“I will.” Some of the trophies appear to be academic ones since there are books or pens etched into the crystal and metal.
“Don’t look.” A large hand covers my eyes. “This is an eomeo-nim’s shelf.”
A mother’s shelf? That makes sense. I pull his hand down to rest on my shoulder—a comforting weight. “I love it. Tell me what each one is for.”
He leans forward and rests his chin on my head. “We are a competitive people. Every show on television is a competition. If two men meet at the crosswalk, they will instinctively speed up, trying to beat the other man across while appearing not to care.”
“What I’m hearing you say is that one of these trophies is for speed walking.”
“They are for his exemplary achievements in football, mathematics, language, and living as a dutiful citizen.” Wansu’s voice is like a whip slicing the air and striking us apart.
Yujun jerks upright and backs away at the same moment I’m leaping out of the circle of his embrace. My foot catches on the corner of Yujun’s desk and I start to topple over like the last bowling pin teetering on the edge of the pin deck waiting to fall into the gutter. Yujun’s hand shoots out, catches my arm, and hauls me upright.
We’re both breathless when we turn to face Wansu. She walks toward us, her face expressionless as usual. We’re all going to pretend Yujun was not hugging me, I guess. In Wansu’s head, we’re siblings. I can’t reconcile that. Yujun is the man I met at the airport, who took me to the top of Namsan, kissed me by the river, and held my hand when I was breaking apart. He is not my brother.
“This one”—she points to a gold medal suspended above a walnut base and encased in glass—“is for placing first in the Korean Math Olympiad, and this one”—a trophy with a scroll and ink pen—“is for English language proficiency.”
Behind his mother’s—my mother’s—back, he winks at me. There’s a lot of pride in Wansu’s voice and Yujun basks in her praise, not at all uncomfortable with this recitation of his high school glory. If it was me and Ellen, I’d be under the desk, red as a cherry. Wansu raised Yujun to be bold and confident, to not shrink under pressure, and to not apologize for who he is and what he wants. Ellen raised me to persevere, but quietly. Don’t be boastful; let your actions speak. Give of yourself to be given in return. Let others have a turn.
Would Wansu have raised me differently or would Ellen’s mothering have changed if I was a boy? I don’t think that has anything to do with how we were raised. Choi Yujun is an extrovert and I’m an introvert. Wansu’s an introvert like me. I guess it’s part of my DNA.
“I think Hara has heard enough,” Yujun interrupts his mother’s recitation of his brilliance.
“Then let’s eat lunch.” She heads for the door, but the open closet doors catch her eye. “Are you unpacking here?”
“I thought I’d stay here for a while. I know you missed me.” I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Wansu. He walks to the door of his bedroom and gestures for us to move. “We don’t want to make Mrs. Ji wait. She’ll be unhappy if the food is cold.”
Wansu hesitates but, after a brief internal battle, decides not to fight this one. I follow. At twenty-five, I should date who I want, love who I want, live how I want. I don’t want to be Sim Cheong.
CHAPTER TEN
Lunch is uncomfortable, but not for the reasons I thought it would be. I thought we would be awkward, silent, with nothing but the sounds of our forks clashing against the china, as is ordinarily the case when Wansu and I eat together, but instead, she and Yujun can’t stop talking.
“You did well on your trips. Yujun-ah was able to achieve all his goals. He came home with two signed contracts and several new leads. It was very fruitful.” Wansu beams, and by that I mean the corners of her mouth have ticked up two degrees. “And Team Manager Park tells me that you are doing well in your position, Hara. He finds your work to be exemplary.”
Bujang-nim’s a big fat liar. I smile tight and give a diplomatic response. “He’s good to work for.”
He is great to work for because he expects nothing, never scolds me when I screw up, and always has a ready compliment.
“You’ll have to come with me next time, Hara,” Yujun invites. “The food in Singapore is amazing. I went to the Keppel Road market and got bak kut teh. Remember that place, Eomma? Henry Lui brought us there.”
“I do remember. It’s delicious.” She frowns at the pasta, peas, and lemon chicken on her plate.
“I ate two servings and would’ve had one more, but the chili crabs were calling for me.” Yujun has demolished his serving and is working on buttering a roll.
“Did you eat many of those?” Wansu’s voice is warm and loving as she listens to her son list all the food he stuffed himself with on his business trip. He sounds like he did more eating than businessing, but his lean frame doesn’t show it.
“Too many. Finished it off with mango tau huay.”
“The cold kind?”
“Yes. It was that kind of night.”
“As it always is in Singapore,” murmurs Wansu.
Their ease, their shared memories, are showing me that they’re a unit in a way I hadn’t envisioned before. I’m happy they have this, like I have with Ellen, but I won’t lie. There’s a sliver of resentment, too, because I overthink every interaction I have with Wansu, questioning whether I’m wording even a compliment appropriately.
But I can push the peas around my plate or jump in. I jump in. “I’ve never had any of this food, and now I want to eat it all.”
“Bak kut teh is a pork bone broth soup,” Yujun explains. “There are some places in Seoul that serve Singaporean food, although, bak kut teh is more Hong Kong cuisine.”
I had never heard of it, but Koreans love their soup. Almost no meal is complete without a bowl of soup, often served at the end before the fruit. Even Wansu’s Western meals will include some sort of soup, even if it is only a broth with a few green onions and peppers floating in the liquid. “Is it like seolleongtang?” One of the food trucks serves cups of ox-bone soup ladled out of a huge iron cauldron.
“Sort of, but a different flavor. Seolleongtang has a milky color from the boiling of the bones, whereas bak kut teh broth is made like a tea with a spice packet. Everyone makes it differently.”
The chicken is beginning to taste like rubber. “Like banchan and limoncello.”
A wide smile breaks across Yujun’s face, like the sun shoving itself out between two clouds. “Exactly like limoncello.”