“Fuck you, Jeremy!” I scream inches from his face, and push him with the hand still holding the instant noodles. “You don’t get to have this! In fact, you don’t get to have any of this anymore.” I hate how I’ve upgraded this fuckstick’s life in any way. Especially this way. That this asshole now knows how superior Shin Ramyun Black is to regular Shin Ramyun by the grace of an extra flavor packet and all that bonus garlic.
This fucker doesn’t deserve bonus garlic.
“If I so much as see you at H Mart”—I get right in his face—“or even Sunrise Mart, I will fucking ruin you.”
chapter 13
My head is hot, my ears flooded with blood. Something’s biting into my palm, and I look down to find a tangle of iPhone charger cables clutched in my fevered fingers. Two are his. One of the dangling white cubes is even labeled J in blue Sharpie. Jesus Christ, Jeremy’s a dipshit. It makes me laugh that both our names start with J. My mind hones in on the memory of when I told him Koreans don’t get BO because we have dry earwax and not wet like most people. Later, when we went to get dumplings with his boys, he kept raising my arm up by the wrist and smelling my armpit in front of them, saying, “Seriously, get in there. She smells like air!” I socked him but felt secretly proud. It made me feel thin and virtuous to smell like nothing.
When the car pulls up, one of the IKEA bags lurches painfully into my shin.
I click the seat belt fastener a few times before realizing I never buckled myself in.
I stagger through the lobby, looking like a bag lady.
June buzzes me through, but when I get to her floor, she takes a look at my stuff. “What happened?”
“It was a boyfriend,” I tell her. “He was a scumbag.”
“You shouldn’t have left,” says June, blocking her door.
“You’re the one who’s always saying I shouldn’t waste my time with these guys!” I panic momentarily that she won’t let me in.
“Not like this.” She’s wearing pj’s and her face is creased.
“Were you asleep?”
She ignores my concern. “Dummy, do you know how much harder it is to get him out now?”
“But…” I glance down at my hands helplessly. They’re lashed red from the heavy bag handles.
“Christ, Jayne.” She crosses her arms and gives me a hard look. “You know I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”
The tears come without warning. “I’m sorry,” I whimper. “I know this is the worst possible timing, but if you just let me stay for tonight. I promise…”
“Is he on the lease?”
“He’s going to leave,” I insist. “I told him he had to by the end of the week. I completely lit into him.”
Her eyes drop to my bags again. “Dude, did you only bring groceries?”
“Please, June.”
She sighs, bumps her door open with her butt, and shuffles back inside. I hobble in after her, shoving all the frozen foods in the freezer, and leaving the fridge stuff in the cooler bags for the morning.
I take a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the water pressure, the steam, and how the tub isn’t blackened with mildew. She’s left her bedroom door ajar, so I get in beside her in the king-size bed. The sheets are cool and expansive, and I’m calmed by her steady breathing. I wake up six hours later.
“Have whatever,” she grumbles when I find her in the kitchen. June has never been a morning person. I open the fridge to finish putting away my things. The smell is so intense, it feels invasive. It has the piercing quality of ammonia. In the back there’s a jar of pickles that’s carpeted with a thick layer of fur, which I didn’t even know was a thing for brined foods. In the crisper drawer is a ballooned sack of mixed field greens that have matured into a sludge. There’s also a container from Domino’s Pizza. In New York. We live in the town with the best slices in the world and my sister is ordering Domino’s Pizza. If there were ever an indication that your sibling was unwell, it’s this.
Her uncovered bowl of mapo from last night sits front and center. Complete with stale rice and chopsticks still stuck in it. Behind it are stacks of takeout containers and a petrified slice of red velvet cake in a plastic clamshell that hasn’t been shut. It looks like a wax sculpture.
I locate eggs and check the expiration date. I pair my Hidden Valley ranch dressing with her bigger one in the fridge door. I also slot my soy sauce and fish sauce in the pantry. I love that we have two of mostly everything.
“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” I tell her, cracking two eggs and depositing the whites into a ramekin with a damp paper towel on top.
“What did you do with the yolks?” she asks.
I glance at her guiltily. Her face is puffy from sleep.
“I chucked them.”
June hits her trash can pedal with her foot to peer inside.
“Not the literal trash. I’m not a total monster. The sink.”
“That’s fucked up.”
I don’t tell her that what’s really fucked up is the elaborate ecosystem that’s going on in her refrigerator. Her hair’s tied in a sloppy ponytail, and I can’t believe she’s wearing the woolly blue pajamas with yellow roses that Mom gave us two Christmases ago. The temperature’s in the sixties today, but June’s favorite thing has always been to crank up her central air and wear winter clothes inside. I bite my tongue about how she can be wasteful too.
“Next time get your own eggs,” she says groggily. I don’t tell June she has sleep in her eyes, out of spite. Even though I’m the only one who has to look at the goo.
“Fine.” I put the eggs in the microwave silently. I can’t wait until the week is out. “You did say help yourself to whatever, though.”
Something softens in her expression.
In the hazy morning light, a corona of baby hairs dance around her face. “I got those eggs from the farmers’ market,” she says. “They’re nonconflict, organic, grass-fed eggs that cost nine bucks for a thing.”
“Jesus.” I’m genuinely taken aback. “I had no idea.”
I check the carton. They look like regular eggs. If a little hipster because the label is a tasteful line drawing of chickens. It looks like a wine label. Or a sixties animation where real shit pops off, like the farmer kills a character for food.
“Whatever,” she says, waving her hand. “Take them. I thought I should start eating better and then forgot about them.”
I look down at my shriveled breakfast. I could have kept the yolks. Pretended I was ever in my life going to make hollandaise. Or flan. “Damn, the farmers probably christened each one.”
She smiles at my stupid joke. “Are you a farmer if you have chickens? Or is that only for, I don’t know, crops? Can you be like ‘I’m a chicken farmer’？”
“Hi. I’m a ‘cow farmer.’？” I try it out and grin. “Are we stupid? Why don’t we know this? I think it’s right though.” I raise a hand. “Hi. I’m a pig farmer. See there, I feel like I’ve definitely heard of pig farmers. That’s a thing for sure.”