Page 73 of The False Flat

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Starving. What did you bring?” I reached for the cooler, but he stopped me.

“The best thing is already here.”

Aww, Grant. But seriously, where was the food? I envisioned wineglasses, a pinot noir, sliced cheese, olives, and dried figs.

He reached into the bag beside the cooler again, and instead of bringing out the spiral ham I’d hoped for, he pulled out a handheld shovel.

He winked, moved off the blanket, and started digging in the ground beside us.

Digging.

“What are you doing?” My voice was singsong, like I was talking to someone who’d lost it.

“Give me three minutes.”

“What are you doing?” I repeated in the same tone.

He had asked me to a picnic, hadn’t he? Surely I hadn’t missed the part about eating wild grubs or being buried in the woods because he was a psychopath. And if he planned to kill and bury me, couldn’t he feed me first? Or at least have the decency to get a bigger shovel so this wouldn’t take so long?

As I contemplated whether to get up and head back to the car or embrace that my date had pulled out a garden implement and was hacking at the ground, Grant said, “Here it is.”

I blinked as he pulled a small piece of pottery from the ground.

“What are you doing?” I asked a third time.

He dusted the dirt from the little brown ceramic pot and held it up. “Feeding you. Do you know what this is?”

Do I look like I know what it is?

He opened the lid and exhibited an array of green, white, and red material that floated in a liquid. “Is that what’s left of the last date you brought out here?”

“Kimchi! It’s kimchi.” Grant held the container up like the dish was worthy of praise. “Beautifully fermented cabbage. You’ve had it before, haven’t you?”

My eyes widened. “This is our dinner?”

“Well, not just this, but I told you the best thing was already here. I buried this onggi about twenty days ago.”

“I thought you said it was kimchi, and you buried . . . food.” The man I thought I was falling for had unearthed our picnic dinner from. The. Ground.

“Where’s the romantic picnic food? The brie, the—”

“We can have those things any old time. This”—he inhaled deeply—“this takes time to develop flavor and depth. Taste it. I made this one myself.”

“You made it yourself,” I repeated.

I should’ve known Grant’s idea of the perfect accompaniment to a beautiful setting sun was fermented cabbage. I should’ve known because it was the last thing I would’ve expected.

“When I was first starting out, I helped a Korean couple design their first home. They were extremely pleased and invited me over for a traditional Korean meal.”

He rummaged around in the cooler and brought out two plastic wineglasses and a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

He twisted a corkscrew into the soft cork and slid it out, then filled the cup he handed me halfway with the pale, straw-colored liquid. After filling his own, he leaned back, propping up on his elbow and crossing his outstretched legs at the ankles. “It was a large party. Extravagant decorations. Lavish food. I barely understood a word anyone said, but the food . . .” Grant shook his head, then held up his gathered fingers and kissed them. “I fell in love with the spices, the flavor variations, the smells. But you wanna know the best thing there?”

“The kimchi?” I guessed.

“The grandma. She was dressed like royalty. As I was leaving the party, she had her granddaughter translate a message for me.” He looked out into the last rays of the sun, which was melting away behind the trees like the slow disappearance of ice cream in a cone. “‘It doesn’t matter what’s in here.’” He pointed to his head. “‘It matters what’s in here.’” Then his hand moved over his heart. “‘You chase this, Grant. This truth. Do you understand?’ I nodded. Her daughter was speaking English, but it was like I could understand her Korean without help.”