Page 80 of The Way Back Home

The frown dies.

I watch the recognition cross his face. Watch the flicker in his eyes, the split second of unguarded emotion before the shutters come slamming down. His jaw tightens. He pulls his arm back, angles the wrist away from me, shoves his hand into his back pocket in one smooth motion. Doesn’t say a word.

Neither do I.

But I’m staring at him. Can’t stop. He takes the piece of equipment from my hands without meeting my eyes, turns back to the freezer and bends over it again. His shoulders are set, the line of his back rigid, and I can see the effort it takes him not to look at me. He knows I saw it. He knows I know what it is.

His voice comes back to me again. Not seventeen this time. Different. Older, harsher.

I don’t care about anyone.

You’re not special.

I stare at the back of his head. At the constellation on his wrist that he turned away from me. At the Rose of Sharon on his shoulder, the Jindo on his bicep, the dragonfly, the boat, every single piece of shared history he chose to carry on his body forever, and the word repeats in my skull until it’s deafening.

Liar.

Liar, liar, liar.

You’re a fucking liar, Cha Ryowoon.

He keeps his back to me. Keeps working. His hands are steady but the tension in the set of his neck tells me he feels me standing here, my stare boring into him. He doesn’t turn around.

I go back behind the counter. Sit on the stool. Put my hands flat on the ledger. I’m not seeing anything but those constellations, those small black dots on the inside of his wrist.

My hands ball into fists on the counter. My teeth grind.

I push off the stool. Grab Yuro’s leash from the hook by the door, crouch and clip it to his collar. He wags his tail, oblivious.

“I’m leaving.”

I don’t look back or check to see if Ryowoon heard me, don’t wait for a response. I push through the glass doors and out onto the street.

My legs carry me up the hill. Yuro trots ahead, happy, nosing at the weeds growing between cracks in the pavement. I walk fast, my jaw clenched, my fists shoved deep into my pockets. I want to hit something. I want to run. I want to turn around, go back into that store, grab Ryowoon by the front of his shirt and shake him until the truth falls out of him.

But I keep walking, feeling as though I’ve just torn open a wound that was only half-healed.

23 Years Old

Istand at the bottom of the hill, blinking against the late afternoon sun like some kind of mole person emerging from the earth. My legs are stiff from the four-hour ride, my neck sore from sleeping with my face mashed against the window, and I’m pretty sure I have the imprint of the seat rivet stamped into my left cheek. I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and start climbing.

Haemok looks the same. The harbor glitters below, fishing boats bobbing in their slips, and the salt breeze washing over me as I make the first incline. I pass Mr. Han’s place and hear the tinny sound of his television through the open window. The fermenting pots in his yard are new, at least.

I’m sweating by the time I reach our gate, and I’ve barely gotten my hand on it before the front door bangs open.

“Seyeon-ah!”

My mother comes flying out of the house like she’s been launched from a cannon, her house slippers slapping the stone of the gateyard, her apron still on and dusted with flour. She grabs both sides of my face and hauls me down, presses kisses to both cheeks, my forehead, my nose.

“My baby,” she murmurs, her palms warm against my jaw, “oh, look at you. My handsome boy.”

She pulls back but doesn’t let go, holding my face between her hands, tilted up toward hers. She’s beaming so wide I can count every one of her teeth and I feel the answering grin split my own face, helpless against her joy.

“Seyeon! Welcome home! How’s Seoul treating you?”

I look up. The Parks have come out onto the upper landing, Mrs. Park leaning around the side of the house, Mr. Park hovering behind her with his reading glasses pushed up into his hair. I bow to them.

“Everything’s going well, thank you.”