“Hi, Mom. I just wanted to let you and Dad know that my cell phone battery died last night.” There’s a noise outside the bathroom, and I pause, glancing at the door. I can’t hear anything else over the loud bathroom fan, so I continue my voice message. “Park and I decided to go to Stevens Pass to ski for a few days.” That seems like a likely explanation as to why I’m gone. Stevens Pass is a ski resort thirty-five minutes away from Leavenworth, and my parents shouldn’t be too concerned about me going there. I pace around the bathroom, using large hand gestures as I talk. “I know I should’ve told you before I left, but we’re fine.” It feels taboo to tell them I’ll be home for Christmas, so I leave that part out. “I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know how the skiing is.” I hear another loud noise, and the restroom door shakes. My brows furrow. “Love, you all.”
I push send on my text and shove his phone back in my pocket. I open the bathroom door just as Park gets thrown into a rack of chips. His body crashes to the floor, but he instantly rolls to his feet, shooting me a tired smile.
“Hey, Lace.” His breaths are heavy.
My eyes dart between him and the angry man marching toward him. He says something in a language I don’t understand.
“What’s he saying?”
“Don’t have a clue.” Park lunges forward, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. The man jabs his fists into Park’s side, causing his words to come out in small grunts.
“I thought you spoke five languages.”
“Not this one,” he groans, shoving the man back.
They push off each other, and Park elbows him in the cheek with one quick rotation of his body. The man takes the hit surprisingly well and counteracts by punching Park in the jaw. They spar back and forth, throwing and dodging punches. I find myself ducking and flinching every time Park gets hit. I should probably be more helpful instead of just watching. I’ve always hated that in action movies—the helpless woman standing there while the guy gets the crap beat out of him. Like, go pick up the gun or something.
Since I’m not a helpless woman, I grab a couple of cans of baked beans off the shelf and throw them at the guy. One hits him in the back of the head and distracts him enough for Park to grab him by the collar and force him into some shelves of candy. As the man comes up, he pulls a knife out of his boot.
“He’s got a knife!” I yell as his wrist flicks forward, sending the blade through the air.
Park opens the refrigerated glass door, using it as a shield. The tip of the blade hits the glass, cracking it before it falls to the ground.
He smiles at me through the shattered glass. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Did I really help?” My lips curl upward with self-confidence.
“You did great,” Park says as he picks up the knife. He slashes the blade back and forth several times, cutting the man’s shirt sleeve off and trimming the side of his goatee. That’s some serious precision with a blade. The man knocks the knife away, and they wrestle back and forth through the aisles. I follow behind, watching the action punch for punch. But from where I’m standing, it looks like Park is losing. I search for some way to help. That’s when I see my hot chocolate on the counter. I grab the cup, flinging it in the man’s direction. The burning liquid lands all over his face and neck.
“I told you that stuff was hot!” I justify my actions.
The man yells in pain as he stumbles toward the Frazil slushie machine. He pushes on the tabs, and a colorful spray of cold slush spills over his face.
Park tilts his head. “That’s one way to use a slushie machine.”
“Very creative.”
Park looks at me. “And it smells delicious.”
“I think so too.”
“As fascinating as this is to watch,” he shrugs, “I don’t think it’s helping us win.”
“Probably not.” I shake my head.
“But you’re doing great.” Park grabs the man by his collar and lifts his head out of the slushie machine, pushing him toward the hot dog rollers.
“Oh, more burning?” I point at the grill.
“I’m just taking your lead. Besides, the Frazil machine probably numbed his face. He won’t feel a thing.” Park forces the man down and presses his cheek against the burners.
His eyes go wide, and he fights back, but Park overtakes him, holding the side of his face against the heated grill. He yelps as the smell of burning flesh mixes with gas station hot dogs, and I decide right then and there that I may never eat a hot dog again.
The man kicks and squirms, kneeing Park in the upper thigh, loosening his grip. He comes up with a red, charred face from the rollers, but it doesn’t slow him down. They fight back and forth until Park grabs the knife on the ground. He slices the blade through the air at a ridiculous speed, cutting the man across the chest. His black shirt splits open, and a stream of crimson spills out. The man hits Park’s arm, sending the knife flying across the room…again. Can we not get a better grip on the weapon? Shouldn’t that be a top priority here?
Park does some spin move, grabbing a twelve-pack of beer on the way. As his body comes around, he swings the beer, hitting the man in the temple and knocking him out. His body drops to the ground, finally still. A line of blood runs down his face from where the bottle caps cut his forehead.
“I can’t believe that worked,” I say, standing over his body.
