c h a p t e r  t h i r t e e n.

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Wendy sat in the passenger’s seat of her boss’ luxury sedan, cradling a small pot of piping hot soup on her lap between her gloved hands. She, too, was roasting because she was bundled up in her coat and scarf, but she didn’t think much about that.

                The twenty-one year old barista liked to think that she had pretty good intuition for someone of her age and limited life experience.

                Some gut feeling that she was experiencing while she sat in silence as Mr. Cho drove, her blank expression and wandering thoughts accompanied by Day6’s sentimental pop rock streaming from the car radio, convinced her that whatever Chen was suffering was far more than just a seasonal cold.

                Of course, she knew that she was right from the very start, but it bothered her that she didn’t know what exactly was going on with him.

                She blinked, looking up from her boots to the world on the other side of the windshield.

                Give him time. He just needs time.

                Mr. Cho hadn’t said a word to his passenger since they left her apartment to pick up the soup. He eyed her sideways, however, and saw her swallow once; her eyes fluttering as she stared at the road that lay out before them.

                As they ascended the hill and made their way up Mr. Cho’s driveway, Wendy became more and more interested in her surroundings. She leaned over, looking out her window. Somehow they were now amongst tall trees of all sorts; pines, oaks, and cedars. The deciduous ones were painted according to their type; glowing with the warm, subdued colors of late autumn.

                The house itself was nestled against a corner of the clearing; a double level cottage-style painted in a grayish blue color, with a crimson door and plenty of cobblestone accents. There was a two-car garage but for whatever reason, Chen’s Thunderbird was parked outside.

                Wendy realized that in her four years of knowing Mr. Cho and working for him at the café, she had never once been to his home (not that it was normal for an employee to visit their boss’ home, but Wendy had always felt a different, more personal sort of business relationship with Mr. Cho) or even heard him talk about it. She would have never known that he owned such a large house in such a beautiful, rustic location. Now that she was thinking about it, the whole scene suited him perfectly.

                “Well, we have arrived.” announced Mr. Cho after they had parked in the garage, turning off the engine and closing the garage door behind them with the clicker. “Welcome, my dear Wendy, to my humble abode.”

                The other did a funny sort of half-laugh. “...Humble!”

                “Grand in appearances, perhaps, but modest in intentions.” he amended, with a small smile. Wendy had no response to that (she wasn’t sure that she even understood the expression properly), so she just proceeded to unbuckle her seatbelt and carefully get out of the car without spilling any of the soup. She then realized that the right side of Mr. Cho’s garage was full of stacks of boxes; that’s why Chen couldn’t park in there.

                She slowly followed Mr. Cho into the house, holding the pot out in front of her by its handles on either side.

                The interior of the house well complemented the outside with its dull blue walls, white trim, and neutral décor. The ceilings in the large living room were incredibly high and gave a sneak peak of the upstairs level above if you stood near the center to look. The far wall of the room was mostly composed of windows, which allowed for a beautiful view of the outside scenery. The town with its brick buildings and bright lights sparkled in the near distance below. Separating the two panels of windows was a great stone fireplace.

                Wendy was convinced that it was the most beautiful house that she had ever stepped foot in.

Realizing that she probably looked silly standing in the middle of the living room with open and the pot of soup still in hands, she walked into the kitchen where Mr. Cho was flipping through his mail.

                “Do you need to reheat that?” he asked, without taking his eyes off of an envelope (a bill, perhaps, judging by the solemn look on his face, although it seemed to Wendy that he wasn’t the type to be concerned about bills). When she didn’t answer, he looked up and pointed at the pot of soup. “Do you need to use the stove?”

                “No, it’s still quite hot.” she said, snapping out of her mesmerized stupor for a brief momen