Page 65 of The Way Back Home

“That’s Yuro.” I hold still, gripping the steering wheel as Yuro leans forward from the back seat, his wet nose bumping against Ryowoon’s shoulder. His tail thumps against the leather seats.

Ryowoon’s lips curve. He holds the back of his hand out, letting Yuro sniff him properly before scratching behind the dog’s ears. Yuro whines happily and licks Ryowoon’s palm with enthusiasm.

The curve of Ryowoon’s mouth deepens just a fraction. It’s the closest thing to a real smile I’ve seen from him in ten years.

I clear my throat, nodding down at the bag sitting between his feet. “You can put that in the back.”

Ryowoon reaches back, shoving the bag onto the seat beside Yuro. The dog seizes the opportunity, stretching forward to lick Ryowoon’s ear with determination. Ryowoon jerks back, turning around and wiping at his face with the heel of his palm. “Thanks, man.”

“He’s friendly,” I mutter, starting the ignition.

“No shit.”

Ryowoon settles back into the seat, looking around the interior of the car. His eyes skim over the dashboard, the center console, taking it all in without comment. He’s not in his work uniform today. Dark jeans hug his legs and hips in a way that makes my mouth go dry, a worn black t-shirt stretches across his shoulders. The smell of him fills the car, spicy aftershave and clean bodywash.

I glance sideways at him, trying to be subtle. He has piercings now. Two in each ear, silver rings catching the morning light streaming through the windshield. My eyes drop lower, skimming the full sleeve of ink covering his left arm. The tattoo runs from his shoulder all the way down to his wrist, intricate lines and shading that I tear my eyes away from before examining in detail. It covers the burn scars completely, the ones he got saving Mrs. Nam’s store.

I press my palm flat against the steering wheel, feeling the smooth texture of my own matching scar on the back of my hand. The skin there is still shiny, pulled tight where it healed from the burn. My thumb traces the edge of it unconsciously.

Ryowoon keeps examining the interior of the car, his head swiveling as he takes it all in again. “Nice wheels. You get this on a teacher’s salary?”

I don’t look at him as I answer. “I bought it used.”

I don’t ask how he knows I’m a teacher. It seems obvious since that was the path I was on the last time he saw me, but it doesn’t feel like he’s guessing.

I’m tense as I pull onto the highway, my shoulders tight, hands gripping the wheel hard. It’s a long drive to Haemok, and having Ryowoon in the car with me feels surreal. Like I’m going to blink and find out I imagined the whole thing.

I was the one who insisted on picking him up even though Ryowoon said he could take a bus himself.

“What, afraid I’m going to take off or something?” he’d asked when I wouldn’t hear of it.

I just gave him a look that said, well, logically I have to expect so.

He rolled his eyes. “You know where I live now.”

“Didn’t help last time,” I’d replied, my voice tight.

He gave up after that.

We agreed on three days to give us both time to get our things together and make arrangements. We have no idea how long this is going to take. I didn’t see the inside of the store when I went down for Mrs. Nam’s will reading, so I have no clue what state it’s in. We agreed we need to have a look and clean up if we want to sell it.

We haven’t actually come to an agreement on whether we’re doing that one way or the other, but I don’t see that we have much choice. I took a leave of absence from work for the rest of the semester. Ryowoon said he’d use his vacation days at the factory, but I still have a job and a home in Seoul. And Ryowoon has no interest in staying longer than necessary in Haemok.

It took me a good thirty minutes of arguing to convince him to go in the first place. I’m surprised he showed up today at all.

It was a true test of my patience not to punch him in the teeth when he flat out dismissed it, saying he didn’t ask the old woman for a single thing and had no interest in going back to that shithole town.

Only reminding myself that I had in fact punched him the last time I saw Ryowoon kept my temper in check. Finally I went for the jugular, reminding him that we were the closest thing Mrs. Nam had to children, and that if there was anyone in the world he owed at least the barest amount of gratitude, it was her.

He relented. Not peacefully.

I keep my eyes on the road, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. The silence grows heavier with each passing kilometer. I can feel the weight of ten years pressing down on my chest, all the questions I want to scream at him lodged in my throat. Where did you go? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you write? Did you think about me at all?

But I don’t ask any of it. I just drive with jaw clenched tight.

Ryowoon doesn’t break the silence either. He sits back in his seat, legs stretched out as far as they can go in the cramped space, his head tipped back against the headrest. His eyes are on the landscape rushing past the window, watching the scenery blur by without comment.

I don’t know who he is anymore, I realize. I don’t know his life, his story, all the years that kept moving without me in them. The man sitting beside me wears my best friend’s face, but he feels like a stranger.