Page 48 of For You, Sir

I’d meant it as a joke, but Jun frowned. “I don’t care about that.” His expression was grim, and he didn’t call meSir. I dropped the stupid smile.

Usually a wait-for-permission kind of guy, Jun surprised me by grabbing my hand and pulling it into the space between us. “I’m glad you’re doing this,” he said, somber as a judge, “because I want you to be happy.”

I blinked. Even the pessimist in me couldn’t believe the usual, “He probably says that to all his clients.”

Jun meant those words just for me.

“Iamhappy.” I gripped Jun’s hand, warm in mine. “Thanks to you.”

He squeezed me back, then returned his hands to ten-and-two on the steering wheel.

We settled into the rhythm of the road, and my anxiety settled to a low, livable simmer. The drive reminded me how much I missed L.A.—the ethnic restaurants and artistic graffiti, the weirdos, tourists, and plastic beauty queens—all of it. I settled back in my seat, taking everything in, paying special attention to the sights on my left so I could capture Jun’s profile in the same shot.

“How’s Mr. Cuddles?” I asked.

Jun’s face brightened, and he told me about a multi-level cat tower he’d seen online, one with scratchers and dangling toys built right into it. He was planning to buy it to celebrate Mr. C’s official adoption. Then Jun told me how Mr. Cuddles didn’t seem interested in catnip, so he was going to try honeysuckle spray on his cat toys instead. He rambled about how more cats responded to honeysuckle than catnip, how catnip sensitivity was based on a recessive gene. When I found myself genuinely interested, I realized,Oh, my god. I think I’m in love.

A few minutes later, Jun pulled up to the curb in front of the tea store. My warm fuzzies vanished and dread gripped my chest. I forced myself to reach for the door handle, palms slick.

Strangers strode down the sidewalks and loitered along storefronts. Any of them could turn out to be an ex-stalker, an old work colleague… Even in broad daylight, stepping out onto the street felt as intimidating as exploring the dark horrors at the bottom of the ocean.

Be cool, man. Get moving.

Jun came around and opened the door for me, smiling bright as a sunflower. He looked so happy, I couldn’t disappoint him. I stepped out of the vehicle, eyes fixed on him instead of the surrounding strangers.

And then I had done it. I was standing in the middle of downtown L.A., surrounded by people I didn’t know, engulfed by concrete and a limitless blue sky. Even in the open air, I felt strangely trapped, but I held my shit together.

Jun led the way to the tea shop, discretely clearing a path through the crowd for me. His head swiveled on high alert, and I felt safer, like he was my bodyguard. He pushed open the shop door with a jingle of welcome bells, and as soon as we were inside, relief swept over me.

The shop was tidy and minimalist, with shelves made from lacquered birchwood. Sunlight streamed through the glass storefront, and there were very few products on display, lending the shop an expansive air of luxury with all the clean, empty surfaces. As I’d hoped, the place had an open floor plan, which let me see everything and calmed my paranoia. I took off my sunglasses so I wouldn’t look like a douchebag.

There was no one else inside but the shopkeeper—a middle-aged woman with maroon-dyed hair and a sour expression. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said in a tone that suggested we should do no such thing.

“Thank you,” Jun said with a shallow bow.

I walked over to a side shelf displaying hand-painted teapots and Jun followed, hovering over me like a nervous parent. “I’m fine,” I reassured him. “Go browse.”

Jun’s gaze lingered on me with concern for a moment, then he nodded and strolled to the back towards racks of spice jars—tea samples, I realized. He started unscrewing bottles and delicately sniffing them. He seemed at home, so I returned to the tea-brewing hardware.

I contemplated an attractive stovetop kettle, the kind that whistles when the water is boiling, but figured the quiet of his electric kettle was probably more Jun’s style. I picked up a handsome teapot instead—pristine white with a gooseneck spout and hand-painted bearded irises blooming on either side. It looked more refined than any of the others, so I bought it at the counter. The shopkeeper put it in a box, and then a pink-and-white gift bag.

A moment later, Jun joined me at the counter, holding a slip of paper. The woman was warmer towards him, and filled his order with a relaxed expression, perhaps sensing a genuine tea aficionado in him while I was a mereposeur.

I tried paying for his tea, but Jun waved away my credit card. While the clerk ran his card, he nodded to my gift. “What did you get?”

“Something good,” I said. “For you.”

He fidgeted and looked away. Not quite smiling, but the dimple on his left cheek appeared.

After his purchase was bagged, I headed out and held the door open with a bow and a sweeping gesture. Jun chuckled and stepped through.

A paparazzo lunged out from between parked cars and snapped a photo of us.

“Fuck!” I jolted back, as if dodging a venomous snake, smashing my hip into the door. The bag fell from my hand and I heard the crash of porcelain inside.

The paparazzo snapped another photo, turned the camera 90 degrees, and took another. He turned to Jun and said, “Who’re you?”

No! Leave him out of this!But I couldn’t get the words out. My tongue had frozen like the rest of me.

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