Page 9

The Sacramento Kim family estate looms against the evening sky, all glass and steel and impossible expectations. Dennis is barely through the door when his mother engulfs him in a hug.

"My baby!" she coos in Japanese, squeezing until his ribs protest. "You're too thin!” She grabs him by the cheeks, smooching him all over his face so he flails, flapping her away. “Aren't you eating?"

"Mom, I could put on a hundred pounds and you’d say I’m too thin!" But he's smiling despite himself. Her warmth is exactly what he needs after the day's tensions.

“How was the trip to Singapore,” he asks, kissing her back on first one cheek, then the other. “Did you convince those healthtech guys to sign on?”

"Come, come." She drags him to the kitchen, work talk flying over her head as she starts piling appetizers onto a plate. "Tell me everything. How's the project? The apartment?" She pauses in her meticulous arrangement of delicate salmon tartare bites, eyes sparkling as she glances sideways at him. Her perfectly groomed eyebrow arches in that elegant yet gossipy way his mother saves for dating talk—rare as it's become these days. "Are you seeing anyone special?"

"Mom!"

"What? A mother worries!" She balances a quail egg topped with caviar precariously on the edge of the plate, her free hand fluttering dramatically. "Sometimes I wonder if my only child—flesh of my flesh, blood of my loins—"

Dennis inhales his bite of tartare at the word 'loins' and scrambles for the crystal water pitcher, hacking and coughing as it goes down the wrong pipe. He knocks over an empty glass in his haste, miraculously catching it before it shatters, and somehow manages to pour himself a shaky glass of water. His chest burns as he gulps it down, his mother's voice never missing a beat—

“—is training for the priesthood,” she complains.

She sets down her masterpiece of appetizers to peer at his now-red face. "Oh! You're blushing!” she exclaims, oblivious to his near-death experience. “Who is it? She? He? They?"

For some bizarre, revolting, and inexplicable reason, Chris's dimples flash through Dennis’s mind.

He pushes the image away, stunned and alarmed. Whatthefuckwasthat? Ugh, eww! Gross. Vomit!

He schools his face into something less horrified, though his stomach still churns at the unwanted thought.

"There's nothing like that, mom, I'm busy all day, you know! And night!" he throws in when her eyebrows don't lower.

"Mmhmm." Her eyebrows waggle instead. "Is it someone at work?"

"What?! No! "

Too quick. Too loud.

"Aha! It is!" She claps her hands together, her diamond tennis bracelets jingling like victory bells. "Tell me everything!" she demands, her brilliant ruby red smile wide and brimming with mischief.

"There's nothing to tell!" Dennis protests in exasperation, but he’s laughing now, her enthusiasm infectious as always.

"What's so funny?"

They both turn to find Dennis’s father in the doorway, expression as stern as his wife's is warm.

"Nothing, honey." She floats across the marble floor in a whisper of silk, tucking herself against his side. His arm stays stiff but she kisses his cheek anyway, softening his edges like she always does. Her lipstick leaves a perfect red mark that she dabs away with practiced care. "Just mother-son gossip. Shall we move to the dining room? Everything's ready."

Dinner starts pleasantly enough. The first course arrives on gleaming plates. Dennis always dreads these dinners with his parents and promises each one will be his last. But then his mother starts talking and he remembers why he misses her—she fills the room with life, her hands dancing through the air as she speaks, her laugh brightening even the coldest corners of this massive house and warming up even his ice statue of a father.

Dennis asks about the family cats—particularly old Chairman Meow who's ruled the estate longer than he can remember. His mother launches into stories about the latest curtain casualties, while his father checks emails between bites. The clink of silver on china punctuated by the soft buzz of his father’s phone notifications fill the silence until:

"How's the sustainability project, darling?" his mother asks.

"It's—"

"Behind schedule," his father cuts in without looking up from his phone screen. "Over budget. And apparently includes assaulting employees now."

"Dennis Kim!" His mother's chopsticks clatter to her plate. "You did what ?"

"He deserved it," Dennis mutters into his wine glass. Well, he shrugs to himself, at the time he did, anyway.

"This is what comes of coddling him," his father says, finally setting his phone aside. "All these... so-called progressive ideas."

"Oh, here we go." His mother's voice sharpens, taking on that familiar edge. "Because heaven forbid our son have original thoughts!"

"Original thoughts don't pay investors."

"No, they just change the world!"

"I built this company from scratch. While you encouraged his little art projects and sustainability dreams."

"And he'll take it further than you ever could! If you'd just open your eyes and see what he's creating—"

"Or bankrupt us with his experiments. Is that what you want? To watch everything I built crumble because he wants to play with bamboo?"

"Always so negative. Maybe if you supported him for once—"

Dennis catches the butler's eye as his parents' argument escalates. "Kill me now," he mouths.

The butler's lips twitch. "More wine, sir?"

"All of it."

Later that night, Dennis presses his palm to the biometric scanner, shoulders sagging as his apartment door finally slides open.

The blessed silence hits him like a wave—no more pointed comments about investors, no more maternal interrogations about his love life.

Never, ever again, he promises himself for the hundredth time, knowing full well he'll be back at that dinner table next month.

He collapses onto his couch, the leather cool against his face. Pulls his phone out of his back pocket with a groan.

So much effort. So little energy left. He checks his phone with the last of it.

There’s one new message.

So... no drinks really?

He stares at the screen. Thinks about his mother's knowing smile. About Chris's look during the meeting. About how something's shifting between them, whether he wants it to or not.

Maybe Chris isn’t such a bad guy after all?

Maybe they could even be friends?

Well, perhaps acquaintances.

Well…

Maybe colleagues who won’t kill each other.

His fingers hover over the keys.

After way too long and thinking much too hard, Dennis finally replies:

My father's lawyer is drafting a workplace harassment suit as we speak.

The response is immediate: Guess I better send more evidence for the case :)

Despite everything—the family dinner, the rebellion, the exhaustion dragging at his bones—Dennis finds himself laughing, and then howling, and then hiccuping, curled up on the couch, arms around his stomach, tears of laughter streaming from his eyes.

Chris is so ridiculous.

Gah, he really hates him!