Page 76 of The Way Back Home

“I’ll be going,” I say.

He clears his throat with a wet, phlegmy sound.

“Yeah. Right.”

I turn toward the front door. My hand is on the frame when his voice calls out from behind me.

“And you tell that son of mine I better not see his face around here again.” His tone hardens, the drink making him bolder. “I’m taking him off the family register.”

I stop walking.

My fingers curl around the doorframe. I can feel my pulse in my temples, in the base of my throat, behind my eyes. Every muscle in my body draws taut. I should walk out. I should step through this door and cross the yard and shut the gate behind me and never look back.

I turn around.

He leans against the hall wall, trying to look authoritative, trying to look like a father exercising his right. His chin juts out. His arms fold across his swollen gut.

I look at him and I say, “You know what the worst part of losing my dad was?”

His face changes. The bluster drains out of it. He goes still.

“It’s knowing that he lost his life for nothing.”

My voice is tremendously clear, each word comes out steady and with confidence. It’s the bare truth I’ve been holding back since I was twelve years old.

“You should have been the one to die that day.” I hold his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to tell you that. That all of our lives would have been better if it had been you.”

He doesn’t speak. His arms drop to his sides. His mouth opens and closes. For just a moment he looks like a man who’s been hit, and I feel nothing for him. Not guilt, not pity, not even satisfaction.

I turn and walk out. Through the wreckage, across the yard, through the gate. The iron creaks on its hinges when I slam it shut behind me.

34 Years Old

The roll-up doors are already open when I come around the corner the next morning, half the shelving units dragged out onto the sidewalk and leaning against the storefront wall. Yuro pulls ahead on his leash, nose working, and I let him tug me through the entrance.

Ryowoon is crouched behind one of the chest freezers in the back, hauling something out of it by the fistful and dropping it into a garbage bag. His hair is shoved back off his forehead, damp at the temples, a grey t-shirt already clinging to him in places from the effort. Old jeans sit low on his hips, one knee blown out. The ink on his left arm catches the morning light flooding in through the open doors, dark lines curving from shoulder to wrist, I don’t let my eyes linger long enough to examine the shapes.

He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, his shifts the second Yuro breaks free of my loose grip on the leash and goes trotting up to him, tail swinging. Ryowoon’s mouth curves. Not for me. For the dog.

“Hey, bud.” He reaches down without hesitation, scrubbing both hands through Yuro’s fur, letting the shepherd nose into his chest and lick at his jaw. His face softens, the hard edge in his eyes fading. I have to look away before it gets under my skin.

I set the bag I’m carrying on the counter. “My mom made you breakfast. And there’s coffee.”

Ryowoon straightens, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Oh.”

It comes out a little flat, a little caught off guard. He closes the freezer lid and walks over, pulling the packed lunch box out of the bag first, then the metal canteen of coffee. He unscrews the lid and takes a drink standing up, eyes half shut. I watch his throat move as he swallows. Then he opens the lunch box and goes still, looking down at the rolled eggs, the rice packed into a neat mound, the fried sausages lined up along one side.

“I suppose I should go stop in and say hi.”

“She’ll probably show up on her own soon enough,” I tell him, leaning my hip against the counter. “She only works at the restaurant a couple days a week now. She’s got time.”

Ryowoon nods, his thumb running along the edge of the lunch box lid. He sets the coffee down and tips his chin toward the gutted interior of the store. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

I look around at what he’s already done. The freezers are pulled away from the walls, the exposed floor behind them grimy. Bags of expired stock and packaging are lined up near the entrance. He’s been at this for a while.

“First thing we need to do is clear out all the old inventory,” he says, picking up a piece of sausage with his fingers and biting into it. “Perishables, anything past date, the stuff that’s just taking up space. I’ll walk the building later this afternoon, see what needs fixing. Maybe climb up on the roof and take a look at the state of things up there.”

I arch my brows. “Sounds like you’ve got it figured out already.”