Chapter Text
There's an art to the extraction. First, I take Sunghoon's arm—heavy across my stomach—and slide my fingers beneath. I lift it slightly and move centimeter by centimeter to the right side of the bed. And when I'm mostly free, I grab one of his pillows—warmed by my own overthinking head—and slip it under his arm.
If I'm lucky, he'll snuffle softly in the moonlight streaming into his messy bedroom, hug the pillow, and stay sleeping. If I'm unlucky, he'll wake up and ask me where I'm going: Chaewon, just stay. Chaewon, please. Chaewon, it won't kill you to cuddle. I don't have the energy for that.
Sunghoon's messy brown hair falls into his face as he smiles in his sleep and hugs my pillow replacement a little tighter. I got lucky tonight—in every sense of the word. I grab my boots, leftovers from one of the ten million Western-themed pageants I've smiled my way through over the years, and creep out the front door barefoot, careful not to let the screen door slam and wake his parents.
The motion-sensor light clicks on as I shove my feet into my boots and make a beeline for my car, my soul, my lifeline: my baby-blue 1970 Ford Torino. Yes, it's old as hell, but it's the one thing in this world that's truly mine. I bought it, rusted and rotten, off my great-aunt Maeve's estate for three hundred bucks. I painstakingly put it back together, scavenging pieces from junkyards and flea markets. I restored it to its current state of splendor. Me. I did that.
Okay, so maybe I had a little help from Kim Hyojong, the town's least-crooked mechanic, but still.
I climb inside and shift it into neutral, taking off the emergency brake and letting the car coast backward down Sunghoon's long hill of a driveway and into the street, where I finally flick the ignition. It rumbles to life, the sound closer to a growl than a purr. I resist the urge to rev the engine—god, I love that sound—and point my car toward home, feeling loose and boneless, relaxed and happy, content in the way one only can during that tiny glint of freedom between chores and obligations.
Not that Sunghoon is an obligation—or a chore, for that matter. He's nice enough, our time together fun and consensual. In another universe, we'd probably be dating. But we live in this one, and in this universe, I love exactly two things: sleep and my car.
Sunghoon is a great stress reliever, an itch to scratch, a good time had by all. Nothing else. We have an arrangement, a friends-with-benefits sort of thing. No strings. If he called me tomorrow and said he wanted to ask a girl out, I'd say Go for it as long as it isn't me—and I'd mean it. I hope he'd say the same. Which is why I'm driving home from his house two hours after getting a text that simply said: big game tomorrow, you around?
Be still my heart.
But then, a couple weeks ago, I texted him: pageant in the AM, come distract me? And he was crawling through my window within minutes.
See, it's not an all-the-time thing; it's an as-needed thing. Some people get high; Sunghoon and I get twenty minutes of consensual, safe sex—always use a condom, people—and a subsequent awkward exchange about how my leaving right after makes him feel weird. Thus, the sneaking out once he falls asleep: the ideal compromise, at least on my end.
I pull into the dirt-patch driveway in front of my trailer. It might not seem like much to some, but it's ours and it's home. Just me and my mom. Well, some of the time, anyway. The better times.
But the lights are still on in the kitchen, the TV flickering in the living room, and my heart sinks. Mom works the overnight shift cleaning offices, and her car's not here, which means this will not be one of those 'better times.' Literally nothing could drag me down from a good mood faster than having to be around her boyfriend, Yong Junhyung.
Junhyung and my mom have been together off and on for the past few years— and unfortunately for me, lately they've been more on than off. "Getting more serious," I heard her say to a friend. Which is why he has unrestricted house privileges. Along with eating our food and wasting our electricity even though we can't afford it privileges.
I get why Junhyung can't help chasing my mom around—my mom is the kind of beautiful that even hard jobs and tough luck can't dull, a beauty queen and Miss Teen USA hopeful right up until that second line showed up on her pregnancy test eighteen years ago. (Sorry, Mom.)
But I don't really understand why my mom always takes him back. Junhyung is, objectively, the worst.
I'd crash at my best friend Karina's house if I wasn't so sure Junhyung had heard my car—my engine is less than stealthy, and normally I like it that way.
But if I leave now, he'll definitely tell Mom, and that's one guilt trip I don't need. On a scale of "needs an oil change" to "engine's seized," being rude to my mom's boyfriend rates somewhere around "blown head gasket"—not a fatal blow, but like most things when it comes to my mother, expensive and difficult to fix.
I turn off my car, listening to the tick of the engine as it cools down in the spring air. The curtains in the living room move, no doubt Junhyung stumbling around, trying to see what I'm doing and why I'm not inside. I reach into the back seat to grab the bag of stage makeup Mom made me pick up earlier and get out.
Our door creaks as I yank it open and ignore the siding falling off next to it, then step over a particularly suspicious stain on the carpet. Five yapping Jack Russell terriers come tearing down the hallway. Mom's other pride and joy.
Please, god, do not have let them in my room; they're barely house-trained—and by "barely," I mean not at all.
"Shut those mutts up!" Junhyung yells from the kitchen as he pulls open the fridge, as if I have any control over them. As if anyone has control over them.
Mom likes them a little wild; she says it's more natural that way. I'd personally prefer if their 'wildness' could be limited to the rooms with vinyl flooring.
I crouch down and pet as many of them as I can, as fast as I can, while being tackled by the others. Tiny paws dig into my sides and legs as they fight for attention. "Shh, shh, shh," I coax, calming them as much as it's possible to calm five underexercised terriers that rarely see the outside of our home.
"Goddamn dogs," Junhyung says, carrying two cans of beer over to the recliner in front of the blaring TV. Fox News. As usual. He drops into the recliner, drips of beer falling onto his faded black T-shirt, which reads DON'T TREAD ON ME. He looks like he hasn't shaved in days, flecks of gray poking through his brown stubble. "You're home late."
"Yeah, sorry. I was studying with a friend," I say, standing up once the dogs decide that sniffing one another is more interesting than tackling me. I wonder if they can smell Sunghoon's cat.
Junhyung raises his eyebrows, the last wisps of hair on his head flopping comically. "Your mom might fall for that garbage, but I know what girls like you do at night, and it's not studying."
"What would you know about studying?" I say, hating that he's right but determined not to give him the satisfaction.
"I know you don't get hickeys from math homework." He laughs, and his eyes flick to the talking head on the TV.
Goddammit, Sunghoon, no marks means no marks. My hand reaches up to my neck as my cheeks flame.
"Hey, hey, it's all right, I won't tell your ma."
I look at him, waiting for the catch.
"Come here, darlin'," he says, but I stay where I am, poised for a quick escape. He leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. "So, what did you really get up to tonight?"
"What time is Mom coming home?" I change the subject with a smile that shows too many teeth.
He frowns slightly. "I don't know. It's slow this week, she said. They lost another client."
"So anytime, then?" I ask, and he looks back at the TV. "I'm gonna head to bed. Night."
"You sure you don't want one?" he asks, gesturing toward the beer can beside his on the tray. And did he, what, think I'd get wasted and spend the night watching conservative shitheads spout lies on cable TV with him? No, thanks.
"It's a school night."
"Does that really matter to you?" On the TV behind me the host blabs on and on. I stare at the wall, taking a deep breath.
I won't take the bait.
"This shit'll rot your brain, Junhyung," I say, grabbing the remote and clicking it off.
Because I will not be intimidated in my own home. I will not take crap from any stupid man sitting on the recliner that I got Mom with my Little Miss Sun Bonnet winnings years ago. I will not be scared of the Yong Junhyungs of the world.
"Fuck off." He laughs, chugging his beer and turning the TV back on.
I scamper to my room and lock the door behind me, praying to any god that will listen: Please don't let this be my future too.