“WE ARE NOT SELLING the house.”

Park stills, his hand reaching for the doorbell. 

“The house, the bakery, this building stays as ours, Ma. Our grandparents bought it for you. For you and Pa. We’re not selling.”

It is undignified to eavesdrop. Park shouldn’t. His leg doesn’t move. Besides, Owen is yelling so loud he believes the neighbors can hear. It’s a weak argument Park’s conscience is satisfied with.

Owen’s mom’s voice, softer but strained, responds, “I said, we should consider it.”

“I’ve considered it. It’s a no.”

“If you just listen to me—”

“You want to sell because of me. And I’m telling you don’t have to. I’ll apply for a scholarship.”

“What if you’re not given one? It’s good to have a plan B.”

“If I’m not given one, I’ll take a year off and work for—”

“We’ve had this conversation before” his mom interrupts firmly, “You’re not working. You’re a student. You focus on school.”

“What about Finnigan?”

Park leans against the door to hear better when Owen’s voice drops to room level.

“What is his plan B? You sell the house and do all these things for me but what about Finnigan? Or Cora? Forgotten about Cora, Ma?”

“Don’t say that to me,” his mom snaps, “She’s four.”

“Yes, that’s right. She’s four. But she’s not living with us, is she? She lives with our aunt because you’re busy providing for us.”

“That’s my job as a parent—”

“I know that's your job!”

The force of Owen’s yell shocks Park. He has never seen the redhead get so worked up.

“I know. You work so hard you don’t even have time, no time for yourself. When last did you go to the salon? When last did you treat yourself? You’re running around for us that the least we can do is make the load easier.”

“Owen. You’re my child. I take care of you.”

“We’re not selling the fucking house.”

“Language.”

“Sorry,” Owen mumbles the apology. “We’re not selling the house. I’ll get into college Ma. I’ll raise my grades, I’ll be the best ever basketball player, graduate college, get drafted and start playing professionally. By the time Finnigan and Cora are of age, I’ll be financially capable enough to support you and Pa.”

The strong resolution makes Park strangely proud. Owen has talked about how precious basketball is to him, but Park never knew why he plays. Never knew that he has this kind of ambition, this admirable goal.

“I’m not selling the house right now. It is an option.”

Owen’s voice softens. “Take it off the table. We’re not selling, ever. Ma.” Owen persists when his mom says nothing. It seems stubbornness runs in the family.

“It was your father’s idea. I'll talk to him.”

“I don’t want to live with Aunt. Or anywhere else. Tell him everyone’s staunchly against it. We’ll riot.”

There’s a brief pause. 

“It’s almost time for your lesson. Where’s Park?”

Park perks up at the sound of his name.

Owen sighs. Park has a feeling they will revisit the conversation.

“He’s on his way. I’m sorry for yelling.”

Park nods, proud of Owen. It’s good he apologized. It’s nice Owen can voice out his opinions but shouldn’t do it in a disrespectful way.

“You’re forgiven. No foul language anymore.”

“Okay.” 

There’s no sound and Park has a feeling they’re hugging it out. He is about to open the door when Owen announces he’s going out. Panicking, Park rushes downstairs, barely managing to hide before Owen is opening the door and jogging downstairs.

Hiding behind a car Park recognizes as Owen’s, he squats low thinking Owen will be driving but lets out a breath of relief when Owen walks the opposite way. Stalling for time, Park darts out of hiding when Owen is at a considerable distance.

Following closely behind, his mind races, beginning to see Owen in a new light. There’s no doubt Owen and his mom are close as Park had witnessed. It’s no surprise that someone like Owen will want what’s best for his family. The redhead isn’t just smiles with no substance, it seems.

Focusing on his surroundings, Park notice that Owen is entering an open basketball court. It’s time to hail Owen’s attention so they can start the lesson but he comes to a stop, cross his arms and watch from a distance. 

Owen falls on his hunkers and produces a basketball from under a bench. The next few minutes, Park tells himself he’s studying how basketball is played: he’s observing a sport Owen plays. That’s the only reason he isn’t interrupting. It’ll be rude, if anything else.

Owen attacks the basket with a fluid ferocity that speaks of his pent-up energy. After yelling at his mom, it’s no wonder Owen still has energy to work out.

Owen’s body must think so because after a short while, he stands akimbo breathing heavily, sweat staining the back of his shirt.

It is early October. The air is cool and somewhat gray: Park expects rainfall tonight. It’s been long months before he has slept under the covers, bundled up nicely. 

Producing a flask from his bag, Park enters the court. “You should hydrate.”

Owen whirls around, surprise coating his features at Park but he’s smiling. Does Owen get tired of smiling?

“Here.” He offers and Owen accepts with a thanks. “What are you doing here?” Park knows why but he figures he has to pretend.

“Letting off steam.”

“From what? The homework I gave you?”

Owen considers this. “Sure. It was pretty hard.”

Picking a bench, Park sits on it, takes off his bag and rests it beside his leg.

‘Do you come here often?”

Owen nods, closing the flask. “Noah and I used to come here all the time, play with the neighborhood kids. We’re busy now but when we have the time, we shoot here and there.”

“Are you any good?”

Park thinks Owen will ask to show Park but he comes to sit, spreads his legs and dangles his hands over his knee, the flask swinging, narrowly missing the floor.

“You’re never seen me play?”

“No.” Except for merely one minute ago but Park keeps that to himself. Why he had to, he doesn’t dwell on it.

“Have you ever been to a game?”

“No. I’m sure you were good in all of them.”

Owen stares at the ball forgotten on the ground. “Will you come to my next game? It’ll be some time around November. That’s usually when the season starts.”

Park shrugs but Owen doesn’t see it, gaze still locked on the ball.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Owen turns his head, his eyes having a hint of sadness in them but before Park can think much of it, it clears.

“Let's go,” Owen stands, “We’re wasting time.”

Park doesn’t stand. Owen looks down at him. “Park?”

Park recites some numbers.

“What was that?”

“That’s my phone number.”

Owen sits, slowly as if the revelation physically hurts his back. “You’re giving me your number?”

Park never gives out his number. Ever. Not to the students he tutors, not to anyone. If a student—and this has only happened once—texts or calls him, he’ll know they likely peeked at it from his school records and they’ll be immediately removed from his tutoring services. Park has no time to be bombarded with silliness.

Yet. He is willingly giving out his number to this freckled redhead.

“I gave you my number. You didn’t write it down.”

Owen scrambles for something but comes up empty: he doesn’t have his phone with him. In an act so unlike himself—why not push it—Park retrieves a pen from his bag, takes Owen’s hand and spreads open the palm. Neatly, he scribbles the numbers.

When he lifts his head, Park rears back. Owen has dropped his head and his face is too close. To himself, Owen recites the number and looks up at Park in awe and confusion.

“Don’t abuse it,” Park warns even though he knows Owen won’t. “It’s for our studies, only.”

“I won’t abuse it. Thank you.”

The sincerity of the appreciation steals his breath and smashes it down his throat. The silence they share is comfortable, as if he has known Owen his life and not a mere five weeks.

“Show me what you got.”

“What?”

“Your sport. Play solo.”

Owen glances down at his palm. “I don’t want this to erase before I get home.”

“I’ll rewrite it.” Park is full of surprises today. “Go on. Play.”

One last look at Park, Owen drops the flask on the bench and runs to the ball. Getting comfortable, Park crosses his legs by the ankles, leans back on his arms and watches the show. Since it’s solo, Owen practices his dribbling and shooting, not doing much of calisthenics. 

Yet. Park is content at the simplicity of it that when his alarm rings an hour later, he is so annoyed he’s glad his finger sliding to shut it off isn’t a stone thrown on the screen.

“Is it one hour already?”

Park nods. He really needs to shorten their tutoring. And this basketball play is a one-time thing. It’ll definitely not happen again.

Together, they walk back to Owen’s house, Park listening to Owen chatter about inconsequential everything. He checks himself, searching for panic that he’d allowed himself to be involved, swayed by a side to Owen he’d never seen before.

Surprise, surprise, people are multifaceted, Park.