Fourteen
“What’s with the presents?” I point to the box of chocolates and flowers he’s carrying as we walk to the car.
“I’m going to the home of your parents,” he says. “It’s polite.”
“They won’t care.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I do.”
We’re quiet for a bit as we get in and I start the car. Finally Jihoon leans over. “You’re thinking so hard, I can hear you,” he says. “What going on?”
“Nothing. Work stuff, but it’s not a big deal.”
“Ari. You helped me with my work issues. Tell me. I’m here if you want to talk.”
To my shame, tears prick at the back of my eyes. I don’t want to talk, but if I don’t, I’ll explode. That’s not a good mindset before going into a family dinner. I give in. “They’re giving me less important clients. I know they are.”
“What happened?”
I keep to the facts as I tell him about Beaconsmith and the Queen’s Bride, and he hums along to show he’s listening. “I’m not sure what to do,” I say at the end.
“Do you want me to listen or give advice?”
“How are you so good at this?” He makes me feel like I live in a cave and throw sticks as my primary communication method.
“My company has therapists come in and train us in conflict resolution,” he says. “You can’t create together without being able to talk.”
I think about it. “Advice, then.”
“You need to decide what you want out of this,” he says. “Do you want to take Beaconsmith from Brittany? Do you truly care about the Queen’s Bride?”
“The Queen’s Bride might be more interesting, but there’s more to it.”
“Richard is not valuing your contributions.”
“That, too.” I stop at a red and glance over. He motions for me to keep talking. “I expected it, you know? I’m embarrassed that I misjudged it. Like I was a finalist for an award and waiting to hear my name but hers was called.”
“I understand.”
Only two words and he doesn’t add on any useless reassurance. Just sympathy. I feel he really does get it, and that’s enough to make me take a deep breath. “I feel better,” I admit. “Thanks.”
He smiles. “I’m glad you trusted me.”
We’re in our own thoughts for the rest of the ride, but it’s a comfortable silence. The rush hour traffic eases, and we make good time to my parents’ house, a standard suburban bungalow with a yard edged by a high wooden fence and two cars in the driveway. We get out, and Jihoon stops to fluff up the flower blossoms. He’s frowning, and I touch his arm.
He takes my hand and laces our fingers together as he leans against me. I’m taken aback by this show of vulnerability and the intimacy of his hand in mine.
“They won’t bite,” I assure him. I give his hand a squeeze for good measure.
“I wanted to come with you, but I get nervous before I meet new people,” he says. “That they’re your parents makes it worse.”
Emotional openness isn’t really my wheelhouse, so there’s no way I can meet him halfway on this, but I give it a shot.
“I feel the same way,” I say. “Once, when I had to meet my ex-boyfriend’s family, I chickened out and hid in their garden. They grew corn, so I thought they couldn’t see me.”
“Could they?”
I nod. “They were all watching me from the window and laughing. We didn’t last long after that. What I’m trying to say is, no matter what, you can’t do as bad as me.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better?” He tilts his head to the side.
“If it’s working.”
He laughs and pulls my hand up to give it a kiss. “Oddly, it is.”
“Good.” I lead him toward the door and do my best to not think about the press of his lips on my skin.
We untangle ourselves to knock, but Jihoon retreats a half step behind me. Before I can say anything encouraging, the door opens.
“Ariadne, how was the traffic?” Dad looks better than he did, but there’s a slackness around his face I don’t remember from before. Or perhaps I’m only noticing it now. He glances past me to Jihoon.
“Traffic was fine. Dad, this is Choi Jihoon. He’s Hana’s cousin from Seoul.”
“Jihoon, nice to meet you.” Dad gives him a small smile before extending his hand.
Jihoon bows and shakes his hand, then passes over the chocolate and flowers. “Mr. Hui, I’m glad to see you’re better,” he says.
Dad looks confused, and I do my best not to nudge Jihoon into silence. “Jihoon came with me to the hospital,” I explain.
“Ah.” Dad steps aside to let us in. “They made it out worse than it was. Call me Martin.”
Jihoon opens his mouth, and I interrupt before he can say something anyone normal would find caring and polite and Dad would find painfully personal. “Is Mom cooking?” I ask.
The house is quiet because my parents never have background noise like music or talk radio or the television. Mom comes out of the kitchen and waves hello to Jihoon. “Good to see you again,” she says. “I’m finishing dinner, but go relax with Phoebe. Martin will help me.”
“Coming, Soolin.” Dad nods at me. “You heard your mother. Talk to your sister.”
Phoebe’s not in the living room, but she pops her bleached head around the corner a second later. “Hey.” She waves at Jihoon. “I’m Phoebe. Thanks for bringing Ari to see Dad in the hospital. She probably wouldn’t have left the office otherwise. Wine?”
“I was done with work for the day, and you couldn’t even be bothered to get the right train,” I say, my voice already tight. “No wine for me, I’m driving. Jihoon?”
“Thank you.” He smiles as if unaware of the strain in the room, although I can feel him tense.
Phoebe manifests a bottle and two glasses like a magician, and I check the label. “Where did this come from?” My parents are not the kind to have a wine cabinet, especially since Mom goes maroon after half a glass of chardonnay. Thank God that genetic gift skipped me over.
“I brought it, of course. This house is drier than the Atacama.” Phoebe gives Jihoon a glass and checks him over when he sits beside me on the couch. “Hana’s cousin, huh? I see it. When’s she back from Vancouver?”
She remembered. This is a pleasant conversation. It’s going pleasantly. My shoulders drop down a centimeter. “Another week or so.”
“I used to live there. It was gorgeous but had too much rain.” She shudders.
I didn’t know she’d lived there. They sip their wine, and Phoebe fidgets. “Can I put on the TV or some music?” she asks. “In the background.”
“God, yes.” I didn’t realize how heavy silence could be until I moved away from home. Noise is a social lubricant, like alcohol, pets, or extroverts.
After a brief struggle, she connects her phone to the screen and starts running a playlist. “Hope you don’t mind pop music,” she says. “It’s been a hell of a year, and the algorithm decided I needed to listen to the uppest of the upbeat.”
The screen erupts into blue light before settling on five stunning Asian men staring seductively at the camera.
“K-pop, Pheebs? Really?” The old nickname comes out before I can think, but Phoebe doesn’t seem to notice.
“The playlist picked it, but I bet it’s catchy,” Phoebe says.
“It’s designed to be.”
“Is there anything you can’t be judgy about?” Phoebe looks honestly interested, like this is a question of great importance to her.
“I’m not judgy.”
“Sure you’re not.”
The music is familiar. “Were you playing this the other day?” I turn to Jihoon. Instantly I feel terrible about subjecting him to my argument with Phoebe and what I said about the music, which is his job, Ari, you bonehead.
He’s tucked himself into the corner of the couch and is staring at the screen with blank eyes as if disassociating. “It’s StarLune,” he says. “The song is called ‘Candor.’”
“Hey, that’s the band I asked you about.” It’s familiar because it’s on Alex’s playlist. I can consider this research for my new role with Hyphen.
Phoebe looks at the screen. “That blue-haired singer looks a bit like you, from what I can see.” The men all have extremely artistic makeup that acts almost like a mask, complete with facial gems.
I give her a look, and she rolls her eyes. “Obviously I don’t mean that in an all Asians look the same way,” she says, waving her hand at her face.
“I get that sometimes,” Jihoon says before he drinks down half his glass and hiccups.
“Great smoky eye,” Phoebe and I say at the same time. We stick our fists out at each other without looking. “Jinx,” we say in unison, and I get a flash of warm memory. That was one of the best feelings: a fleeting moment of someone getting you perfectly, like two waves coming in sync.
They start dancing again, and I whistle. “Did you see the one on the right?” I exclaim. “Black hair.”
“Do you see how he moves those hips?” asks Phoebe.
It’s hard to miss. There’s a moment of silence when I wonder if it’s appropriate host behavior to be gawking at a video of hot men in front of my guest—also an attractive man, don’t get me wrong. As the performer completes an illegally hot body roll, Phoebe says, “God, did he vacuum seal those pants on his thighs?” She turns to Jihoon. “Do you know his name?”
His mouth is a thin line. “They call him Kay. He’s known for his dancing.”
Phoebe doesn’t answer because we’re busy admiring Kay flash his abs, which have stylistic flames painted across the lean muscle. Although Kay the Dancer is hot, my eyes are drawn to the blue-haired singer. It’s something about how he moves, and yeah.
That guy is unreal.
“Not so bad, huh?” Phoebe elbows me.
I give in. “I stand corrected.”
The song finishes and goes into “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music because, of course Phoebe’s playlist would be as unpredictable as she is. My sister proceeds to bombard Jihoon with questions. What does he do all day? How long is he staying? He wilts a bit under the cross-examination but manages to answer to her satisfaction. Then comes the next volley. Does he live with roommates or on his own? Has he done his military service? What does he love?
This is the first question that Jihoon balks at. “Love?”
Phoebe is intent as she always is when digging past what she sees as the bourgeois bullshit of small talk to get to the real person. “You’re on a deserted island. What’s the thing you’d do even though no one is there?”
Jihoon’s gaze goes hazy, as if he’s looking at the white sand and palm trees. Imaginary deserted islands are always tropical because no one’s going to pretend to be on some cold rock in Baffin Bay even as a mental exercise. “Music,” he says finally. “I would write music.”
“Do you do that now?” she asks.
He nods. “I work for an entertainment company.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do,” he says quietly. “Mostly.”
Phoebe regards him with that look I always shied away from as a child, the one that went too deep. I was greedy about my secrets, and Phoebe was never one to leave well enough alone.
Mom pokes her head around the door. “Dinner, kids.”
I jump up with alacrity, dragging Jihoon with me to wash our hands before we eat. “Sorry about that,” I say. “It’s how she is.”
“Will there be more?” he asks weakly.
“Almost certainly.”
“I should have prepared, like for school exams.” Jihoon gamely straightens his shoulders to ready his answers for Phoebe’s dinner round.
But Phoebe gives him time to dig into the plain grilled chicken (tofu for me) and steamed vegetables that Dad views with dejection. At least Mom has a chive cream sauce for the rest of us. The conversation in English might be a bit fast for Jihoon, because he’s quiet and his eyes move quickly from person to person, checking their faces as they speak, but it could also be shell shock from Phoebe’s barrage of questions.
“How’s the office?” asks Dad as he passes me the rice.
“It’s fine.”
“This is the time in your life to be working for your goals.”
“Yeah, God forbid you should enjoy yourself,” says Phoebe dryly.
“You can enjoy yourself after you put in the work.” Dad lays down his fork.
“Martin, there’s a happy medium.” Mom glares at him before putting on a smile for Jihoon. “More rice?”
Her attempts to shift the conversation go unheeded as Dad turns to Jihoon. “We always knew Ari would be a lawyer,” he says. “Same as her father.”
“I’m sure she’s an excellent lawyer,” Jihoon says diplomatically as he accepts a refill of wine from Phoebe.
“We were going to be Hui and Hui, until she decided against family law. Broke her dad’s heart.”
I try to smile. “Dad, you said you’d be happy as long as I went into law.”
“Right, right.” He points his fork at me. “I knew in my bones Ariadne would be the one to do it.”
“Because I’m such a screwup, right, Dad?” Phoebe’s voice is tight.
“I didn’t say that, Phoebe.” Dad stares at her across the table. “However, you can’t deny it would have been hard for you to be a lawyer after you dropped out.”
“I never wanted to be a lawyer, not like the golden child here. You wanted that for me.”
My mother turns to our guest. “Jihoon, you didn’t tell us what you do.”
The poor guy. The conversation goes from there, Mom and I doing our best to avoid drawing attention to the fact that Phoebe and Dad refuse to talk to each other for the rest of the meal. It’s not as bad as some of the Hui family dinners, but that’s about the best I can say. I wish we’d stayed at home eating takeout. I wish I’d done this alone.
An hour later, we’re back in the car with containers of leftovers. Phoebe had already left with a small wave and smaller smile that didn’t reach past her lips. I lean back against the rope of my hair and quickly unbraid it for comfort. “Sorry about the drama. I should get you a T-shirt that says you survived the Huis.”
To my astonishment, he wears a huge smile. “Thank you.”
“For subjecting you to the verbal tennis game that was supposed to be dinner?” I cover my eyes with my hands. Why couldn’t my usually repressed family have stiff-upper-lipped it for two hours?
“Ari.” He leans over and tugs my hands down. I slump back on the seat, gusting my breath out. “Your family is coping with what happened. I’m grateful they opened their home to me.”
I side-eye him. “No one says stuff like that.”
“It’s true.” He runs his thumbs along my hands, which he hasn’t released, causing my heart rate to hitch.
He’s going to kiss me. I know he’s going to kiss me. I can see his eyes flutter from my hands to my lips and then, oh my, his tongue touches his lower lip.
The stress of the evening evaporates. I want this, so bad. I lean in enough to encourage but not too far in case he pulls back and I need to pretend this didn’t happen, like fake fixing my hair after I wave at someone waving at the person behind me.
He comes closer and my heart thumps.
I wait, but instead of a kiss, he drags his hand up my arm to my shoulder and trails his finger along the bare skin above my collar. His eyes drop to trace the path down my throat as his hand moves to my hair and drifts slowly across my back. He’s acting like he has all the time in the world, and I wonder what he would do if I moved to claim him first. Instead I wait, enduring this sweetest of tortures to see what he does.
It seems like forever. Then his lips press against mine.