One
When my phone flashes a notification, I’m primed to be irritated before I even see what it is. It’s been a busy morning, and my eyes are so dry my eyelids stick together when I drag my gaze away from the monitor.
Phoebe b-day, the message reads.
I automatically clear the screen and do some rapid blinking to rehydrate my eyeballs. My older sister has done a fine job of aging without a congratulatory note from me for the past few years, and there’s no reason to break the tradition.
I’m not even sure what I’d write. Wishing you a joyful day free of annoying reminders you have a sister doesn’t have much of a Hallmark ring to it. Happy birthday! Hope you have a great time not telling me anything about your life as usual might work.
I debate removing the event from my calendar altogether, but another notification pops up to tell me there’s a new email from Dad. Focus on your goals for success declares the subject line, as if this is groundbreaking information. In the text, before the URL, he’s written his usual inspirational message: Saw this and thought of you. Now is the time to work on making partner. Don’t let life distract you.
I don’t bother clicking the link because it’s from the Harvard Business Review and I’m out of free articles for the month. Also, I’ve read enough of these to know it’s probably some banal, common-sense dictum about prioritizing tasks or matching goals to outcomes written in that I’m too busy to read full sentences list format that businesspeople eat up.
In my case, success has only one metric—how fast I can make partner at Yesterly and Havings, the law firm where I’m currently an associate. That’s not to say I’m not ambitious. The only person who wants me to make partner more than my dad is me.
I can’t remember when he last emailed to see how I was doing apart from work. I suppose it doesn’t matter. We don’t have that kind of relationship anyway.
I put my phone back in my purse and am deep into the memo I’m writing for Meredith, the partner I’ve been trying to get as my mentor, when a knock comes at my door. Richard Havings, one of the managing partners and the great-grandson of the original Havings of Yesterly and Havings, ushers in a tall woman. “Ariadne, this is Brittany Cabot, who’s joining us today.”
Although a little resentful at being disturbed, I stand and put out my hand, wilting only slightly under the blazing onslaught of Brittany’s smile. “Good to meet you,” I say.
“Ariadne, I’d like you to show Brittany the ropes. I trust you to get her up and running.” Richard bestows a warm glance on Brittany, who beams back at him. “We were lucky to steal her from her old firm.”
“Of course.” Showing Brittany around is worth the extra hour or so I’ll have to put in tonight. Richard is very big on culture fit, so I do my best to be positive and courteous no matter what the ask.
Richard nods once he sees we’re playing nice and leaves me alone with Brittany. She wears a camel sheath dress with a matching blazer, and I can’t tell how much of her face is contour or her real features. “Happy to be here,” she says. “Ni hao!”
No way this is happening. I struggle to keep up the smile. “I don’t speak Chinese.”
“Sorry. I mean konnichiwa!”
This conversation is not getting off to the best start. “I’m Canadian.”
Her brow furrows, but it’s not out of shame. I’ve known her for thirty seconds, and I can tell Brittany doesn’t experience shame because the world’s never found it necessary to make her feel bad about anything at any time. “But your name is on the door, and it says Hooey.”
“It’s Hui,” I correct. “Rhymes with sway.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” I resist adding a passive-aggressive mispronunciation of Brittany. I also decide to mentally spell it as Bryttanie from that point on for my own personal satisfaction.
“Huh.” She glances out the window over my shoulder. “Can you show me where to get a few things? I know where my office is.”
Normally, one of the assistants would do this, but Richard has charged me with this task, so I lock my computer and lead her on the tour. We haven’t made it two meters down the hall before Meredith comes around the corner. Her sandy-blond hair has been freshly blown out, and her makeup is perfectly applied. The nude pumps and navy skirt suit scream Get out of my way or I’ll cut you in corporate. I’ve never seen her smile in a meeting.
I want to be like that. Invulnerable. Unchallengeable.
“Brittany, hello. Such a pleasure to have you with us. Let me show you around, and we’ll go for coffee to talk about the client I mentioned.”
Every invitation I’ve sent Meredith for coffee has been rejected or moved at the last minute.
Her eyes flick over to me. “Ariadne, I need that memo.”
“Bye.” Brittany/Bryttanie gives me a little finger wave. Dismissed, I watch them head down the hall laughing easily with each other.
I return to my office to do some triangle breathing—three counts to breathe in, hold for three, three counts to breathe out, repeated three times—and instantly trash any benefit this mindfulness exercise might have had by googling my new colleague-slash-competition. She graduated after me, and of course, her mother is friends with Meredith and some of the other partners.
I shouldn’t be pissed about this since most of the office, including myself, got in through contacts and networking—in my case, Dad went to law school with Richard. However, I am a woman of contradiction, and this tidbit has me in a fury of injustice that I need to force down before I turn back to my files.
The Brittanys of the world might start one rung higher, but I’m with Dad in believing that performance is the ultimate differentiator. I only need to work harder.
It’s almost eleven by the time I get home. Brittany came by several times to ask me time-wasting questions that a woman with a degree from one of the country’s top law schools should have been able to figure out on her own, like the location of the well-marked washrooms. I’d have felt more generous had she not started every interruption by calling me Adrienne.
I toe off my high heels and set them by the door before laying my purse on the side table. More work waits in the black laptop bag I tug off my shoulder. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to bed before two.
I close my eyes to enjoy the peace of the apartment and rub my face, sore from smiling politely all day. The place is empty since my roommate, Hana, who works as a diversity consultant, is away on a work trip. This one is at least a month, and right now the silence is exactly what I need to decompress. Yawning and rolling my aching shoulders as I unbutton my navy blazer, I pass a man sleeping on the couch and cross through the kitchen.
Two steps into my bedroom, I stop, listless synapses firing a belated alert. I passed a man sleeping on the couch.
A man. On my couch.
I creep back into the kitchen to check that I wasn’t hallucinating. There is definitely a man there. My heart pole-vaults into my throat as I rock back and forth, unable to see anything but the stranger. I pride myself on always knowing what to do, but this has me floored. Do I call the police? Go on the attack? Hide in the refrigerator? Before I decide, he opens his eyes to peer at me through a mop of bleached platinum hair, and I stop breathing. My brain has focused on a single and totally useless thought, which is how angry Mom’s going to be when the paramedics find me dead with raggedy underwear. I’m going to die in my period undies because I didn’t have time for laundry.
Then he uncoils from the couch and stands.
My lizard brain: Fight, not flight. You can take him.
My neo-mammalian brain: No, you can’t. Look at him.
That part isn’t a problem; I can’t stop looking at him because I’m too frozen to even blink. He’s slender and taller than me with smooth lines of pure muscle on his neck and arms, dressed in a black sweater threaded with red.
Lizard brain: Whoa.
Neo-mammalian brain: Whoa.
All brain functions: Whoa whoa whoa.
Whoever this guy is, he’s striking enough that my hormones register it despite my panic.
He clears his throat. “Hello.” He takes two steps in my direction, lithe and confident as a dancer…or a serial killer homing in on his prey.
This breaks my paralysis, and I scramble for a knife. “Stay back.” It takes me two tries to choke the words out of my dry throat. At least the counter forms a protective wall between us.
His eyes widen, and he raises his hands like he’s under arrest. “I’m Jihoon. Jihoon?” He repeats his name urgently, as if it’s a charm to protect against the sharp steel in my hand.
“I don’t care.” I grip the knife and lift it higher. The surging adrenaline makes my heart pound so hard that I wheeze, but I have a weapon, and I’ll use it.
I also have a phone, and if I can calm down, I can use that, too. Without taking my eyes off the guy, who has not taken his eyes off me, I pull it out of my pocket to call for help. As my thumb goes for the nine in 911 because I can’t remember how to get to the emergency SOS screen—I’m in a crisis, why did they make it so hard—the phone bleats out the tone I’ve assigned to Hana’s texts, a discordantly cheerful dah-DAH-DAH.
Not now, Hana. Yet despite being in a very scary position, I check the screen immediately. If I die because I’m distracted, the fault lies with technology and its ridiculously addictive algorithms.
Hana: My cuz Jihoon coming over to stay for a bit. Left my key for him. Sorry, forgot to mention it.
Like a chameleon, I keep one eye down to scan the message again while the other swivels up to the guy. She forgot to mention it. Forgot to mention I’d be coming home to a strange man in my living room.
If I live through this, she’s dead.
I drag both eyes up from the phone. The guy hasn’t moved.
“What’d you say your name is?” I demand.
“Jihoon.” It comes out as an almost imploring whisper. “Choi Jihoon.”
“You’re Hana’s cousin.”
“From Seoul.” His shoulders sag. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you or intrude. I’ll go. I can stay in a hotel.”
His expression is forlorn, but I’m immune, having experienced Hana’s frequently deployed nuclear-grade puppy-dog eyes. Although I’m 99 percent sure he is who he says, it’s not the 100 percent I require in this high-stress situation. Or any situation, frankly, because I only ever proceed after achieving total certainty.
“Put your passport on the coffee table, then go into the bathroom and close the door.” I need to talk to Hana, and I want him at a safe distance while I’m occupied.
“Is this really necessary?” he asks, eyeing the knife. When I wiggle it, he sighs and bends down to a black leather bag sitting on the floor. After he tosses a booklet on the table, he inches toward the bathroom without turning his back. We maintain steady eye contact, and the click of the door when he throws the lock sounds like a gunshot.
If this guy really is Hana’s cousin, he must be sincerely regretting her offer of a place to crash.
I put the knife on the counter within close reach and call Hana.
“Hey, Ari.” Hana’s breezy voice sings out of the phone. “Good timing! I’m picking up my bag. Is Jihoon there yet?”
“There is a strange man here, absolutely yes.” I keep watch on the bathroom door in case the presumed Jihoon Hulk-smashes out of it and edge over to grab the passport.
“I know, I’m sorry. I meant to tell you earlier, but work was a mess, and I was late to the airport.” Hana does not sound at all contrite. “Then I forgot until I arrived in Vancouver.”
Forgot. It’s the new f-word.
“You never mentioned him.”
“I’m sure I did. I don’t know. How many times do you talk about your cousins?”
“I would if one of them were going to be staying here,” I say.
There’s an increase in background sound as if she’s left the terminal to get a cab. “I know you don’t like surprises, but it came up kind of quick.”
I open the passport and thank God the name is romanized so I can read it. Choi Jihoon. Picture checks out, though he must be the only person on earth to look good in a government ID photo. I almost swear it’s Photoshopped.
“Say his last name.” It didn’t sound like Choi.
“He’d say it Chwey. Looks the same as mine, but we say it like white people. Chooy.” She draws it out with exaggeration.
Another mystery solved. I’m now 99.9 percent sure but require one more check. “Describe him.”
“Umm.” I can hear her thinking. “He’s my cousin, so Korean, obviously. Taller than me, about five ten. Unbelievably super stylish. A couple years younger than us.”
His passport confirms that makes him twenty-eight. It’s inappropriate to ask for a judgment on the quality of his looks, but Hana supplies it unsolicited. “Everyone says he’s good-looking.”
I snap the passport shut and drop it on the table. “Why do you know that?”
“Eomma never fails to point out how handsome he is when his name comes up. Then she tells me I need to groom my eyebrows better. Also, you saw him.”
I did, and that’s definitely the guy I banished to the bathroom. I sag against the counter. “I thought he was a murderer and pulled a knife on him.”
“Did you hurt him?” she asks with alarm.
“No.”
“Good. I’m sure he has health insurance, but stabbing is a really unfriendly welcome, cross-culturally. Ari, I’m sorry to spring this on you, but he’s family and in a bind.”
I can’t throw Hana’s cousin out, so I’m resigned to Jihoon’s visit. “How long is he here for?”
“Not sure. He’s quiet,” she adds.
This will be a change, since Hana has what I think of as a big personality. “What’s so urgent that he needed to jump on a flight to Toronto?”
She heaves a weighty sigh. “It’s a breakup. A rough one.”
This is bad news. I don’t want to be mean, but I have a heavy workload. Having a stranger mope around drinking merlot from the bottle and stalking his ex’s social media while listening to maudlin ballads is not going to be great for my productivity.
A new dread rises. “Will your mom come by to visit him?” Hana’s eternal struggle to build boundaries with her mother has yet to result in any tangible success. If she knows there’s a wounded Choi bird in her vicinity, I can kiss a peaceful home life goodbye.
She snorts. “God, no. Jihoon’s keeping it a secret. No one knows he’s here but me, so don’t post any photos of him on your social media. You know she checks it to see what I’m doing.”
“As if I would.” She did say he’d be quiet. “He can stay.”
Hana squeals. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
Before I can answer, she blows a kiss into the phone with an obnoxious mwah sound and disconnects.
I put the phone on the counter and the knife back in the wooden block. After quickly rebuttoning my blazer, I go down the hall and knock on the bathroom door. “Ah. Jihoon?”
“Are you armed?” Now that my fear has abated, I notice he has a deep, raspy voice without much of a Korean accent.
“I put the knife down after Hana vouched for you.”
The door swings inward, and Jihoon, who has skipped back to the far wall to maximize the distance between us, inspects me cautiously. I can spot the family similarity to Hana. Both have the same sharp curve under the eye that dips down to a strong jawline and pointed chin. Under that flawless bone structure, he looks absolutely beat. Dark circles ring his eyes, and the corners of his mouth are tight.
“I’m Ariadne,” I say with the professional smile I activate for work and most social interactions. It’s enough to say, I am friendly and mean you no harm, but not so welcoming as to invite anything further.
“Ariadne.” He comes forward and says my name carefully, pronouncing all the syllables so it sounds like music. “Choi Jihoon.” He bows slightly. There’s an uncomfortable silence until he says, “Am I allowed out?”
“Right.” I step away. “I’ll show you Hana’s room.”
He drags over two of the world’s largest suitcases and closes the bedroom door after giving me a polite smile. Excellent, I don’t have to navigate any awkward conversation and can focus on the memo due tomorrow. The headache that’s been lurking all day starts to take over. I pull out my laptop case, but I’m too distracted to work. Instead I pour a glass of water and bid a silent and mournful farewell to the serene solitude I had planned. A stranger in my space means being social and friendly instead of relaxing with unbrushed teeth and ripped leggings. I’ll have to be “on” all the time, instead of only at work. It’s exhausting to think about, but I agreed and that’s it. I’m stuck.
I finish the water and send Hana a quick text outlining all the ways she owes me. Then, unable to delay it any longer, I put Jihoon out of my mind and open my laptop.