Yolk(93)

“Shit,” he says after a while. He rubs his palms on his denim-clad legs, sighs, and then turns to me. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I wonder if I go sufficiently dead inside whether I’ll feel the cold.

“I sound psychotic,” he says.

I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. “What do you want, Patrick?” Jesus, men are exhausting. “You’re the one with a girlfriend.”

“I know.”

“And you’re cross-examining me about my choices.”

“I’m just trying to figure you out,” he says. “And it’s going very poorly. God, I sound like some asshole ajusshi.”

“Yeah, you’re not coming off great right now.”

“Fuck.”

Finally, I turn to him. “I wish you’d have just told me about her.”

“Same,” he says. “Hard same. But again…” He smiles ruefully. “Deadass I couldn’t tell if you’d care. Your whole thing about being fun and effervescent convinced me, until you effervesced all over the place and shit got dark so fast.”

I laugh despite myself. He’s not wrong. I finally see how wounded he appears. How bloodshot his eyes are. It’s clear to me now how much he looks like someone going through a breakup.

“Man.” I let out a sigh. “You’re kind of a fuckboy.”

He grins. “Fair.”

We sit for a while. I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Yeah, well.” I sigh, my breath misting the air in front of me. “I started hooking up with this grifter who moved into my apartment, and he fucked a whole bunch of other people right in my bedroom while I slept on the couch. So…”

I feel him shift beside me. “Jesus. Guess you’d know a fuckboy when you see one,” he says.

“I’m like a truffle pig for fuckboys.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You know what?” he says, getting to his feet, shaking his hair, and blowing air out through pursed lips. I look up at him.

He crouches in front of me and whispers close to my face, “I like you a lot, but it’s freezing.”

“This is dumb, right?”

“Want to come over?”

I nod, teeth chattering.





chapter 43


When our car arrives, Patrick wraps his arm around me in the back seat. I’m exhausted. I wonder if it’s hyperthermia setting in. He reaches for my hand as we climb his stairs.

“I feel like, from a medical standpoint,” he says, opening the door, “we need to swaddle ourselves in as many blankets as possible.”

He hands me the fuzzy slippers I wore last time. I nod in gratitude. I’m so cold that the pressure from my skull defrosting is a vice grip around my sinuses.

“But I think I need a shower.” He takes his jacket off and hangs it up. “I just washed my sheets.”

“Yeah, me too,” I croak, reluctantly removing my coat. “It’s like people who wear their shoes indoors. Or sit on beds in jeans. Gross.”

Patrick yawns, leaning against his kitchen counter.

I nod, helplessly yawning back.

“You go first.” He washes his hands and fills up his teakettle.

I realize I’m crowding him, huddling close for warmth. “No, you go ahead.”

He looks down at me. “Do you want to agree that we’ll shower together with no expectations or anatomical inspections because we’re just both so fucking cold?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m also going to need more sweats.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he says, shaking his head. “And don’t think I didn’t notice when your ass wore them to Trader fucking Joe’s.” I poke him hard in the shoulder, embarrassed. He chuckles and grabs my hand and leads me to the bathroom.

We turn away from each other chastely as we undress. I’m so cold, I clutch my naked body, and when the hot water sprays over us, it stings, needling into my numb flesh, my back, my ass, my legs. I let out a ragged breath as he does the same. It’s almost as if I can feel my personhood rising into my body as I defrost. I close my eyes. This moment feels like the culmination of so much running around. So much flailing and confusion.

His arms encircle me, and I know my eye makeup is smearing down my face, but the warmth of his arms and the steam crowd out my thoughts. I trace the tattoos on his biceps. A palm with an evil eye. A large red stamped dojang seal on his shoulder with his Korean name: Jang Min Suk. There are smaller ones: A turtle. A cat. Blossoms blooming on his forearms. A stylized dokkaebi monster mask with horns and his tongue sticking out. We stand under the hot water for a long time. He washes his hair, and when he reaches out of the shower to grab a sample-size bottle of conditioner from his medicine cabinet, I know it belongs to her or any number of hers, but I try not to let it hurt my heart. I wash my hair, luxuriating in it, lathering up, and when he steps out first, I’m happy to have the roomy tub all to myself.

I press my palm against the tile. I push my toe up against the blue rubber mesh flower in his drain to drag my long black hairs out. I feel like crying. If I lived here, I would be so happy. It’s not even that I want to move in with Patrick. It’s that his house feels like a home in a way I’ve never experienced in New York. The pictures on the walls, the impractical number of books, the stupid avocado egg timer. It’s festooned with personal effects. Nobody’s leaving anytime soon. It feels like a place where people want to stay.