“Who was that guy?” I ask when we’re back in my car. The dynamic duo are following in a black Mercedes. “The waiter who came over.”
Her eyes go cool for a moment. “You remember the ex I told you about? The one who left me for some lousy money?”
“Yeah…”
“That was him.”
I blink slowly at the amazing coincidence of it all. “I thought that was in Korea.”
“His aunt lives in Los Angeles. He apparently came to the States afterward.” Her lips twist.
I make a mental note to text her friends so they don’t bring her here in the future. Fucking ex.
“So… Are you okay?” I ask.
“What’s not to be okay about? Did you see him?” She gestures behind us, in the direction of the restaurant. “All this time, I thought maybe he did something worthwhile with the money he took and when we ran into each other again, he’d be super successful and slick, with some hot girl on his arm.”
“I doubt he’s that smart. A smart man wouldn’t have left you for anything.” But his stupidity is my gain.
She smiles. “Thanks. Now I don’t feel so terrible about feeling petty satisfaction at seeing him.”
“I would’ve felt the same thing. It’s like seeing some asshol
e who got all bald and gross at a high school reunion.”
She laughs, then shakes her head. “Yu. Na. Ya. I can’t believe his nerve.”
“Is ya something like san in Japanese?”
“Ya is what Korean people add after a name to someone they’re close to. Like your family, friends and teachers.”
Hmm. She didn’t mention boyfriends, but… “So can I call you Yuna-ya? You can call me Declan-ya, if you want.”
“You’d be Declan-ah.”
“How come?”
“If your name ends in a vowel, you get ya, and otherwise it’s ah. But it sounds awkward to me in English, so I’ll stick with Declan.”
“Okay. Then I’ll be satisfied with just plain ol’ Yuna and Declan.” Although she’s laughing and smiling now, she had to feel annoyed at the scummy ex approaching her like they’re still something, and I don’t want her to do anything that feels awkward to her. Still, I roll it around in my mind. Yuna-ya. I like it. It’s cute. “So why did he talk to you? He has to know you don’t like him anymore.”
“He apparently wanted to apologize for hurting my feelings. I told him if he wants me to accept an apology, he should at least prepare to play me a perfect Chopin waltz.”
“Why a Chopin waltz? Why not, I don’t know…begging on his knees instead? Wouldn’t that be more satisfying?”
“Because it would show how sorry he really is. Anybody can drop to their knees like that.” She snaps her fingers. “A baby can do it. But to play Chopin correctly? That takes a lot of time and effort, which means he’s not going to bother, because it’s too much work. Nobody does, in my experience. Which is why I ask for it.”
Basically, she has no intention of forgiving her ex or anybody else who upset her enough.
“And if he wants to know what I think about the ‘apology,’ he’ll have to figure out what’s on my mind when I play him a piece in return,” she adds.
From the narrow-eyed look on her face, I doubt she’d play anything obvious. Maybe something like Mozart’s famous rage aria, “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,” which means “Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart.”
“Anyway, I don’t mind that he won’t bother. My idea of a happy ending is never seeing him again.” She reaches over and squeezes my free hand. “Thanks for lunch, though. The food was good.”
“My pleasure. Next time we’ll go someplace else.”
“Deal.”