Page 37 of Fallen Starboy

Of fucking course you’re not. You never stopped loving him. To get over someone, you have to make a conscious effort to close the door on that chapter of your life.

Instead, I just opened it up again

My phone rang as I absently stirred the simmering vegetables, and I reached out and answered it without even looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

Breathing echoed on the other end of the line as Jun walked in the door, Yejin towing him along as she rambled about her latest lesson and the things she had learned. He appeared to give her his full attention, but I noticed the subtle shift in his posture, the tensing of his shoulders as he spotted me out of the corner of his eye and did his best to avoid me.

Which was weird.

Jun hadn’t ever been one to shy away from an awkward situation. And I mean, it’s not like he forced me to fuck him. He’d been right: I fell eagerly back into his bed, despite knowing better than to get involved.

“Hello?” I tried again, hoping to stimulate the other end of this call into conversation. “Is someone there?”

“You were warned,” the voice rasped, then the line went dead.

I stared down at my phone in bewilderment and confusion. “The fuck was that about?”

“That’s a bad word,” Yejin piped up out of nowhere, her little smile lighting up the room as she climbed onto a stool and peered into the skillet. “But you’re an adult, so you’re allowed.” She wrinkled her little nose and inhaled the scent of dinner. “Smells like home.”

I froze as she hopped back down and returned to her conversation with her father, like the whole interaction had been nothing more than a blip on her radar. But out of the mouths of babes, as they say.

Smells like home.

Such an innocent comment, and yet so very much loaded with potential.

The dish was simple, and true enough, it was Korean in nature: japchae, a stir fry of vegetables, beef, and glass noodles in a soy-based sauce. Savory and yet a hint of sweetness, the dish was one that I’d grown fond of while I lived in Seoul. And I made it about once a month or so, even when I lived alone. It hadn’t even been a conscious decision to pull it out and cook it tonight. I had the ingredients, and I’d planned to make it later in the week, anyhow.

Now, it felt almost performative.

“Japchae?” Jun asked softly, his eyes lifting momentarily from our daughter to meet mine as I stared in shock. “You still know how to make it?”

I shrugged, suddenly very self-conscious. “Minseo would kick my ass if I’d forgotten what he taught me.”

My heart ached as the little knives of our shared past dug a little deeper, twisted a tiny bit more in light of the skills one of our mutual friends had taught me in order to make Jun happy. I’d asked him to teach me Korean cuisine so that I could cook for Jun’s birthday. Insisted he teach me how to pluck out a song on a guitar so that I could play something for him as he blew out his candles.

I’d been so in love with him it hurt just thinking about it.

“I love japchae!” Yejin exclaimed as she spun in her seat, eyes wide and tongue lolling out her mouth like an eager puppy. “Uncle Minnie makes thebestjapchae.”

“I hope mine lives up to the hype,” I muttered politely, reaching for a bowl to serve it in. I forgot all about that strange phone call as I set the food down and passed out bowls of rice, eager to have an excuse not to talk to anyone.

Jun picked at his dish, but Yejin ate with gusto, shoveling it down so fast I worried she might choke on it. When she asked for seconds, the joy I felt, the validation, was new to me. I’d fed coworkers and friends before, but nobody had ever appreciated it like she did.

“Daddy,” she said between mouthfuls, pointing at him with her fork. “Do you like Miss Arista’s food? I think it’s better than Uncle Minnie’s.”

Jun laughed awkwardly. “You’d better not let your Uncle Minnie find out you said that.”

“The student must eventually surpass the teacher, right?” I smiled at the thought of Minseo eating his own words. Once upon a time, he’d insisted I’d never master the dish. I always made it too sweet, or not sweet enough, he’d say. Funnily enough, he was the only one who ever complained, and even then, he still ate it.

There were never any leftovers.

Jun’s laughter was awkward and stilted, and it set my teeth on edge to hear him force it in front of Yejin for the sake of normalcy.

I picked up my bowl of rice, shoveled a bit of the japchae onto the top, and excused myself to my room to work.

In reality, I was running away. Hiding. I was a coward.

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