Page 12 of Show Off

“You still want dibs on that last order of makgeolli?” That’s the dish Lana asked about, for anyone wondering. “The one you stuck in the back of the cooler.”

“Why?” When I don’t answer, he wheels back to my side. “Why?”

“Because I want it.”

“You hate makgeolli custard almost as much as you hate persimmon jam.” He watches me wash my knives without speaking. “Pretty sure you also hate the horchata ice cream that goes with it.”

When I don’t reply, he runs over my foot. “Ow! Cut it out, asshole.”

“That’s another tick-mark,” he shouts, wheeling toward the door. “Tell Lana to enjoy my makgeolli.”

Goddammit.

Going to her house after 10 p.m. is a bad idea on many levels. So why am I boxing up the chilled dessert and trudging toward the small bank of cabins where Lana Judson lives?

It’s a warm night in Oregon, all pine-scented breeze and the slosh of the pond to my right. I might not love the cameras here, but I do love Juniper Ridge. The way purple sage grows wild through the lava rock, or how a nighthawk’s cry splits the inky black silence.

It’s peaceful here. A good place to ditch all your demons.

I nearly chicken out as I’m climbing the steps to her porch. But then I’m pounding on Lana’s door, holding the box in the crook of my arm. If she doesn’t answer in three seconds, I’ll leave. I shouldn’t be here anyway.

Her door flies open and there she stands, wearing less than she did a few hours ago. She’s in soft cotton shorts cut right below her ass, and a speckled pink tank top with no bra underneath.

My mouth goes dry, then somehow blurts the world’s dumbest greeting. “Still want my makgeolli?”

CHAPTER3

CONFESSIONAL 1099

Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)

No, before you ask, it doesn’t bother me.

Being the last unmarried Judson kid? Please. So what if everyone’s spewing babies like they’re freakin’ Pez dispensers? I love my nieces and nephews. And I don’t have time for dating anyway. I’ve got a show to help run. A community to build. A family legacy to safeg—hang on.

[frowns at phone]

I need to take this. Yes, it’s Mom.

[still frowning]

Can we not do this right now?

* * *

I’m not sure if Dal just flirted or threatened me. Maybe both.

“Makgeolli?” I repeat. Whatever he said sounded likeMacaulay, likeCulkinfromHome Alone.

The way I just said it sounded more like I’m choking. Judging by his wince, I didn’t come close to getting it right.

“What is—” I wave at the box in the crook of his arm—“whatever you just said?”

“Makgeolli.” His voice sounds almost musical as he hands me the box. “It’s horchata ice cream with persimmon jam and a custard fashioned from makgeolli—a sparkling Korean rice wine.”

“Ooooh.” Realization dawns as I take the box he’s handing me. “Wow! Did you make this just for me?”

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate, which is fine.

---