At five in the morning, my alarm goes off. Getting off my bed, I turn on the bedside lamp that floods the small room with light and stifle a yawn. Outside my bedroom, there’s light and noise. Ji-ae and Coop must be up already.
Heading to the bathroom, I brush my teeth, then go to the kitchen to grab my breakfast and coffee. I used to complain a lot about having to get up so early, but now I’m used to it.
I’m greeted by Ji-ae, buzzing around like a busy bee, stirring various pots and flipping pancakes in a pan. Coop’s peeling potatoes beside her, releasing yawn after yawn, fighting strands of his chocolate-brown hair that are trying to get in his eye. Looks like he’s been up a while, judging by the number of potatoes he’s peeled.
“Morning, Max,” he says, sounding slightly exhausted.
“Good morning,” I mumble back. “Good morning, Ji-ae.”
“Breakfast’s on the table.” She points at a plate that has two fried eggs and two slices of toasted bread.
I sit down to eat.
Just as I start digging into the eggs, she gives a little jump and adds, “Oh, did I tell you I got three extra orders today? Isn’t that wonderful?”
“That’s awesome! Your business is growing, babe,” Coop offers, rubbing his eyes. Even from this distance, his eyes look a little red to me.
“I’m so happy.” Ji-ae bends down to kiss him and I pretend to scan the calendar on the wall.
Five years of marriage, and these guys are still so in love it makes my heart ache. I never expected Coop to stick it out this long with her. It was a running bet in our family that Coop would be divorced before he made it to thirty. But he’s thirty-two now. Still married and becoming more of a henpecked husband with every passing year.
Me, on the other hand…I’ve faced nothing but disaster in my love life. There were so many guys in LA, all of them rich, gorgeous and romantic, but insecure and selfish. Sometimes I think normal guys like Coop is where the game’s at.
After pondering some more over my scarred love life and scarfing down breakfast, I go up to my room to retrieve the cartons of plastic boxes to be filled with food. Ji-ae’s left a stack of papers on the kitchen table detailing the various orders that came in for today. She offers a few different lunch options to her customers, which all adds up to more work for me.
Buckling down, I read every order, noting any special requests or orders, as I pack each lunch with careful attention. Time crawls by slowly, with only the domestic sounds of hissing oil, knife against wood, and sponge scrubbing utensils accompanying me.
“I’m done with potatoes, honey,” Coop croons after a while.
Wiping her dainty fingers on her pink apron, Ji-ae flashes him a grateful smile. “Thank you so much. You should take your shower now, or you’ll be late to work.”
I survey the potatoes. Wow, he’s peeled them well. When we were young, Coop used to be hopeless at domestic chores. I was scared for his life after marriage, but Ji-ae’s made a decent husband out of him. Even my mother notes that every Thanksgiving.
With Coop gone, it’s just Ji-ae and me. We continue our routine activities until eight, when Coop emerges from his room and heads off to work.
“Bye, you two. I’ll see you in the evening.” He waves.
“Poor thing, he doesn’t get much sleep,” Ji-ae laments later, while inspecting the boxes I packed and handing them over to the delivery guy. “Maybe I’ll give him a rest day tomorrow. You can get up an hour early and peel the carrots for me.”
I know better than to groan. I’m living here for free because she’s letting me, and so I must do my share of work. But I still can’t help but sigh.
“It makes sense to polish up your cooking skills while you have the chance,” Ji-ae says, hands on her nonexistent hips—how can she eat her cooking and be that thin? “You’ll be cooking for Henry’s nephew from now on.”
“Wait…I got the job?” My hands fly up to my mouth as surprise seizes me.
Henry actually hired me? Despite knowing who I am? Boy, he must be a masochist.
“Uh-huh, Henry sent me a message last night. He wants you to start on Friday. Go in on Thursday to familiarize yourself with the house and ask him how he likes things done.”
“But why did he send you the message?”
“Because you forgot to put your correct phone number on your resume.” Snatching her shopping bags from under the television, Ji-ae hands some to me. “Now chop, chop. We have to buy groceries for dinner. I’m planning to do a British-themed dinner today. Lately, themed dinners have been all the rage among my clients.”
Sprinting ahead energetically, she waits for me to get out before locking the door. I don’t know where she musters this enthusiasm for cooking. I get tired at the mere thought of having to chop so many vegetables.
Once we’re at the store where she sources her supplies, she chats with the owner while I haul the vegetables he’s set aside for us into the back of the car. Ji-ae’s been trying to convince him to give her a bulk discount, but her business isn’t big enough. Which is why we have to walk down here every day, so she can have one more go at convincing him.
Trust me, nobody hangs around with their sister-in-law as much as I hang around with Ji-ae. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m normal.
Afterwards, we both take a detour to an ice-cream shop and get ice-cream.
“Tomorrow, you can watch me when I make breakfast. It’ll help you learn the basics of cooking.” Ji-ae licks her strawberry-flavored cone.
I wonder if she ever gets tired of instructing people. From the minute she gets up in the morning, she’s instructing Coop, me, or her mother over the phone.
“You know,” I say, licking my double chocolate cone, gazing at a bunch of students at the counter, “Henry and I were in the theatre society together when we were at Harvard.”
“Maybe that’s why he hired you. Never underestimate alumni connections.”
“A Harvard graduate working as a housekeeper.” I sigh. “Imagine that.”
Ji-ae shrugs. “It’s better than a Harvard graduate who’s unemployed.”
Trust my sister-in-law to remind me of the harsh realities of life.
“Anyway, you must be happy that I’m finally doing something.”
Ji-ae licks her lips. “Yeah, I am, since you were never going to find that ‘lucrative passion’ you were searching for.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Acting’s your passion, Max. You can’t have two passions in life, especially when you still haven’t completely let go of one. Since I was young, my passion was cooking. I sucked at math, English and everything else in school, but I was always experimenting in the kitchen.”
I sit up straight. “How come you didn’t go to culinary school, then?”
“My parents are Korean—they didn’t think cooking was a safe career option. But I’ve realized life is full of uncertainty anyway. Nothing’s safe. So it’s best to do what you like. Then the uncertainty doesn’t bother you as much.”
“I guess,” I mumble, the truth straining against my lips.
“I know you still love acting—I hear you rehearsing your Oscars speech in the shower every day.”
“Oh.” Heat radiates from my face.
Am I that loud?
“It’s vocal practice,” I cover.
I can’t tell her the real reason I left Hollywood. She’d judge me if she knew what happened. And I’m very pain-averse. I hate talking about negative things.
The truth is, leaving LA had nothing to do with acting. It had everything to do with a certain incident that ate up my life.
“If you want to be an actress again, I’ll support you,” Ji-ae says.
I shake my head. “You’re mistaken. I don’t want to be an actress anymore.”
There’s no point in digging up old wounds.
So I bury the truth for one more day.
*
Thursday arrives in the blink of an eye. After completing my morning task of packing lunchboxes, I take the F train and head straight to Twenty-Third Street, which is a few short blocks from Henry’s place.
When I reenter it, the apartment looks even more lavish than I remember. Was that red glass vase here the last time? And was the coffee table really so transparent? I can’t help but admire the stunning space. But on the heels of admiration comes the awareness that cleaning such a monstrous space is going to be a real chore.
After letting me in, Henry goes into his room to change. He reappears now. “I’m leaving for work shortly.” Buttoning his cuffs, he sails to the kitchen. He’s wearing a sparkly white shirt that shines like new. I’m already intimidated. Am I supposed to keep it that white and clean forever?
From the corner of my eye, I spy the door. Maybe it’s not too late—maybe I can quit while I’m ahead. But then Henry’s leg brushes against mine, and my muscles freeze. He’s unaware of this, still trying to get that stubborn button to slide into its hole.
“I’ll do it for you.” Taking his wrist, I pop the buttons in their holes. “There.”
He stares at me, then drops his hands to his sides. A tension seizes the air. My heartbeat spikes. He’s too close, and I’m too aware of it. Aware of the subtle fragrance of musk and peppermint and laundry detergent (damn, I need to know what laundry detergent he uses). But most of all, I’m aware of the buzz in my stomach.
Go away! I scream at the electric sizzle that’s erupted between us. There shouldn’t be any sparks between Henry and me. It’s just not right. How could my traitorous heart be beating so hard for him?
He’s Henry Stone, I remind myself. I couldn’t possibly be attracted to him, no matter how much he’s changed. At his heart, he is still a geek, which means we’re still as incompatible as we once were.
Clearing his throat, Henry breaks away, providing me a few precious moments of solitude to reorient myself. I can’t believe that actually happened. It must be because I got up at four to peel carrots for Ji-ae. Lack of sleep can cause dangerous hallucinations—I read that somewhere. This is surely one of those instances.
Stop it, I scream at my brain. Don’t have such ridiculous thoughts about him.
A keyring with four different keys is placed on my palm. “Here’s a set of duplicate keys so you can come and go as required. Keep them safe.”
Closing my fingers around them, I feel their coolness. I will keep these safer than my own heart.
Walking ahead, Henry continues, “I got your email address from Ji-ae and passed it on to my sister. You must have received an email from Emilia about the policies to adopt while looking after Lucien. I’ll send you another one by this afternoon. Tomorrow’s your first day. Pick up Lucien from school by two and make him dinner. I’ll eat the leftovers. But I would appreciate if you could come in the morning at, say, around seven and make me breakfast. I like to eat at least one hot, home-cooked meal a day. Also, morning’s a good time to get cleaning, shopping and laundry done before you get busy with Lucien.”
I nod, like I’m registering everything he’s saying, when in fact I’m thinking about why Henry’s bedsheets are orange. Orange is a weird color.
He proceeds to give me a tour of the house, explaining where all the cleaning equipment and supplies are stored, and giving me pointers on the way he likes things to be organized. I brought a notepad along, so I take exhaustive notes (actually I doodle his face).
At the end of the tour, he looks to me with an arched eyebrow. “Questions?”
“May I ask why you look after your sister’s son?” I enquire.
I’ve been curious about it.
“My sister’s a doctor and so is her husband. They’re both really busy.”
“Then they should hire me, not you.”
“Well…the thing is…it will be Emilia who’ll pay your salary.” He scratches his chin. “But Lucien, for some reason, likes my apartment more than his parents’. He throws tantrums if they try to get him to go to their house after school. It’s an adjustment problem, I think. My sister and her husband were on the verge of divorcing last year, but they visited a counselor and pieced together their relationship.” He takes a deep breath, gazing out the window at the sun that’s rising higher in the morning sky. “I think Lucien’s still affected by it.”
“Ah, I see.”
It still doesn’t make any sense to me.
“That’s why you should put Lucien to sleep by eight. Unless he’s asleep, it’s impossible for Emilia to take him back home. He’ll make a fuss about leaving.”
Sleep by eight? Geez, the kid’s life sucks.
“I’ll do that. No problem.” I shake my head professionally.
I wonder how the hell I’m gonna get a nine-year-old to sleep at eight.
“By the way, I forgot to ask you last time; do you prefer to be paid via check or direct transfer?”
“Direct transfer,” I answer promptly, perking up at the prospect of money flowing into my account rather than out of it.
“All right.” He nods, swooping down to collect a stack of files. “Emilia will pay on Saturday for the hours you clock in from Monday to Friday.”
“Okay.”
His eyes fasten onto his iWatch. “I should get going now.”
Catching the hint, I lead him out of the house. He locks the door, showing me which key to use, while I press for the elevator.
So far, this job doesn’t seem so bad.
But I guess only time will tell.
