Page 37 of Somewhere Only We Know
He clutched his chest with exaggeration. “What’s bao? Just the most delicious food. Stuffed buns usually eaten for breakfast, but I basically live off of them.”
“You got me at ‘bun.’”
He walked us to an inconspicuous train station entrance set into a gray brick building. We walked down a dimly lit stairwell until we were hit with the bright lights of an underground mall bustling with people and subway signage.
With so many people rushing around me, I tensed. And it was the oddest thing—the second I did it, Jack looked over at me.
Then grasped my hand.
My eyes flew up to his.
“Don’t lose me,” he said easily, as if this was a normal thing he and I did. As if those words weren’t insanelyhot.
His hand was warm, the skin rough. I remembered when we held hands last night—running through dark alleys. It felt like forever ago.
Before last night, I’d never held hands with a guy. And here I was, doing it for the second time with this guy I barely knew. The feel of my hand in someone else’s—acutesomeone else—filled me with a giddiness that embarrassed me. It was only holding hands.
I couldn’t get a read on Jack as we maneuvered through the crowded train station mall. Was he holding my hand in a boyfriendy way? Or as a friendly, platonic tour guide? Did boys hold hands with girls platonically?
AnddidI want something more than a platonic tour guide?
We stopped in front of a counter manned by a sulky Asian teenagegirl in an apron. Above her were photos of various steamed buns, brightly lit from behind.
My mouth watered even though it hadn’t been that long since we had that decadent congee. “I want one of each.”
“Are you serious?” Jack asked, his voice high-pitched.
“Yes. One of each, please.”
“What am I, a millionaire?”
I laughed. “Do you exaggerateeverything?”
Jack paused at that, a surprised expression crossing his face for a second. “What do you mean?”
“You use a lot of hyperbole.”
He grinned. “I’veneverin my entire life used hyperbole.”
I relished this back-and-forth. When was the last time I could joke abouthyperbolewith anyone around me? Even though I was near-fluent in Korean, more sophisticated conversations confused me, which frustrated me to no end. “I’ll pay you back for everything. I promise.” A silence settled over those words and I added, “Also, I’d like milk.”
After ordering six bao, a small carton of milk, and a water for himself, Jack led us out of the station and back outside.
The bun was hot in my hands, and I peeled the thin paper wrapper off of it impatiently, burning my fingertips in the process. I hissed and stuck them in my mouth.
Jack shook his head. “You have to wait for it to cool off.”
“Never,” I said, already biting into it. The hot pork filling scorched me, but it was so, so good. Slightly sweetened chewy dough paired with the sugary, caramelized pork—that perfect combo of sweet and salty. Pure heaven. I kept eating, the roof of my mouth burned for life.
We approached a particularly busy intersection with curved roads and older buildings crowding the space, groups of suited businesspeople out for their lunch breaks. For a second I felt like I was in London, but when we crossed the street and rounded a bend, suddenly the traffic was gone and we were engulfed in tropical plants, the shade of giant trees cooling us off immediately. We were on the edge of a hillside bordering a park, and to the left of us was a small canyon with more dense, dark green foliage.
I marveled at the surroundings, my head bent far back so I could see the tops of the trees. “Wow. I almost forgot that Hong Kong is so tropical.”
“You’re lucky to catch us on a cool day. The weather’s been hellish. Like, Florida on steroids,” Jack said as he swung the bag of buns and drinks between us.
“Humidity,” I said sagely. “The literal worst.”
“Literally.”
