Yolk(81)

I feel June watching us.

“Bye, Mom,” I tell her, stepping away. June hugs her as I check my boarding pass for the hundredth time.

“Be nice to each other,” she says. “You’re all you’ve got.”

It’s not until we’re past security that I burst into tears.

“I’m gonna get us some magazines,” says June, turning away but squeezing my arm before she goes.

The moment wheels hit tarmac I text Patrick. I’m home.

He sends prayer hands as I grin stupidly into the aisle.

“Are you staying with me?” interrogates June when I get off the plane.

“Uh…” I’d been planning to ask. I have no idea if I even have running water at my place. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yes. God, shut up,” she says, yanking my forearm. “Just hurry. I fucked up and already called the Uber. It’s coming in four minutes.”

As we’re sprinting through the arrivals hall, I think of how much June and Mom have in common. Manufactured urgency is their absolute favorite emotion. I get it. Control feels good no matter how small the triumph. If anything, it’s amazing that Mom doesn’t move to New York. She’d love the energy if she gave it a chance. In New York you always feel late regardless of the circumstance.

Back in her apartment, we slump on the couch with our jackets on. Bags dumped at the door.

“Holy shit,” she says. We were silent the entire ride home.

“I know.”

“So tired.” My sister keels over and closes her eyes.

It feels so good to be back but I know in a matter of minutes, she’ll be asleep and we need to figure out food.

My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Patrick. When am I seeing you? and then I want to hear everything.

I smile, remembering our phone call. There’s so much I want to say.

Cringing, I take the risk. Tomorrow?

Instead of tossing my phone across the room from douchechills, I leave it facedown on the coffee table and groan like an old woman.

“I’m so hungry,” June says.

“Same.” I get up to check the fridge. The turkey chili I made for her last week is still in there. The lidless saucepan has a ladle stuck in it. I pull it out and scrape it into the trash.

“At least I put it in the fridge,” she calls out.

“We’re going to have to get groceries,” I tell her.

June groans.

“I can go.” I wipe my hands on her crusty-ass kitchen towel. “Do you need anything?” I ask her, reaching for my coat.

“Fuck.” June groans again. “I’ll come with you.”

Trader Joe’s is a madhouse. I grab a basket so we can move quickly, but June upgrades for a double-decker cart. I watch the back of her head as she aggressively rips through the crowd. Everything is a contest with her. I wrest her cart away before she can drive us into the tangle of abandoned shopping carts that’s been left in the middle of the frozen foods. If June steers, there’s no way we’re not catching a fistfight.

“Why do people do this?” she asks no one in particular, waving her hand at the carts. “It’s so inconsiderate.” We’ve been back in New York for a few hours and already the luxurious spaciousness of Texas is a distant memory. The store is a pit. The kind that requires four flag bearers to negotiate the enormous winding serpent of impatient New Yorkers from devolving into melees over riced cauliflower and smoked trout. Normally I’d rather spend the day at the literal post office than shop at any Trader Joe’s, but I need my provisions. My prewashed salads, my zucchini noodles, my tamari rice cakes.

June disappears and reemerges with a paper shot glass of sample coffee. I drink it. I’m touched that she added almond milk. I toss the paper cup into the wooden barrel and miss. I furtively look around when I pick it up. I grab a carton of egg whites, salsa, beef jerky, and a sleeve of tricolor bell peppers. I swap the salsa out for hot sauce. The jar’s too heavy.

June throws a stack of frozen meals into our cart. “This is garbage,” I remark, picking up the frosty tray of enchiladas.

“It’s not garbage; it’s vegan,” she says, adding one more plastic-enrobed brick while holding my gaze. “I make it when I’m tired.”

I grab four more sheepishly and add them to the cart. I feel guilty all the time when I forget she’s sick. As if the cancer will discover my negligence and multiply faster out of pique.

June disappears down the bread aisle, so I eye-fuck a pouch of salt-and-pepper pistachios, wondering how many servings it would be if I inhaled the whole thing. That’s when I hear my sister yelling for me, Jayne and then Ji-young. Mom used to do this, scream our Korean names in public. I’m mortified. I text her back. JFC what? But she doesn’t answer. I wind the cart to the next aisle, and there she is, smiling and waving me over. Talking to someone.

Patrick.

I rear back so violently that I crash into a woman behind me, who exclaims, “Ow-wah,” as if it’s a two-syllable word. I flip around and apologize, lurching forward. As I do, I buck the cart into a South Asian girl in white leggings standing with Patrick. “Ow-wah,” she exclaims, rubbing her ankle. Her perfect sable eyebrows are in a full-tilt snit.

He’s wearing a beanie and a thick, plaid work shirt. He looks sensational.