Page 10 of For You, Sir

Mom stared at her hands in her lap like nothing was happening, pleasantly dissociated.

Numb, I stood and walked past the pink azalea and out of the room. I floated down the hospital corridors and through the lobby.

You’re not helping.

The clenching in my chest got worse and worse. Could someone have a heart attack at age thirty-three?

All you care about is yourself.

He was right. If I had visited Mom sooner, maybe I could have stopped this. My negligence probably contributed to Mrs. Olsen’s death, too, for that matter. My chest hurt so bad…

I stepped outside, and a wall of heat rolled over me. I loosened my tie and undid the top buttons of my shirt as I walked to my car, hoping it would help me breathe. A hot rock had lodged in my throat.

The inside of my black sedan was like an oven when I fell into the driver’s seat, but I felt safe there, so I closed the door and let the heat stifle me.

You’re not helping.

I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of my parking spot. In the rearview mirror, my face was a mask of expressionless calm.

All you think about is yourself.

I wanted to go home to my air-conditioned apartment and cuddle my foster cat, but I didn’t deserve it. So, I drove to the gym, changed into the workout clothes I kept in the trunk, and ran on the treadmill as fast as I could for as long as I could until I teetered on the edge of vomiting.

On the way home, I bought a pack of cigarettes, then sat in a park filled with dead grass and smoked every. last. one.

Chapter 6 (Einar)

8:07 and still no sign of Jun. Strange, since he’d always been punctual before.

It felt like my day couldn’t start until he arrived, so I had that kid-on-Christmas-morning feeling—anticipation and frustration at having to wait.

I turned on the TV to distract myself, but some bullshit “love”-based reality show came on, and I immediately turned it off. Ugh. Gay partnerships were supposedly ruining marriage, yet no one complained about reality shows with straight people marrying shallow assholes they’d barely met.

I couldn’t stand the cheap spectacle of it all. Never mind if the audience got any value from the candy-coated narcissism and hollow drama, so long as they were hooked and kept coming back. I wanted to make movies the way Grandma cooked—slow and purposeful. The delicious result came from the amount of care put in. But clearly my mindset was outdated since nobody cooked like Grandma anymore.

Well. Except Jun. Maybe he was a relic, too. Witnessing the care he put into things—the care he put intome—made me realize therewerepeople who gave a shit; it was arrogant for me to think otherwise. He gave me hope, and I simultaneously appreciated and resented him for that.

Jun’s key turned in the door at 8:16. I jolted to alertness, but scrolled through my phone, pretending not to notice. But curiosity got the best of me, and I snuck a peek as soon as he stepped inside. Jun looked like a different person. Dark shadows hung under his eyes, his hair lay flatter than usual, and he wore an anxious pinch-mouthed scowl, like he was expecting something bad to happen.

I put down my phone and sat up. “Morning, Jun.”

“Good morning, Sir.” It sounded like a chore for him to say. He took off his coat and hung it in the closet, then trudged to the kitchen without looking at me.

Damn. That stung. I missed his smooth attentiveness, then immediately kicked myself for expecting it. Only an entitled asshole would expect his butler to be polite and obsequious all the time. Didn’t I appreciate Jun for his authenticity?

Would it be too personal if I asked what was wrong? If a crew member on my set looked unwell, I’d ask them about it, so I applied the same logic. I waited a moment for Jun to get settled, then headed toward the kitchen.

I was only a few paces away when I heard breaking glass, a hiss of indrawn breath through teeth. I peered around the doorframe and found Jun with his back to me, an empty coffeepot shattered at his feet. He leaned forward and gripped the edge of the counter, with his head dropped low. His shoulders shuddered—crying? Maybe the kindest thing I could do was give him space. But what if he’d cut his hand?

I stepped into the kitchen, knocking lightly on the doorframe to announce my presence. “Hey. You okay?”

Jun straightened and turned. For a second, I glimpsed his expression—face crumpled and mouth turned downward in misery—and then it was gone. By the time he faced me, he wore a mask of stoic neutrality. A butler’s training? Or had he always been good at hiding his emotions on demand?

“I apologize, Sir,” he said. “I’ll have to purchase a takeout coffee for you this morning.”

“It’s fine. Really.” I waved a hand to show it was no big deal.

His mouth tightened; his brow furrowed a little. “Allow me to make it right, Sir.”

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