Page 83 of The Way Back Home

“Not me this time.” He throws a wink over his shoulder at me, his eyes sparking, and steps aside.

Mrs. Nam appears from the doorway behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes sweep Ryowoon first, narrowing with suspicion, and then they land on me.

Her hands fly to her mouth.

“Heo Seyeon!”

I wince, bracing myself instinctively, and I’m glad I do because she’s on me in seconds. For a woman pushing seventy she moves with terrifying speed, clearing the counter and crossing the store in what feels like three steps. She seizes both my arms, yanks me down to her height, and crushes me into a hug that compresses my ribs against my lungs. She pulls back and her hands are on my face, turning it side to side, examining me like she’s soaking in every change. Her eyes are shining, her lower lip trembling.

“Omo, omo, look at you. Oh my goodness. Oh, so handsome. When did you get so tall? Look at this face. Aigoo, your mother must be beside herself.”

She pinches my cheek hard enough to leave a mark and I smile down at her, my throat suddenly tight. Behind her, Ryowoon leans against the door frame with his arms crossed, watching the whole production with open amusement, lopsided grin hitched up on one side.

“I’m happy to see you too, Halme.”

She swats my arm and then grabs it, towing me through the store with an unbreakable grip.

“Come sit down right this instant. Have you eaten? You look thin. Ryowoon, does he look thin to you?”

“He looks fine.”

“He looks thin. Sit.”

I try to protest as she steers us into the courtyard, the sitting platform still there, still solid, the same potted plants lining the walls. The evening sky opens up above the courtyard, deep blue fading to violet. I lower myself onto the wood, my legs stretching out in front of me.

“My mom already fed me enough to put me in a coma, Halme, honestly.”

“Then she didn’t feed you enough.”

She disappears into the kitchen and I hear pots rattling, the fridge opening and closing, the brisk purposeful sounds of a woman who will not be argued with. Ryowoon drops down beside me on the platform, his shoulder bumping mine as he settles, legs folded.

Mrs. Nam returns with a tray. Rice cakes, sliced fruit, japchae glistening with sesame oil, little dishes of pickled cucumber and seasoned bean sprouts. She sets it down between us and fixes me with a look that makes refusal feel like a death wish. So I eat. Ryowoon helps himself to the rice cakes without being asked and Mrs. Nam doesn’t scold him for it, just pats the back of his head as she passes. Her hand lingers there for a second, fingers in his hair, and Ryowoon doesn’t flinch or pull away. Closes his eyes for half a beat.

I tell them about school between bites. About my final year, the thesis I’m writing on secondary education pedagogy, the classes I’m finishing. About the internship waiting for me in the fall at a middle school near campus, the one I applied to six times before they finally said yes. Mrs. Nam listens with her hands folded in her lap, nodding, her eyes soft and proud. Ryowoon asks questions, more than I expected. He wants to know what the internship’s like, what grade I’ll be teaching, whether the kids are going to eat me alive. I tell him middle schoolers are basically feral animals in uniforms and he barks a laugh.

“That was us.”

“We were worse.”

“Speak for yourself.”

The light fades from the sky as we talk. Crickets start up from somewhere beyond the courtyard walls. Mrs. Nam keeps bringing things, a pot of barley tea, more fruit, a plate of sweet rice cakes she insists she made this morning but which I suspect she conjured into existence the second she saw my face. I finally push my plate back and lift both palms in surrender.

“I can’t. I physically cannot.”

She tuts but accepts it, patting my cheek one more time as she gathers the dishes. She tells me it’s good to have me home, that the town’s been too quiet without the two of us around, and then she disappears into the kitchen with the tray, the clinking of dishes and the sound of running water filtering out through the window.

I groan and collapse backward onto the platform, my arms out, my stomach straining against my waistband. I stare up at the darkening sky above the courtyard, the first stars starting to prick through.

“She’s going to kill me. Between her and my mother I’m going to need a wheelbarrow to get home.”

Ryowoon, still sitting up beside me, leans back on his palms, his grin lopsided. He nudges my thigh with his knee.

“So. What else have you been doing up in the big city?” His voice takes on a wicked edge, meaning he’s about to enjoy himself at my expense. “Keeping up your heartbreaker reputation, I’m guessing. Collecting all the hearts of the Seoul girls like trading cards, I bet.”

I tip my head to the side on the wood and look at him. His face is half in shadow, half lit by the warm glow from the kitchen window, his eyes glinting with mischief. I feel my mouth curve. I think now. If I’m going to tell anyone, it should be him first. It should always be him.

I look back up at the sky. Hum once, like I’m considering the question.