“You seem happy today,” Bomi observes as we make our way to the pork truck.
“The sun is out but it’s not too hot. There’s no pollution warning. Yujun is back.” I can’t keep the grin off my face. “You should’ve come with us to the pool party. It was fun even though I had to wear a swimsuit. There were girls there wearing heels in the pool!”
“It’s a glamorous group. I saw a lot of photos on Instagram.”
“The Banpo Music Fest is soon. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Maybe I will.”
There’s no line to the food truck, and Yang Ilhwa greets me with a wave of her metal spatula. As usual, we don’t even have to place our order anymore. I bite into the crunchy fried croquette immediately.
“Mmm. These are so good, Imo.” I wipe a crumb off the corner of my mouth. “Did I tell you I almost killed Wansu last weekend?”
Bomi chokes on her croquette. “What?” she asks with watery eyes.
I hand her a napkin and explain how I mixed up the gochujang and soybean paste. Yang Ilhwa stops cooking to listen to the story. “Aigoo.” She shakes her head. “You come here and I teach you how to cook.”
“It’s a deal, Imo. Tell me the time and date.”
“Anytime. I am here all day. You come.”
“I will. Thanks for the food.”
She leans over and places another pork ball in my paper tray. “You good girl. Eat well.”
The small praise makes me glow.
“You shouldn’t have promised because now she will expect you,” Bomi warns as we take a seat on the curb.
“Good. I plan to. Even if I have to take a day off”—as if my real work schedule is so crushing—“I’ll do it. She seems lonely. Gosh, I’m thirsty. I’ll be right back.”
I run into the convenience store and buy two iced Americanos with pretty idol boys on the label.
“I can’t drink this,” she jokes as she takes the drink from me. “I’m in the fandom of their competitor.”
“After you drink it, stomp on the can and it’ll be like crushing them.”
She considers it for a half second and then agrees.
“I saw in the advertisements for the Banpo Music Fest that there are a lot of families that attend. Do you want to bring your brother and sister?” She doesn’t answer right away and I can guess what she’s thinking. “I don’t know if Jules will be coming, if that’s what is making you hesitate.”
“Oh.” It’s a small sound with a little bit of pain and a lot of guilt.
“You don’t have to make up your mind today. It’s not for another couple of weeks.”
“It’s because I care about her that I don’t think we should see each other,” Bomi bursts out.
“Okay.” I open my drink.
“I didn’t think about the consequences, only that she was lovely and fun and I liked how I felt when I was with her.”
“That sounds great, though.”
“But then when you asked about Yujun, I realized that I could never have an open relationship with her. You know what happened in her last relationship? Her boyfriend hid her away like she was a bad secret and then dumped her for a Korean girl. I realized that I can’t do that to her again.” Bomi’s lip quivers, but she inhales deeply and swallows the lump in her throat. “This is not America, where same-sex relationships are accepted. This is Korea, and even if it were legal, which it is not, there are many families that would not approve. I am responsible for my dongsaengs. They will need education and jobs and marriage in the future. I am not the right one for Jules. I’m sorry.”
God. I place an arm around my friend’s shoulders. “You do not need to apologize.” At least, not to me. “But in our circle, you would be welcome. Whatever you decide, you’re welcome.”
She sniffles and nods, tucking her small frame against mine. Our iced Americanos are forgotten and our lunch grows cold. Neither of us is hungry anymore. We get to our feet and trudge back to IF Group. I don’t understand why things that bring happiness to our lives are always a battle. It’s unfair, like how all the delicious-tasting food such as chocolate and ice cream and French fries are bad for you and the things that are good for you are kale smoothies and riced cauliflower.
At five, I leave even though my coworkers are still hunched over their desks. Before I go, I order dinner to be delivered for the team under Chaeyoung’s name. The delivery system here is so efficient that I cross paths with the black bean noodle delivery person as he is entering into the lobby and I’m exiting.
At home, Mrs. Ji flutters around me as I prep the ingredients for dinner. The soup base of rice water and anchovy, kelp, dried mushroom, and pepper packet simmers while I julienne the radish. Mrs. Ji shows me how to strain the soybean paste into the soup base so that the broth is clear and clean. She pulls out two spoons for a taste test. The broth is light at first, but when it hits the middle of my mouth, the depth of the flavors sinks in. I love it but I need an impartial opinion.
Mrs. Ji is expressionless as she folds the liquid over her tongue, allowing the broth to rest in her mouth like a wine. When she finally swallows, I’m on the balls of my feet in anticipation of her judgment. Her simple and slow nod of approval sends my spirit skyrocketing.
The aromatic broth steams around the kitchen, reminding me of the times when I was young and Ellen cooked Korean food for me, before I grew dumb and ashamed of my heritage. My childhood wasn’t solely bacon and corn; it was also kimchi and seaweed soup and japchae and bulgogi.
Heat pricks my eyes and I honestly don’t know if it’s emotion or the soup. I press the back of my hand to my eyelids and keep moving, scooping out the mushrooms, slicing them thin. The jeon mixture is next. As I mix the batter, Mrs. Ji heats the earthenware for the soup. We don’t talk—at all—but there’s no need to. Our language right now is cooking. When the jeon batter is ready, Mrs. Ji has a frypan with oil prepared. I thank her and she gives me another brief nod. She’s not beaming but she’s lost the worried expression. She no longer believes I’m out to poison the family she’s been taking care of since long before I arrived. While I fry the fritters, she tosses radish and mushrooms into the soup.
We move together as a team, readying the small side dishes and then ladling the soup into the heated stone bowls.
Yujun wanders in as I plate the jeon. “This smells amazing. Did you make it?”
“With Mrs. Ji’s help.”
“Ani.” She shakes her head. “She did all work. I watch only.”