shortcake | liskook

4

The minute I step foot into the elegant funeral home, packed with colorful flower arrangements and standing funeral sprays, I feel myself go on autopilot. 

Even seeing halmeoni’s urn, next to a blown-up picture of her, with her perfectly styled silver hair and lips painted her signature red, doesn’t do anything to move my heart from outside my body back into my chest. 

I wear an autopilot-smile while giving my condolences to her friends who I recognize from Bingo nights and Taco Tuesdays. I give the same smile when I receive hugs from both Lee Ji Ah and Jeon Hyung Jun, who apologize for yesterday. The same smile, when I introduce Dowan to everyone, and when Jeong Jung Tae introduces us to his companion.

And then there is Jungkook, who doesn’t bother with a fake smile as he stands alone in the far back, near one of the many flower sprays, wearing a black suit and a cold stare that makes him look every bit as deadly as a young John Wick.

He ignores me completely, not even sparing a glance when I walk past, which is fine since he’s honestly the last person on this planet I want to have a funeral chat with.

Sitting next to several gossipy old ladies, I learn Jeon Hyung Jun hasn’t invited any of Jungkook’s friends, which surprises me because I know at least one of them has come to visit halmeoni while I was at the ranch. 

After a short, but efficient service led by Jeon Jung Tae, we’re ushered into a banquet room to join the family for brunch and to share memories of Yeong Ok halmeoni. I don’t want to share my memories. I want to drown them in a bottle of wine, but here I am with a perma-smile fixed on my face, standing amongst the grieving, who are surprisingly jovial. 

My smile falters, and my stomach flips when I spot Jungkook, not that I was looking for him. 

He’s standing against the back wall near the door, for an easy escape no doubt, with a don’t-talk-to-me scowl on his face. 

I turn my eyes before he can catch me staring at him, to the commotion in the room. I’ve never understood how people can eat at a funeral, but they’re swarmed around the lavish buffet table, pecking at it like a pack of street pigeons. 

My stomach knots as Mrs. Go breaks free from the gaggle and faces me. Her gaze catches mine, her plate filled like she’s at a buffet. 

I send a casual glance over my shoulder toward the double-doors, not wanting to give her the invitation of prolonged eye contact, willing Dowan to come back in from his call. 

Inky dread spreads through my body as she stops at my front. I hold tight to my smile, but it’s hard. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks, invading my personal space as she stuffs another deviled egg into her wrinkled mouth, her tongue already chalky-yellow from the first dozen she probably scarfed at the table. 

“No, not really.” Especially not now. 

She studies me from under droopy lids as she chews. “You don’t eat enough. That’s why you’re so cold,” she explains, motioning to Dowan’s jacket, which hangs on me like a tent. 

“You’re probably right,” I concede, giving her a placating nod while taking a casual step back, glancing over my shoulder to the double doors—this time vowing to dedicate my life to God if Dowan walks through them. 

“You need steak,” she continues, while chewing on a thick piece of salami. 

I watch her thin arthritic fingers rummage through her bounty. She pulls out large garlic-stuffed olive from the pile and pops it in her mouth. 

Run, Lisa! Run! 

“Well, it was really nice talking—” 

“Better snag that handsome fellow you’re always with.” She swallows the olive and, without missing a beat, picks up a cube of cheddar and pops it into her mouth. “Heard he’s got quite the following.” She raises her brows, pointedly.