“Why not?”
“Because it means someone who pays for things in exchange for sex.”
“Oh. Yeah, no. Not that.”
“What are some things you would do with Ellen?”
“We watched home decorating shows together. We picked wildflowers once illegally to make these art pieces we’d seen a decorator do.”
“I can’t see Choi Yujun’s mother doing that.”
I think for a minute. “How about knitting? Mom and I took a knitting class together.” But the minute I suggest the craft, I know it’s not right. Sangki and I look at each other and then shake our heads. Choi Wansu is not a knitter.
“Sometimes we cooked or baked.”
“Yujun’s mother doesn’t cook.”
No. She has a full-time chef and housekeeper.
“Why don’t you make something for her?” Sangki suggests.
“Like a wildflower painting?”
“No. Like food. You eat with her nearly every night. Why don’t you cook dinner for her?”
“I . . . guess? I’m not like a real chef.”
“Anything you make will be good. I once boiled eggs and my mom said they were the best she’d ever tasted. She raved over me for at least five minutes and even went so far as to say that I had golden hands—which means someone who is really good at something.”
“Those must’ve been some good eggs.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, the little hoops in his ears swaying slightly. “She was so enthusiastic that I became suspicious. After she went to read, I snuck into the kitchen and looked in the trash. The eggs were there.”
“You hadn’t tried them?”
“Nope. I didn’t trust myself.”
“So you’re saying that Wansu will lie to make me feel better.” I tug on the sleeves of my sweater.
“No. I’m saying that it’s the effort that counts. Mom was thrilled that I’d cooked for her, and Wansu will be happy that you did the same. In the end, they’re complimenting your effort, not the results.”
“I can boil eggs, Sangki.”
“There you go.” He pats me on the back. “You’re already ahead of the game.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“What do you think of me cooking dinner for your mom?” It’s nearly midnight and Yujun has yawned three times since he answered the phone, but he refuses to hang up. Every night, we have a video call no matter how late it is. There’s a callus developing in the junction of my index and middle fingers where the charger cord rubs. I’m going to be useless tomorrow, but I figure it doesn’t matter since my inbox will be empty.
“Our mom?” he says.
I crinkle my nose. I hate being reminded that we share a mother.
“Not our mom,” he corrects. “Eomeo-nim.” He uses the formal Korean version of the word “mother” as if that makes a difference. “I think she would like that. What are you making and why haven’t you cooked for me?”
“First, you’ve been away for six weeks, and second, there was no cooking allowed at Jules’s apartment. You grilled on the back porch and that was it.” When I first came to Seoul, I sublet a room in a house halfway up what always felt like a small mountain in the north part of the city. It was rented by three teachers and Jules, my flight attendant friend. We ordered in almost every night, and the few things that the girls cooked for themselves were ramyeon, a soup made with mandu—or what we would call potstickers—and tteokbokki, a spicy dish made with a rice cake shaped like a penne pasta noodle.
“You must not have had a dirty kitchen.”
“A what?” I hadn’t heard of that before.
“It’s a second kitchen. Some are wet kitchens that are all tiled and you can hose down. Other people call it a dirty kitchen, but it’s where the real cooking is done, with meat and fish, and where the kimchi is made. Has no one given you a tour of the house?” He arches a well-groomed eyebrow.
“Wansu did, but I don’t remember a second kitchen. I feel like that’s something I wouldn’t forget.” I prop the phone against the pillow next to me. If I close my eyes and listen to his voice, I can pretend he’s here in bed, an arm’s length away.
“It’s tucked away. Only Mrs. Ji uses it.” He sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “I miss her cooking.” The sheets rustle as he rolls on his side.
The lower part of my body clenches at the sound. I’ve only slept with Yujun once, and my sweet memories of that night are mixed up with the bitter ones. That day, I’d found out that his beloved stepmother was my biological mother, who had abandoned me when I was a few weeks old.
I ran away from her, that knowledge, the pain, fell into the Han River, and limped back to Jules’s apartment. Yujun was there, and I shut away the knowledge of how he was inextricably tied to Wansu and took what pleasure I could find in that moment. I needed the comfort and he provided it, with his hands and mouth and body.
I want a repeat where I’m not seeking to assuage any feeling other than pure lust.
“Does she always cook Western food?” Wansu and I eat together frequently. Every morning, we down a terrible wheatgrass smoothie. It’s Wansu’s morning meal, and during that first awkward meeting at the table, as opposed to all the awkward mealtimes that followed, she asked what I wanted to eat. Not to be a bother, I replied stupidly that I would have what she was having.
She gave me a dubious look and offered cereal. Bomi later told me that the staff had to go all the way to Itaewon to buy the box at an international store that catered to expats and diplomats. The following day, I adamantly declared my love for Wansu’s green drink. I thought it would be some Korean delicacy, but instead it’s a kale, pineapple, mango, and strawberry smoothie with a protein scoop full of all the essential vitamins a woman needs. Wansu was oddly excited to explain this to me, and for that reason, I have downed that disgusting thing every day for the past six weeks.
I do not feel any healthier today than I did when I started drinking the kale smoothie, but that may be because I’m consuming copious amounts of fried chicken, hotteok—a flattened and fried patty of dough with melted sugar in the center—batter-fried hot dogs sometimes topped with sugared apples, and fish cakes. And, of course, my beloved fried pork balls.
In the evenings, if I’m not out with Sangki discovering another food truck or hanging with Jules and Bomi, I’m at the walnut dinner table with Wansu eating a meal made by the chef slash housekeeper, Mrs. Ji. The food served is fantastic, but it’s decidedly Western—pasta, grilled lemon chicken with a side of roasted potatoes, buttered scallops with asparagus spears, creamy mushroom soup with homemade croutons. I’m beginning to wonder if Wansu even owns chopsticks.