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“You’re going to make it happen,” I confirm, yelling that out as he walks away.
Later that day, we’re sitting inside the private room.
“We should talk about security,” says Huan.
“You should take a shot.”
Huan looks at the glass of clear liquid I cradle against my chest. We sit on the floor of his private room. I’m cross-legged. He’s got his back to the window, and there are empty takeout containers between us, and a bed we’ve not acknowledged. This is temporary. Floyd will come through. When we amble back home under the wispy notes of threadbare dawn, there will be a second bed magically available to us.
Since the alternative is this other dingy, bunker-looking hostel room of twenty-four beds across the city, I would really, really like for this place to have an opening instead. Especially since a recent review of the other place lauded it as having a persistant piss smell which seeps into your belongings after only a few minutes of exposure.
Universe, I have limits. Respect them!
Hoping this isn't a real issue I have to solve, I'm killing time before the Camden pub crawl starts. We've just finished lining our stomachs so our livers have a fighting chance. My idea. Huan insists he’s not drinking, but he finished his falafel wrap just the same.
“It will be a large crowd today,” he says, “so there’s a higher chance we’ll come across Pollywood fans of your mom that recognize you.”
“Her hermit daughter who has kept to the background for most of her life? Quick, raise the risk level from vanilla to toasted vanilla.”
“Don’t go with strangers to unknown locations. Stick to me.”
“There goes my kidnapping fantasy.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” I toss my food wrapper into the trash before sitting again. “Out of curiosity, do you have an infliction I don’t know about? Something that prevents you from loosening up? Is there a valid medical reason for your personality that I should empathize with?”
“We should establish a special code word to show everything is okay. We also need a word to communicate with each other when it’s not.” Huan stares at the glass in my hand that I made sure he didn’t see me pour. He’s got no idea what I’m drinking. Could be soda, could be straight vodka I'm chugging.
“Any preference for codes?” he asks. “It should be phrases you remember.”
“Cottage cooking.”
He slides closer. I think he’s trying to sniff the air around my glass. “What’s that?”
I slurp my drink, then keep it tucked near my armpit. “That’s all I know about your interests and what you do for fun. You cottage cook. You know, the cooking that should happen in a cottage tucked on a mountain somewhere where you”—I shudder—“source your own produce.”
Huan rubs the bridge of his nose in an I’m-trying-to-summon-patience kind of way. “So, cottage cooking is your safe code?”
“Yeah. Now share another hobby of yours. We’ll make that the danger word.”
“I…” Huan rubs at his jaw.
“It’s not meant to be a trick question.”
“Except, I’m a workaholic, and I haven’t had a lot of fun since—well—since—Becca.”
Instant regret. That must be his sister. The cancer. “Forget what I'm saying. You don’t have to talk about that. I’ll pick my own danger word.”
Huan winces. “Sorry, I don't know why I brought that up."
My hand flexes, as if wanting to reach over and touch his shoulder. “Hey, no. You can also talk about her, too. That is also completely fine. I would... listen.”
"It’s not that it happened recently. It’s been six years since she died.” He looks at me, gaze startlingly serious. “Make sure you always screen for breast cancer.”
“Is that what happened?”
“Breast cancer, mastectomy, chemotherapy, met in her liver, infection in her arm.”
