“They’re women, aren’t they? And you mean to tell me that this woman tolerates you? A sister? From Wokeville, USA?” Joseph Park was from a diverse and culturally fluid space that gave him the ability to relate to just about anyone. He had grown up in Flushing, Queens, and had one foot in old Korea and another foot in the hot food truck scene. His Ajumma House Korean food trucks were parked in nearly every major metropolitan area.

“Well, I think she more than tolerates me? I think we’re kind of serious.”

“Serious? Have you been on one date?”

“It’s complicated. We can’t be out in public. It’s a whole thing.”

Dorsey handed Joseph the phone and scrolled through the text messages quickly so he couldn’t read too deeply.

“Is this just today?” Park whistled.

Dorsey nodded.

“Damn. This is more than I’ve ever texted anyone. Like in my whole life. Wait, what is IFF?”

“Don’t read my texts.”

“You handed me your texts!” Park was incredulous.

“To see the amount. Not to read, you nosy mofo. IFF is International Food Friday. Liza and I choose a country—it started off as a joke about the senators little parties—and we FoodDash—”

Park swiped at the air. “Never mind. I thought it was some freaky shit. But that sounds boring.”

Dorsey ran his fingers through his hair. “Park, I want to take a big step, and I want her to feel safe and—”

“Which is why you’re bringing your Korean lucky charm?”

“You are charming and Korean.”

“I’m honored to be your wingman, Dorsey, but my job is to be the voice of reason for you. You’ve never been this close to the L word. I’m gonna have to play bad cop with her. If a woman who looks like that Instagram photo gets anywhere near your dick, you’re going to buy her an island. So, you need to be sure.”

Dorsey blew out his breath and opened the car door. It was not Park’s charm or discernment Dorsey was relying on tonight; it was his ability to make Dorsey feel safe and normal, even funny. Park’s presence was more courage-inducing than tequila, without the headache in the morning. His heart hammered in his chest, and before he could knock, the door swung open. The housekeeper’s face met his with a deflated sigh. Joseph snorted and pushed Dorsey’s shoulder.

The housekeeper led them down the hallway, brimming with glossy prints of the senator’s wife, Anne. Anne on a horse. Anne blowing out candles. Always the same angle, always the same sullen face. The hallway was a shrine to Anne’s discontent with her life. When they rounded the corner, the smell of German pretzel bread, sauerkraut, and sausage made his stomach churn. What on earth had he signed up for? Wasn’t this Russia night?