Sixteen
I’ve known Hana Choi for ten years.
She’s my best friend and probably the most important person in my life. She knows me better than anyone. We’ve weathered a full spectrum of emotional crises including breakups and work setbacks and her mother and my sister.
I would trust her with my life.
Right now I could also happily shoot her out of a cannon. In my panic, I push away from Jihoon, who rolls off the couch with shocking speed and into the chair beside me in a single fluid motion. Before I can react to his cheetah-like reflexes, he’s got his phone out, pretending to be scrolling. He ghosts me a wink as I rapidly smooth my hair down.
Luckily, Hana is too busy wrangling her bags to notice. Jihoon jumps up to help, and I head to the kitchen and casually shove my face into the fridge to cool my stubble-burned cheeks.
Once Hana’s luggage is in, she beams at me. “I wanted to surprise you! My last training module was postponed, so I’m back a week early to spend some time with my favorite cousin.” With a squeal, she grabs Jihoon in a hug. “Has Ari been treating you well? How’s your dad, Ari?”
Jihoon casts me a doleful look over her shoulder. Now that Hana’s here, whatever could have happened is temporarily consigned to the dumpster. They start talking as I heat some of Mom’s leftovers for Hana.
She has the next few days off work to be Jihoon’s tour guide. I try not to be jealous. After all, it’s not like I could take off work to spend that time with him.
“I know me coming back messes up your plan to stay here,” she says to Jihoon as she digs into the food. “Good news, though. There’s a guy down the hall who does an Airbnb. It’s convenient and way more private than a hotel.”
This has potential. When I glance over, I see Jihoon wiggling his eyebrows at me and have to cover my laugh with a cough.
We agree Hana will sleep with me and Jihoon will keep her room for tonight. He follows me to the kitchen with the empty glasses and waits until Hana’s back is turned to dip and give me a lightning-fast kiss on the cheek, near the corner of my mouth. “You don’t want Hana nuna to know?” he whispers in my ear.
“Not yet.” She’ll give me the third degree about my intentions and what I’m thinking. I’m not ready for that.
“Whatever you want, Ari.” He touches our foreheads together and squeezes my wrist before we go back to the living room to exchange polite good-nights. His touch was featherlight, but the imprint of his fingers stays on my skin as I go to my room.
Hana follows me to bed.
“What a trip.” She yawns. “Thanks again for looking after Jihoon.”
“It was no problem.” I keep my tone neutral.
Hana collapses back on the bed. “How was dinner at your parents’? Was Phoebe there?”
I stretch the tightness from my neck. “It was a mess. Dad and Phoebe fought right in front of Jihoon.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “You brought him to dinner?”
The look she’s giving makes me a little squirrelly. “You told me to be a good host.”
“It’s that you never do that,” Hana says. “It took six years before I had dinner with your folks.”
“Well, be grateful you weren’t there tonight because Phoebe quizzed the poor guy.”
Hana bites the conversational shift bait. “Are you going to see her?”
“I saw her tonight.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Hana says gently.
“What’s the point?” I open a drawer with enough force that it nearly comes out into my hands. “She’s the one who said she would call to meet up. News flash, she hasn’t.”
“Have you told her how that makes you feel?”
“I feel fine about it.” I snatch out a pair of clean pajamas, neatly folded into flat squares.
Hana exhales. “I don’t know what to say when you get like this, but I know you don’t like how things are with her.”
“I don’t like lots of things,” I say. “Like the water that comes out when you don’t shake the mustard enough.”
She frowns. “Yeah, but the liquid that pools on the top of the yogurt is worse.”
“Debatable. My point is life’s not about liking everything that happens. Sometimes you deal with it, and that’s enough. You pour out the yogurt water. You wipe off the soggy bun.”
“This is a different level than a wet hot dog.” Hana tucks her arms under her head. “Phoebe’s your only sister.”
I don’t answer because it’s late, and I’m tired. As I stand in the shower, Hana’s words come back, and I stick my face under the water so the rushing sound fills my ears. She doesn’t understand how unreliable Phoebe is. How can you trust someone who leaves for something better, no matter how much you want them to stay? Love isn’t enough sometimes.
I stick my tongue out at the wall and finish up. Nothing with Phoebe has changed since she left, and I don’t anticipate that shifting now. I go back to my room and get into bed, Hana already curled up and asleep.
Sleep comes slowly as my thoughts oscillate between Jihoon and Phoebe.
The early morning finds me on the balcony enjoying the last cool breaths until dusk falls. The day is already collecting a thick humidity that coats your skin and lungs until your body feels almost saturated. I haven’t yet donned the prison of my nylons and am happy in loose shorts and no bra while I sketch out a day for Hana and Jihoon to enjoy.
It’s self-indulgent to take the time to do this when I should be ruthlessly triaging my emails, but my pen doodles over a page in my travel notepad. I have a digital planner as well—I found one called Eppy that’s great for day organizing and has the vacation planning module of my dreams—but I always start with pen and paper. I prop my feet up against the balcony wall and think. There are considerations when doing an itinerary: energy, goals, and external factors.
On the energy front: Jihoon will be fine, but Hana will be tired from her trip. A low-key day is best.
Goals: It’s been a while since they saw each other, so they’ll want to talk and reconnect. Don’t plan activities that require a lot of focus or noise.
External factors: It’s going to be a typical Toronto August day, with disgusting humidity, strong sun, and almost 40°C temperatures. They’ll need coolness and shade. It’s also high tourist season, and Jihoon dislikes crowds. No Toronto Islands or big museums, although the smaller ones might work.
I go in to grab a refill of coffee. One of Hana’s hot-pink mules lies on its side by the door beside Jihoon’s expensive Italian or possibly Japanese luxury brand leather sneakers.
Instantly, I know how their day looks.
I check a few things online and book a table for their lunch before I shoot a text to Yuko, who promises to work her contacts for me. I send Hana an email with instructions—since both she and Jihoon are lovers of surprise, I make them vague and provide scavenger hunt–style clues that are easy to puzzle out.
Hana comes out wearing a sheet mask. “You not going to work?” She sounds surprised.
“I wanted to do something first.”
She nods and adjusts the mask around her eyes before staring vacantly at the railing in front of us.
“How was Vancouver, really?” I ask. Hana loves her work, but the long trips can drain her.
She rubs her hand on her knee. “Discouraging. It’s like battling uphill, you know? I got an email telling me my anti-racist seminar was racist.”
“How?”
She pulls out her phone and reads from it. “‘I was disappointed to see the amount of time given to Asians over other disadvantaged groups, when it’s obvious Asians benefit most from the system and suffer little from discrimination. I invite you to sit with the idea that having a Chinese woman in charge of the training inserted unnecessary bias into what might have been a thought-provoking seminar. After all, allies such as myself are working on listening and learning in order to hold space for those who truly require our help and understanding.’”
I want to punch the wall, and through the wall, this dipshit, on Hana’s behalf. “I assume you’re the Chinese woman?”
“All Asians are Chinese to Lady Wokeness.” She shuts her eyes and drops the phone on her lap. “She kept interrupting me, too.”
“You’re doing good work,” I encourage her. “Important. You might not see a difference right away, but over time you will.”
“I guess,” she says without enthusiasm. “It sucks to see all the excuses people will give to avoid thinking they should ever have to change. That woman can’t even see how she’s contributing to the problem.”
I reach over and give her shoulder a squeeze. “Take some time to relax,” I say. “You put a lot into your work, but you can’t burn out.”
She offers a tiny smile to the sky. “Too late.”
I get the hint to leave when she closes her eyes. I’m definitely going to be late but can’t bring myself to care as I check through their day once more to make sure it’s perfect, especially now, knowing how beat Hana is. I want to give her at least a few hours to enjoy herself.
My effort is validated when both Hana and Jihoon send me messages that run from happy emojis to photos of where they are throughout the day. First is their private docent-guided tour of the Bata Shoe Museum, with Hana posing in front of a gigantic sneaker, then lunch at a little place with the best caprese salad in town. Each message gives me a satisfaction that I’m not finding in today’s brisk emails and boring meetings. As I check my phone for the thirty-sixth time in the last hour, a notification drops down.
Phoebe: Hey
I slowly tip the phone back on the table and regard it like a tarantula. Phoebe is reaching out to me. Why?
You can figure it out by answering the text, genius.
I don’t want to because I am a vengeful and small-minded human. I don’t need to fully analyze the swirl of feelings in my gut right now because it’s enough for me to know that if I pick up that phone, I lose the upper hand. My refrain for most of my life has been that if Phoebe wants to talk, it’s up to her to make the move, family deserter that she is.
Now she’s calling my bluff.
I look out the window, wishing life could be straightforward. I want my sister, but I want to keep this anger. It’s familiar and protective.
She might not want anything from you. She might be telling you to pick up a pack of hot dogs for Dad. No, the heart attack. Tofu dogs.
Then it sinks in. I could have lost Dad. I didn’t and I was lucky. Now my only sister has sent me a single text that says hey, and all I can do is angst.
I pick up the phone. What’s up? I text back.
Wanted to know if you were free tonight. Quick drink? I found a cool place near us.
I push away my instant no. It might be good for us to meet even though I’m suspicious about the timing. So little advance warning might mean she got stood up and she’s bottom-feeding for someone to go out with.
I nearly smack myself. Phoebe might not be a great sister, but she’s my sister. I need to have a better attitude.
Sure. I delete it. Too needy.
Fine. Nope, too passive-aggressive.
Sounds good. That’s the Goldilocks of replies, positive but not desperate. I take off the period to avoid pesky punctuation issues and send it.
Phoebe: 9pm ok or do you need more time at work?
I eye the phone with suspicion, as this is not the Phoebe I know. That Phoebe would mock me for giving the man my youth and free time. I decide to take it at face value. That works, I reply.
See you then. She texts me the address.