Just as I hoped, Yaron didn’t follow me. If the house was my cage, that meant Rhode Island was my prison yard. I could go wherever I liked, and that was something. It had to be if I was going to survive these ten years without going insane.

* * *

I signed up for a card at the library and checked out a bunch of books with names like “Anyone Can Cook” and “Cooking For Dummies” and “Dinners For Beginners.” And for the next couple of months, with the help of library books and foodie blogs, I taught myself to cook something other than Korean food made for a family of four.

I got pretty good at it, too. By August, I leveled up to cookbooks with words like “Cuisine” and “Gourmet” in the title. I also began developing instincts the same as my mom and no longer had to do things like measure ingredients or consult a recipe book every time I wanted to make Yaron and me dinner.

Yaron, I’d found out, after a little bit of prying, was from the Philippines. And when I made chicken adobo for him, he’d told me it was better than his girlfriend’s. He also liked all the recipes I tried from the library book Gourmet Cooking for Two.

He was stationed at the carport, so I fell into the habit of bringing him a plate every night. Yaron appreciated all the meals I made for him, and he insisted my pork bulgogi made him want to fly to Texas and thank my mom personally for passing down the recipe.

I preened under the compliments. Maybe Victor would have been impressed with the kind of dinner I could make if he showed up. But he didn’t.

And suddenly, summer was nearly over.

“Are you sure you don’t have time for a visit?” Lena asked during a catch-up phone call in late August. “It doesn’t have to be for a whole weekend. Maybe just one night? How about this Friday? I could come to you.”

“Ugh, I wish!” I answered while massaging a mix of salt, pepper, olive oil, and lapsang souchong tea leaves into the last of the summer lamb I’d gotten from Whole Foods a few days ago. “But this internship is non-stop. And we’ve got back-to-back deliveries scheduled on Friday. There’s just no way to make this weekend work.”

I hated lying to my best friend, but I couldn’t tell her the whole truth. That I was currently in a weird prison wife situation with some Chinese mafia boss in Rhode Island, not in New York where she and the rest of my family assumed I was. This was already a big enough mess without getting my best friend involved.

Still, it felt way too symbolic when I moved to the sink to wash the mess of blood and spices off my hands.