Page 18 of Lethal in Pink

For a second, neither of us says anything.

This is very on brand for us.

Some fathers give speeches. Some fathers cry. Some fathers say things like I’m proud of you, son and then they hug in a way that probably makes everyone involved feel briefly healed.

My father places his hand on the back of my neck.

His eyes hold mine. Dark. Still. Moving through a catalog of emotions I can almost read—concern, pride, resignation, maybe even fear.

He says nothing.

I say nothing.

Rather, he nods, then his hand drops, and he turns, and he walks into the kitchen without looking back. For some reason, that almost undoes me more than if he had actually said something.

My sister is on the couch in the living room. Soon to be eighteen, all limbs and attitude, curled into the corner of the sectional with her knees drawn up and her phone balanced on her shins. She doesn’t look up when I walk in.

“Hey,” I say.

Nothing.

“I’m leaving.”

Her finger slides on the screen of whatever she’s scrolling through. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, strands escaping everywhere.

“I ate your protein bar,” she says, finally. “The chocolate peanut butter one. I’m not sorry.”

“I noticed.”

“Good.” She slides her finger across the screen again. “I’m not going to miss you. Just so you know.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t expect any texts. I’m very busy. I have a life.”

“I would never dream of interrupting your extremely important schedule.”

She looks up then. Her face is set in this expression of maximum teenage disdain, chin lifted, mouth a flat line, eyes narrowed in a way that she probably practices in the mirror. But there’s something underneath it—a wobble in her lower lip that she’s fighting, a shine in her eyes that she’s blinking back hard enough that I can see her eyelashes flutter.

“Whatever,” she says, and looks back down at her phone. “Bye.”

I do my best to keep my face neutral. But she’s better at it.

“Bye, Yuna,” I say.

She doesn’t respond.

I don’t say anything else. I just turn and walk out the front door because if I stand there any longer I’m going to do something stupid like apologize for leaving, and I don’t owe anyone an apology for wanting to breathe.

The driver is already standing beside the car with the trunk open. He nods at me, takes my carry-on, placing it in the truck with my other belongings. I slide into the back seat and almost instantly look back to the front door.

My sister is there.

She’s standing on the top step, one hand pressed hard against her mouth, the other arm wrapped around her own waist like she’s holding herself together. Her hair is coming completely loose from its bun. Her shoulders are shaking. The composed facade is gone, replaced by something I know she didn’t want me to see.

I don’t acknowledge it. She would hate me for it—for witnessing the collapse of the performance she’s been running since I told her I was leaving, for having proof that underneath the attitude and protein bar warfare, she is just a kid who’s going to miss her brother.

As we drive past the large gates and exit the driveway, the car gains speed, and the neighborhood becomes a blur. Soon, the city of Seoul unfolds before us, its massive presence feeling almost indifferent to my existence, already moving forward without me, its rhythm and pace unbroken by my departure.