Page 27 of Bottles & Blades
“Korean,” she corrects quietly.
“Très bien.”
Her eyes go wide. “You speak French.”
“Yeah.” I touch my chest. “I’m French Canadian.”
“So you come by it naturally.”
“Growing up immersed with it definitely helps,” I agree.
“Do you speak any other languages?”
“German, Italian, Spanish—though all of those conversationally, not fluently.”
“That’s it?” she teases.
“Well, it’s not sign language or Korean,” I tease back. “And you’re young to have learned so much. When did you decide you wanted to be a translator?”
She’s silent for long time. “I spent a lot of time in the hospital as a kid,” she murmurs. “Made for plenty of opportunity to look for any way to pass the time.”
My heart spasms.
“One of the nurses spoke Spanish. I asked her to teach me.” She shrugs. “Turns out I was good at it.”
“How much is a lot of time, buttercup?”
She jerks, as though so lost in memories she forgot what she was saying. “A while according to some,” she tells me in non-answer. “But not as long as others.”
Right.
I don’t like that answer at all.
And I like it less when she hops to her feet, moves to the kitchen, saying, “You’re hungry and haven’t eaten. I’ll make you a plate.”
I shift from the couch, set the glass down, and follow her.
Liking it even less when she takes a step away from me when I get close.
“Why were you in the hospital, baby?”
Fuckinghatingit when she spins away from me, her hands dropping to the counter, her head dropping forward so her chin rests on her chest. She sighs deeply. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Her head comes up, eyes locking onto mine.
“Why?” she whispers. “Why do you care?”
And I reply with the only response I have,
“I don’t know.”
Nine
Tiff
I grabanother plate from the cabinet—mylastplate, considering the other two I currently own are sitting on the drying rack.
