Fifteen
This must be my reward for getting through the evening. After that first soft brush of his lips, Jihoon pulls back and rubs his thumb over my cheek.
“Ari?”
“Get back here.” Now that I know we’re on the same page, I’m more confident about going for what I want, which is his hands on me and mine on him. I also know I’ve wanted it since I watched him cook me dinner that first time.
Jihoon laughs and meets me halfway. We make out like teenagers in my parents’ driveway, Jihoon’s hands running down my loose hair as he pulls me closer, both of us trying to avoid getting lethally gored by the gearshift.
Except this is nothing like being a teenager, because Jihoon knows exactly how to touch me until all I can think about is him. I dimly recall my decision to not get in too deep, but that was based on incomplete information—namely how good a kisser he is and how perfect his touch feels. My new knowledge has forced an extreme and satisfying course correction.
I lean back in and take my time as his mouth lingers on mine. His hand comes down to rest against my hip and he tries to pull me closer in a possessive move that’s stymied by the console. He leaves a gentle kiss on my lower lip, another on the corner of my mouth, then sits back, smiles, and touches my face. “I didn’t notice much about dinner because kissing you was all I could think about.”
I start the car with shaking hands, eager to get going before I drag him into the back seat. “That would definitely have changed the direction of the conversation over dessert.”
Because this is Jihoon, Lord of Feelings, he wants to talk as I drive, where I would like to silently relive the moment. However, I also want to know what this means and what it means to him. It has the bonus of keeping me from thinking about the ropes around my chest tightened by Phoebe and Dad.
“I’ve thought about kissing you since the day you pulled a knife on me,” he says thoughtfully. “After I calmed down and realized I wasn’t going to die.”
For that long? I glance over to find him looking at me with that small smile that seems so private, a look for the two of us. He continues, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have because I’m leaving soon.”
I give the road ahead of me a neutral nod. This is true enough, although I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“You’ve become all I can think about. Your lips. Your hair.” Here, he reaches over and wraps a lock around his finger before releasing it. “How much I like to be with you and talk with you.”
“Okay,” I say. These are nice things to hear, but it’s difficult for me to return them or even a close proxy. Instead of words, I reach over and touch his hand. He brings mine to his lips and kisses my palm, chin slightly stubbly and giving me shivers. I take my hand back so I can focus on the road.
“I don’t know what can happen, Ari.” He doesn’t sound defeated or upset. Merely stating a fact.
I mull this over. “Are you usually impulsive?”
As I check my rearview mirror to change lanes, he curls back into the car seat. “I don’t know.”
“You are or you aren’t,” I say. “It’s like being a talker or listener. You came to Canada on a whim, if that helps you decide.”
“Perhaps it’s the wrong question. I prefer this rather than impulsive or not.” He speaks in Korean before translating. “It means to live with your heart.”
Live with your heart. “Follow your passion, you mean?”
Jihoon twists in his seat to look at me. “Yes, but more.” He thinks. “Everything involves your head and your heart. What you should do and what you want to do. Sometimes they are aligned. Often they are not.”
“When there’s no conflict, there’s no decision to make.”
“Yes. To live with your heart means that when there are choices to be made, you make the one that thrills your heart, not placates your mind. Impulsivity doesn’t come into it because either it’s the right decision or not. How quickly you make it is irrelevant.”
I wait for the light to turn. “Is that aspirational or in practice for you?”
He hums a few beats to the song on the radio as he considers this. “Aspirational, usually.” He shrugs so fatalistically I can feel it. “A guide rather than a command. Life is life and it’s unpredictable. How about you?”
Living with your heart is exactly what I don’t do. “Thinking with your head,” I say.
“Does it make you happy?”
I feel my head and heart have been on divergent paths for a while and I’ve only just noticed. “Not sure.”
We’re quiet for a bit, listening to the radio. “Did your parents both come from China?” he asks as if he’s been thinking about it.
“No, my mom’s parents immigrated here from Malaysia before she was born, and my dad’s family has been in Canada since the late 1800s.”
It’s a question I get a lot. People seem to forget Asian immigrants have been making homes here for generations. Some of my teachers had been openly astonished that neither of my parents had an accent, like somehow it was as much a part of the Asian phenotype as black hair.
“Your father’s family came from China?”
“They came from southern China to work on the Canadian Pacific Railway. Dad says we’re descended from one of three brothers. The other two died during the construction.” Like hundreds of others. I remember in school the teacher barely pausing on that page in the history textbook. “My ancestor married a merchant’s daughter, I was told.”
“Your country has much immigration,” he says. “So many different people.”
“We look Chinese, but the closest Phoebe and I got to Chinese culture growing up was going to Chinatown for dim sum and getting red envelopes for Lunar New Year.” Always with ten bucks, no matter how old we were.
“We got sebaedon,” he says. “My favorite time of year when I was young.”
I sigh. “It’s weird. I look Chinese but I’m Canadian.” It’s frustrating to explain this because I am obviously Chinese, ethnically, and at the same time, I’m not. Or am I? What does that even mean? Why do I even assume that to be Canadian means you can’t be Chinese at all, that only a Brittany or a Richard can wear that mantle? I can hear Hana’s voice intoning, Internalized racism, duh.
Jihoon thinks about this for a bit. “You are expected to be someone you’re not because of how you look.”
“People sometimes have trouble when your face doesn’t match your culture,” I say. “They come to me with ideas of how I should be, what I should eat and like and think. If my grandparents were from France, no one would expect me to go around wearing a beret or come to me for baguette recommendations.”
He nods as I keep going.
“I was raised here. Apart from my appearance, there’s nothing that connects me to China.”
He touches my arm. “You get to choose who you are, Ari. No one else.”
I relent a bit. “It sounds like I hate being Chinese. I don’t. I love being who I am. I only wish other people could accept me for me and not make up a person based on my appearance.”
“That takes time, and many people would prefer the ease of superficial judgment,” he says.
“I know.” An ad about mufflers comes on the radio, and I turn the channel without thinking. “Hey, it’s that song we heard before dinner.”
There’s no answer, so I glance over to see Jihoon staring at the dashboard as if it’s going to sprout snakes. “‘Candor,’” he says. He squints at the dial. “This is a Canadian radio station? Broadcast radio?”
I check the station. “Yeah, they play a lot of pop. First time I’ve heard K-pop, though.”
“No,” he says softly. He wears a big smile, I assume from hearing a song from home on the radio. “It’s not usual.”
“What’s it about?” I ask when the song ends. I wasn’t paying full attention to the English part of the lyrics. I hazard a guess. “Love?”
He laughs. “Most songs are, aren’t they? This is about a love of honesty, to see what’s in front of you with clear eyes unclouded by what you wish to see.”
I frown. “Really? It sounds so peppy. Dancy.”
I can feel him turn his face toward me. “There can be serious lyrics to upbeat music,” he says. “You expected it to be ‘baby, my life is nothing without your love boom boom yah’ because it’s a K-pop band?”
“No.” I speak with some authority because, despite Jihoon’s impromptu songwriting tutorial, I haven’t thought deeply about what K-pop songs would be about in the first place. Although I’ve listened to Alex’s playlist, most of the lyrics are in Korean, so I have no idea what the songs are about. My next step is doing some research into this StarLune, but I have time before I start with Hyphen. I’m about to ask Jihoon more about the industry, but he runs his hand down my thigh, giving me shivers. There’s time enough for work questions later.
Traffic is light, and we arrive home quickly. I’m both pleased and anxious about this. A kiss in the car is one thing, but I don’t know what’s going to happen next. My doubts disappear when he gathers me close in the elevator and looks at me with his eyes half-closed and lips red and parted, a severely sultry expression that makes my thighs squeeze together.
Live with your heart, he said. Easier said than done, but for once I’m going to work with it and worry about the consequences in the morning. The elevator dings and we pull back.
I nearly drop the key trying to open the door. Jihoon pushes my hair aside to nuzzle at my neck, one hand on my waist and the other on the doorframe by my head, and we fall into the lamp-lit room. His touch makes it feel like he’s everywhere, and it overwhelms me in the best way. We take a quick break to kick off our shoes, and then I lead him over to the couch. It’s a good intermediary place because couches say I’m into this without the implicit expectations of the bedroom.
“This okay?” I ask him, sitting down and giving his hand a little pull.
“Very okay.” He runs his fingers through my hair until I bring him close.
When I was kissing my last boyfriend, my mind was usually half on him and half on work. That doesn’t happen with Jihoon. His touch fills my thoughts, but it doesn’t feel strange or awkward. It comes in waves of sensation, his hand on my skin and mine running through his hair, soft despite the black dye.
I push him back until he’s lying on the couch and bend over him, my hair falling around us like a tent, hiding us away from the world. He pulls me down so I can mouth kisses along that stunning jawline. The muscles in his neck tense as he turns his head to give me more access to his throat, and he makes a needy sound that makes me dizzy.
I’m so into him that I don’t register the click in the lock until Hana’s voice rings out a jaunty, “I’m home early!”