Page 82 of The Way Back Home

My mother gives me the look, the one that says she sees right through me but knows better than to argue when my mind’s set. She tells me the name of the garage again, reminds me where it is as I’m pulling on my shoes by the door.

“Don’t be out too late,” she calls after me. “I’m making doenjang-jjigae for dinner and I’m not reheating it!”

I wave over my shoulder without turning and push through the gate, hands in my pockets, walking fast down the hill.

The sun sinks toward the harbor as I head down, the early summer heat’s already loosening its grip, a breeze coming off the water that cools the sweat at my temples. I tugged on a button-up and my good jeans before leaving, nothing crazy, but compared to the wrinkled t-shirt I spent four hours dripping into on the bus I feel almost overdressed. Still a little strange walking these streets in clothes I bought in Myeongdong. Like wearing a costume in a place where everyone’s already seen you naked.

The market’s winding down as I pass through, vendors folding up their canopies and stacking crates. A couple of the ajummas call out to me as I go by, recognition sparking on their faces, and I bow to each of them without slowing. Past the market the street narrows and I can already hear it from a distance, the clanging of tools, the rumble of an engine idling, a radio playing trot music from inside. Moon’s garage sits where the pavement gives way to gravel at the edge of town, its bay doors wide open, light spilling out into the fading evening.

My heartbeat picks up.

I walk toward the open doors and step inside, letting my eyes adjust. The place smells like rubber and engine grease. Three or four guys work at various stations, hunched under hoods or sorting through parts bins. Mr. Lee’s the first to spot me, standing over the open engine of a Hyundai with a wrench in one hand, and I see his face light with recognition immediately. He grins, eyes crinkling, and tips his chin toward the far wall without me having to ask a single thing.

I follow his gaze.

There’s a truck parked on the far side, old, blue, dented along one panel. And sticking out from underneath it, a pair of legs in ripped jeans and scuffed sneakers, one foot crossed over the other at the ankle.

My grin stretches so wide my cheeks ache. I cross the garage floor, stepping over an air hose, weaving past a stack of tires, and stop right beside the truck. I look down at those beat-up shoes for a second, the feeling inside me settling already. Then I pull my foot back and kick the sole of his sneaker.

The dolly rattles. The legs jerk, and the rest of him slides out from underneath in one smooth roll, face already twisted in a scowl like he’s prepared to verbally disembowel whoever just interrupted him. His mouth opens, eyebrows drawn down, and his eyes focus on my face.

The scowl vanishes. His face lights up.

“Bastard!”

He’s off the dolly and on his feet like he’s spring-loaded, launching himself at me with a force that sends me stumbling back two steps. His arms close around me and I’m hit with a wall of body heat and motor oil and the sharp chemical tang of engine degreaser. His hands clap against my back, leaving what I’m certain are greasy handprints all over my nice button-up, and I couldn’t care less. I’m laughing, gripping him around the shoulders, feeling him through his shirt, how he’s broader now through the back and chest, real after months of phone calls and nothing else.

“When the fuck did you get in?” he says against my shoulder, voice muffled.

“Couple hours ago.”

“And you’re just now showing up here?”

“Had to see my mom first, obviously.”

A couple of the mechanics hoot from across the floor, one of them banging a wrench against a fender.

“There it is! Dynamic duo’s back!”

Ryowoon pulls back, grinning, white teeth flashing, and flips them off without looking. He grabs a rag from the dolly and scrubs his hands while I take him in. Oil smeared across his jaw. Black hair chopped short on the sides but overgrown on top, falling across his forehead in messy pieces. His forearms are streaked with grime up to the elbows where he’s rolled his sleeves, the muscles in them ropey and defined from work. He’s tanned dark from being outside. Half a head taller than me, still. I’ve accepted by now that this gap isn’t closing. We’re twenty-three. Whatever growing either of us was going to do is done, and Ryowoon’s always going to have those extra inches on me. He’s lean and wiry through the torso, not bulky, but there’s a tautness to the way he moves that wasn’t there in high school, like his body’s been compressed and tightened by manual labor.

He slings the rag over his shoulder and throws an arm around mine, steering me toward the open bay doors.

“Hey, I’m heading out!” he calls back into the garage, not so much asking as informing. Mr. Moon, if he’s even here, doesn’t appear to contest it. One of the guys waves without looking up.

We’re outside and the evening air wraps around us, cool after the warmth of the garage, and Ryowoon’s arm stays slung over my shoulders as we fall into step together. His stride matches mine automatically, though his legs eat up more ground and I can feel him consciously slowing to keep pace.

“You know who you gotta see next,” he says, grinning sideways at me.

I do.

We crest the hill together and Mrs. Nam’s store comes into view, its doors propped open, the warm glow of the interior lights spilling onto the sidewalk. Ryowoon drops his arm from my shoulders and strides right through the entrance, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Halme! I hope you’ve taken your heart medication this afternoon.”

A clatter from the back, then her voice, sharp as a blade.

“Cha Ryowoon, you had better not be warning me about something you’ve done that’s going to give me a cardiac episode.”