Page 67 of The Way Back Home

Ryowoon grows quiet. This time the silence that stretches out between us feels charged.

When he finally speaks, his voice is too calm. “I never did anything like that.”

I glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead now, his jaw set.

“I’ve done nothing but work and live quietly,” he continues. “Never done any crime or have any record worth looking up. Sorry to say, but if you expected me to have some kind of life of delinquency, I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

I swallow hard.

“I’m not,” I say quickly.

“Not what?”

I turn to look at him again for a second. Meet his eyes. “I’m not disappointed.”

Ryowoon blinks. His mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say something, but then he looks away. Turns his head back to the window.

We don’t say anything else after that.

We pull into the first rest stop about an hour south of the city.

I kill the engine and sit for a second. My hands ache from gripping the wheel. I flex them against my thighs, working out the stiffness, and glance over at Ryowoon. He’s already reaching for the door handle.

“I’ll take the dog,” he says, not looking at me.

I nod. “I’m going to grab gas and food. You want anything?”

“Whatever.” He pushes the door open and steps out, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of stomach above his belt. I look away.

I hear him open the back door, the click of Yuro’s leash, the scramble of paws on leather as the dog launches himself out of the car. Ryowoon grunts, bracing against Yuro’s enthusiasm. “Alright, alright. Calm down.”

I get out and head for the gas pumps, filling the tank while I watch them disappear around the side of the building toward the grass median that separates the rest stop from the tree line. Then I go inside.

The rest stop canteen is fluorescent and crowded with the usual mix of families and truckers and couples stretching their legs. I grab a tray and load it up without thinking too hard. Two bowls of jjamppong, a couple of triangle kimbap, bottled water, a pair of canned coffees. I almost grab a pack of shrimp chips out of habit before I stop myself, my hand hovering over the rack. I stare at the bag for a second too long, remembering a bus to Busan and two boys splitting a bag between them, and then I grab it anyway and throw it on the tray.

I pay and shoulder through the glass doors back outside, plastic bag swinging from one hand, and stop.

Ryowoon is out on the grass thirty meters away. Yuro trots toward him with a stick clamped between his jaws, his tail going in wide sweeps, backend swaying with the force of it. Ryowoon crouches down and Yuro barrels into him, dropping the stick at his feet, and Ryowoon grabs it. Yuro lunges, clamping his teeth on the other end, and they wrestle for it, Ryowoon pulling one way and the dog digging in and pulling the other, Ryowoon’s grip slipping as Yuro twists his head with a playful growl. Ryowoon yanks it free and tosses it in a long arc across the grass. He claps his hands twice, sharp. “Go, go!”

Yuro tears after it.

I stand there holding the bag of food, watching.

Ryowoon straightens, pushing hair off his forehead with the back of his wrist, and when Yuro comes bounding back with the stick he bends again and this time Yuro doesn’t wait, launching upward and planting both front paws against Ryowoon’s chest and nearly knocking him backward. Ryowoon catches himself, one hand on the dog’s side, and laughs.

The tension drains from his jaw and the corners of his eyes crinkle and for a second he looks like someone I used to know so well I could finish his sentences. He ruffles Yuro’s ears with both hands, lets the dog lick his chin, doesn’t pull away. He looks relaxed and unguarded and so much like the boy who used to crouch in the dirt and cup frogs in his careful hands that my lungs can’t pull in a full breath.

I stand there until I’m sure the feeling has passed. Then I clear my throat, walk over, and hold up the bag. “Food.”

We eat on a bench near the car. The jjamppong is too hot to hold, so we blow on our chopsticks and eat in small bites, the bowls balanced on our knees. Yuro parks himself at Ryowoon’s feet, chin resting on Ryowoon’s shoe, his brown eyes following every movement of chopsticks to mouth with hyperfocus. Ryowoon pinches a piece of squid between his chopsticks and drops it. Yuro inhales it.

We finish eating in silence, toss our trash in the bin, and get back in the car. Ryowoon settles into the passenger seat, shifts around for a moment, and then rolls down his window. The afternoon air comes flooding in. He rests his tattooed arm along the door frame, elbow bent, his fingers hanging loosely outside. Then he reaches back and rolls down the window behind him too, and Yuro pushes his nose into the gap, ears flapping as I pull back onto the highway.

For a while we just drive.

When we hit the expressway proper and the speed picks up, the wind becomes too much. My hair whips across my forehead and I can barely hear myself think. I glance over to tell Ryowoon we should probably close up, and stop myself.

The wind has torn through his hair, blowing the dark strands across his forehead and into his eyes. His cheeks are flushed from the air, his jaw relaxed, his lips parted slightly. His eyes are half shut against the rush.