Should I tell Yuna?
But wouldn’t that upset her? Make her angry with her mother? Unlike Chantel, her mom isn’t using her or warning me away to hurt her. Lady Min is just doing what she thinks is best for Yuna. I don’t want to turn the happy sparks in her eyes into a furious fire.
Yuna eats a rib more delicately than I ever thought possible, using only her chopsticks. “Anyway, when I came here with Ivy, Tony, Nate and Evie, we had a lot of fun with that, pushing plates to each other. Nate said it was so much better than some silly pink car.”
The pink car again. “Do you think a pink car is silly?”
“Nope. I saw one and it’s divine. All shiny and so pink!”
Perfect. I don’t have to come up with a different present.
She continues, “I want to get one at some point, when I can overcome the small bit of weird guilt over the fact that my family owns a fleet of luxury cars just for the sake of owning them.”
“How is that a problem? You like shopping, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but there’s a difference between shopping for cars and clothes. I have no problem with stuffing my closet with dresses and shoes, but cars? They’re so, so expensive. And Mr. Choi wouldn’t look good in a pink vehicle, even if it was a Cullinan.”
I laugh at that, torn between pity and petty satisfaction. Mr. Choi is going to hate that, but then again, he’s been a pain in the ass recently.
The server clears the table when we’re done with the main course and brings out some kind of cloudy liquid in a small bowl, along with some cut fruit. I don’t think it’s for washing hands, although it’s rather cold. I thought Asians drank hot tea or coffee after meals.
“What’s this?” I ask Yuna, who’s looking thrilled at the full bowl in front of her.
“It’s called sikhae. It’s a sweet fermented rice drink. No alcohol, so it’s safe to drink and drive.”
I sniff it, but it doesn’t really have much of a scent. The cloudiness is making me nervous. Still, I should give it a shot, especially after bragging about my culinary horizons. I pick up the bowl and sip just enough to wet my tongue a little. Sweetness fills my mouth. “Hey, not bad.”
“Told you. I love this stuff.” She picks up her bowl and sips a little.
“Uh… Yuna?”
I shift my head at a waiter, who’s standing at our table. He isn’t our server, and how the hell does he know Yuna’s name?
I quickly catalogue the man. He’s Asian, skinny and maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. Slightly wide eyes as though in shock.
Yuna stiffens, then swivels her torso slowly.
“Yuna-ya?” the waiter says, his voice slightly shaky. He reaches out and touches her arm.
Her entire demeanor shifts, and the temperature seems to drop thirty degrees as she gazes at the man. Although she’s seated and the waiter is standing, the sheer arrogance and contempt in her eyes makes it appear as though she’s looking down at him.
Slowly, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a disinfecting wipe. Then, carefully and deliberately, she runs the white sheet over her arm where he touched and puts the used wipe on the table, far from us.
All the while, the waiter merely stares, barely able to speak.
“Yu. Na. Ya?” She raises her eyebrows. Korean words drop from her lips in the most terribly cold voice. It sends chills down my back, and I’m only watching the interaction.
The waiter grows paler. He stammers in Korean back to her. Based on her unchanged expression, it seems to make no difference whatsoever.
Since I’ve never seen her treat anybody with such icy condescension, the waiter must’ve done something to deserve it. Wonder what it was.
Mr. Choi is up and already moving toward us. Yuna raises a hand to stop him.
Finally, the waiter drops his head and scuttles away. The frigid mask drops from Yuna’s face as she turns to me with a smile. “Well. That was unpleasant. Are you ready to go?”
“Yup,” I say, handing my card to our server who rushes over, who immediately takes it and runs off to the cash register. I don’t want to linger any more than we need to, especially after the way our lunch ended.
Yuna shows no real reaction as we leave. And I curse the damned waiter for ruining our lunch date. Fucker.