Page 27 of Somewhere Only We Know
Curiouser and curiouser.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JACK
When we stepped outside, Lucky stayed close. It surprised me how quickly she trusted me.
A tiny, tiny ember of guilt lodged itself into my chest.
Listen, you speck of guilt. I know you think I am not doing the “right” thing. But this is the price of fame. Your every move is recorded. And plus, Lucky’s going to get a fun day out of this. I can be charming, all right?
Hong Kong in the early morning felt like a secret. It was so early that we were outside before the rush of traffic, and the shops were starting to open. The streets were quiet, hushed, and cast in a soft yellow morning light.
“You good?” I asked Lucky, feeling her anxiousness in every step we took, every glance down the street. I wondered what kind of trouble she was in. Her unease made it clear to me that she had definitely snuck out last night. There was no way it was cool for her to have slept overin some random guy’s apartment. And she’d been in no state to call and update anyone. Someone had to be looking for her.
She nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
And she was probably hungry. “Okay, so what are you in the mood for? There’s this great bakery that makes sourdough bread that I dream about—”
“I want fish congee,” she interrupted, her face tilted up for once, her dark brown eyes zeroed in on mine.
When I recovered from that direct stare, I raised my eyebrows. “Fish for breakfast?”
She snorted. “Wow, you’reveryAmerican.”
Some latent Korean pride in me sparked to life, making me sputter, “Okay, Miss Korea.”
“Good one.” The sarcasm surprised me, her vulnerability dashed for a second. “Don’t you ever have rice for breakfast?” she asked.
A cab rushed by, the air whooshing between us. “No, actually, I don’t. Are you going to take away my Korean card now?”
“I should,” she said, but she was grinning, her movements more natural and at ease. “Anyway, it’s a typical breakfast food here. You should know that.”
I looked over at her, surprised. “Have you spent a lot of time in Hong Kong?”
Her mouth opened to answer, but something in her brain seemed to hitch and she took a beat longer than necessary. “Um, not really. But I’ve been here before.” I could imagine she’d been here a dozen times on tour, but never had a chance to actuallybehere.
While I knew I was doing this for a story, I also felt real excitement to share that with her. “Well, lucky you.” The word slipped out before I could think, but her face stayed impassive. “We happen to benear some of the best congee in the city. I’ll take you to my roommate’s favorite.”
There was a skip to her step as we headed to the caféand she lifted her face up to the sun. Every part of her seemed to be stretching out from the shrunken, compacted version of herself. Suddenly, she halted, almost with a cartoon skidding noise. “Wait.Roommate?”
“Don’t worry, he didn’t see you. He works nights. Cab driver.”
She looked maybe 2 percent more relieved. We walked down narrow, winding streets, passing by gnarled banyan trees with air roots hanging down above us like curtains. The streets were steep and Lucky took her time—being careful with her steps and absorbing her surroundings, taking in every detail. The autumn cold snap had stayed through the night—the morning air was chilly and felt cleansing as we walked through it.
We finally arrived at a small, nondescript restaurant located on the ground floor of a slightly dilapidated building covered in bright signs. Because it was so early, it was nearly empty, with a lone old man sitting at a corner table reading a newspaper.
A skinny woman with permed hair approached us with menus and spoke in Cantonese. Lucky and I both held up our hands in a universal gesture of, “Sorry!”
She responded with a flat “Good morning,” handing us a couple laminated menus, and waved us toward a table by the windows. Classical music was playing in the background as we sat down in the squeaky vinyl chairs, the glass top of the table bouncing light into our eyes. Lucky was framed by calendars hanging on the wall behind her, the sun hitting her so that only her mouth was in light, the rest of her face obscured in shadow. It was the perfect shot. Lonely, vulnerable.
“Wanna eat an old-ass egg?”
I shook my head. “Excuse me?”
She held up the menu with a wide grin. “You can get your congee with a century egg!” Genuine excitement exuded from her as she pointed to a photo on the menu of what looked like an inky orb of evil.
“Sure,” I said, smiling back at her. It was pretty adorable to see how some of her personality quirks were actually real and not drunken antics. “It looks kind of rad.”
