Page 8 of Show Off

My sex-starved brain takes notes and tucks them back in a dark box. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the bandwidth for another entanglement with a woman more fixed on media spin than human connection.

I clear my throat. “I’ll watch for the group chat.”

“Do.” Her eyes dip to my chest again and she swallows. “Nice tattoo.”

I glance down and feel my heart harden. The organ’s still there, still thumping behind sharp ribs and the faded ink that brands my chest. Behind the scar this tattoo covers. A chill rolls through me.

“Thanks.” I tug my shirt from its knot and drag it over my head. When I pull my face through, Lana’s fixed her mask of cheerful composure.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says and turns on her heel.

I watch her go, admiring the shape of her. Watching her curves as she flows through the trees on a slice of sunlight.

* * *

“We’ve got justenough time for dinner.” Cinching a Serenade apron at my waist, I turn to my older brother. “What do you want?”

“What are the choices?” Ji-Hoon rolls his wheelchair through the spotless restaurant kitchen. It’s an hour before opening, but if we don’t eat now, we won’t get a chance until after 10 p.m.

“Pick one of the specials.” I shove the menu across the steel countertop. The one that’s set low so my brother can work from his chair when we need extra hands in the kitchen. “The pork chops aren’t moving like I thought they would,” I mutter. “Order that so you can tell all the assholes out there how fucking great they are.”

“See?” Ji-Hoon sighs and shoves the menu back. “Calling customers assholes is why you stay locked in the kitchen like an ogre.”

“Ogres don’t live in kitchens,” I grumble.

“Trolls?”

I mutter some more, intent on getting my workspace ready. It’s Friday night, and from the look of reservations, we’ll be slammed.

“Just a general jerk, then.” Ji-Hoon rolls around to my other side. “The pork chop’s fine.”

“You’ll like it.” It sounds more like a command than encouragement, but whatever. I grab my best skillet as he checks our reservation roster. “The pork chop comes with a Korean-style sweet potato mofongo, aji Amarillo, and pepita salsa macha.”

“Huh.” He shoves off the counter and heads for his chart on the far wall. “We might sell more of them if people weren’t afraid of mispronouncing it when they order.”

“People can point,” I fire back. “Or say ‘pork.’ Even the biggest idiot can manage that.”

Uncapping a pen, my brother makes a tick mark on his chart by the door. Not the schedule, the chart he made to track when I curse at customers. Oraboutthem, apparently.

“That’s one instance of calling customers assholes.” He makes a second mark. “And one more of calling them idiots. Impressive, even for you. Something on your mind?”

I hate that he guessed. “No.”

“Because you’re not the only one getting messages from?—”

“We’re not talking about this.” I light up the stove, then check my ingredients. We’re low on mango, but we can get through tonight.

His eyes follow me to the pantry. “Maybe he’s right, Dal. It’s been six years since we were even on the same continent. What if?—”

“No.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, then a sigh. “He’s family, Dal.”

I don’t say anything to that. I don’t even look up, though my heart balls tight like a fist. After some time, Ji-Hoon wheels off toward the dining room. He’s scanning the tables, making sure we’re all set for the dinner rush.

Tossing a knob of butter in the skillet, I watch it sizzle for a second before drizzling in olive oil. Adding the chops, I sprinkle them both with more salt. Once I’ve got a nice sear going, I flip the meat and reach for the garlic.

For the record, it was Ji-Hoon who signed us up to be part ofFresh Start at Juniper Ridge. A chance to run our own restaurant—him as the host, me slinging food. A dream deal, even if it means having our lives televised. It’s all part of some social experiment, which explains why Lana’s shrink sister keeps hounding me to let her dig through my brain. To unpack my trauma like a load of bad meat.

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