not to make a habit of it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He turns and takes his seat behind the large wooden desk that I used to hide behind. The place I ran when mother would scold me for not doing my chores. He studies me for a beat, then asks, almost casually, “So,the ladyin question?”
“Her name’s Kasia.” My voice softens without meaning to. “She’s from Seattle. A doctor.”
That gets his attention, his eyebrows lift. “A doctor?”
I grin. “Yeah, aproperone too. A specialist of eyes, notegos.”
For the first time all afternoon, maybe myentire life, he actually looks proud.
“Well. That’s admirable. A good woman with sense. Maybe she’ll keep you alive longer than the music industry will.”
There’s a sting under the joke, but I let it sit. The warmth beneath it is real enough. For a second, it feels like I’vefinallydone something right.
He folds the paper in his hands until it creases. “That other one, what’s his name again? The guitar fellow?”
“Rithy.”
“Rithy, yes. Always a bit of an arse when he came over, that one. Never cared for him.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” he repeats, rolling the word like a pebble. “He’s lucky you bothered with him at all.”
That hits harder than I expect. Under normal circumstances, I’d defend him fiercely, our bond is something I can’t quite explain, but lately I just don’t have it in me. So instead, I nod, slow.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He gives a small grunt of approval, conversation over, and returns to reading the paper. The sound of it unfolding marks the end of themoment. When I step back into the hall, my mother’s waiting with a container of leftovers.
“For you and your doctor,” she says, not even pretending she didn’t eavesdrop, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Musicians and doctors forget to eat.” Gongju is perched beside her like a statue carved from condemnation.
