Seventeen
The day drags on, and it’s hard to focus when I’m thinking about my date with Phoebe. The only bright spot is an invitation to meet the team at Hyphen in two weeks. Alex has told me enough to know that they’re a casual group, so that’s something to look forward to. At least Hana and Jihoon are having fun as they have boba at the park under the perfect oak tree.
I’m not jealous. I’m not. Life’s about trade-offs, and I didn’t choose one where I have lazy weekdays because I want that corner office. The one with the leather and the view, the room filled with expensive furniture and awards.
The one filled with more loneliness and pressure.
My mind is a mess when I finally go to meet Phoebe. The door handle is odd in my hand, and I look twice before I realize it’s a bronze cast of the arm from a record player.
Longplay. LPs. I open the door to a tiny room. Vinyl records cover the walls, and in the center is a rectangular bar that opens to a back room blocked off from patrons. The bar surface is covered with record players.
“Hi, sis.” Phoebe waves from her seat. She’s dressed simply but accessorized so well that I feel almost aggressively unexciting. My sister is comfortable in her skin and her clothes in a way that I, camouflaged to blend in with the rest of the corporate drones at Yesterly and Havings, am not. “Isn’t this place cute?”
There’s a couple sharing headphones on the other side of the bar and a few loners lost in their private music. I smile at her, genuinely enchanted. This wacky hole-in-the-wall has a great feel. “I like it.”
“I knew you would. Drink?”
I look at the menu, glad the drinks and the bar provide talking points until alcohol takes the edge off. “How do you get a drink called No Weddings and Four Funerals from three fruit liqueurs, soda, and grapefruit juice?”
“You going to try it?” She flips over the menu.
That thing is a hangover in a glass. I’m exhausted and should have a Perrier. Instead, I nod as my usual distaste of sweet drinks gets pushed aside by curiosity. “Yeah.”
“I’ll get the Cat on a Cold Brick Wall.” She smiles and glances up to the bartender, who’s lingering in the door to the back room. “It has Chartreuse. The queen of liqueurs.”
We order and I look around. “It’s cool you can listen to records.”
She pulls over a couple of albums and a set of earphones that are split so each person gets a side. “It’s not great for stereo sound, but here you go. They sanitize everything between customers.”
The bartender comes back with our drinks in a few minutes. Mine is a pastel dream complete with swirls of smoke begging to be posted online with a pithy hashtag. Phoebe’s is a poisonous green with a single ice cube shaped like a cat’s head floating in it.
We tap glasses, sip, and silently swap. She tries mine and wrinkles her nose. “Fruity.”
“Herbal,” I manage to say about hers as I try to wipe the taste off my tongue by rubbing it against the roof of my mouth. It’s like melted cough drops—the gross kind.
Drink ratings complete, Phoebe puts on PJ Harvey. I consider and discard several topics of conversation before I settle on, “Your place in Montreal sounds nice.” That’s neutral, since I didn’t tack on a thanks a lot for telling me you moved. Phoebe left when I was thirteen and she was twenty, and it’s possible our relationship was tainted because of all the ego and agony of my early teens.
“It’s fun. I’m in a good neighborhood, and it’s close to the ad agency where I work.”
“You work in an office?” I’m surprised. This doesn’t match my perception of Phoebe.
“When I need. I do freelance web design, so I can usually do that from anywhere.”
I stare at her. “Since when?”
Phoebe pauses with her drink halfway to her mouth, and through the curve of the glass, the melting cat’s face is malevolent. “A few years ago. I dabbled and found I liked it, so I did some online courses.”
“I thought you worked as a barista,” I say.
“I did. I pick up shifts at a friend’s place for fun when I feel like it.”
I hide my confusion in my drink. Phoebe seems content with her mix-and-match life, but I don’t understand how. “Did you see Mom and Dad today?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’d think rapini had been put on this planet solely to torture Dad. He was mad because Mom won’t let him back to work more than a regular workday.”
That’s like Dad. “Remember when he brought his files to my swimming lessons to pick us up and the wind blew them into the pool?”
“He jumped in after them fully dressed and held them over his head like trophies as everyone cheered.”
We grin at each other. When we were growing up, we spent most of our free time together since she watched me after school when Mom and Dad were working. There’s security in these memories, and Phoebe is the only person to share these experiences with me.
We order a second round of drinks. I blow caution to the wind and order a Little Trouble in Big China, a party of green tea and Sortilège, a liqueur made of whiskey and maple syrup. Phoebe decides on Kiss of the Titans, with ouzo, banana soda, and mint.
“How’s Hana’s cousin?” she asked. “He was a cutie.”
“Out with Hana. She came back yesterday.”
“Yeah? Having adventures?”
I nod and tell her about the day I planned for them. The bartender comes partway through my monologue to put down my drink, complete with a dragon paper cutout and unfurled green tea leaves at the bottom. Phoebe’s has most of a mint plant sticking out the top. We sip and trade again.
“Banana soda’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” I say.
“This is amazing.” She steals another sip of mine before I grab it back.
She exchanges the album for the Supremes, and we sit in a not-uncomfortable silence. I sneak looks at her between sips, but Phoebe is focused on the display of records.
I miss you.
I want to say it.
Instead I say, “How long are you staying?”
“Not sure.” She glances over out of eyes so similar to mine that it’s unnerving, like looking in a slightly distorted mirror or an alternate timeline. “As long as I need. I’m in no hurry.”
“Don’t you need to get back to work?”
“I can work from here as long as I want.” She swills half her drink and grimaces. The Supremes inform us we can’t hurry love. “It doesn’t matter anyway, Ari. There’s more to life than work.”
“Yeah, but you’ll leave anyway. You always do.”
Her eyes widen as I tap on the counter, my ears pounding. What the hell did I say? I’ve avoided talking about our past for years. There’s no need to bring it up. What’s done is done.
“That’s not fair.”
“Forget it.”
“No, Ari. I want to talk. I called you to talk. What happened with Dad made me realize I don’t want to keep leaving things like this with you.”
She doesn’t hold my hand or do anything sappy because, as different as we are, we’ve both been raised by Martin Hui, emotional statue par excellence, and Susan (Soolin) Hui, an only slightly more emotional being.
“Okay,” I say.
“That’s it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
I feel trapped. “What do you even want from me? You took off when I was a kid. You never call. Never email. Now you want some special sister badge because you apologized for walking out on me again?”
“Of course not.” She glares at me.
“Sorry. My mistake.” I look at the time. “I should go. I’ve got a headache and work tomorrow.”
“Come on, Ari. My life isn’t only about you.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” I dig around in my bag and slam some money on the table. “See you later.”
“Don’t be like that. Let’s talk.”
“About what?”
She looks down at her hands. That’s all the answer I need. If I stay and we talk, then I have to dredge up years of pain that I’ve very successfully tucked deep down inside.
If part of me wants to stay, well, that’s the part that always gets hurt. The part that needs to be protected.
So I leave.
Hana is in bed, in her own room, when I get home after a walk that left me both calmer and more confused. I don’t know what I want from Phoebe, and I’m too tired to think about it.
I’m brushing my teeth when a text comes in.
Jihoon: I miss you.
I rinse before I reply: Did you have fun with Hana?
Jihoon: I love Hana. I wish you had come with us to enjoy the day you planned.
Me: Work.
Jihoon: Do you want to come over?
Me: To your place?
Jihoon: Yes.
Moment of truth. If I go over there, the implication of what will happen is clear. I will sleep with Jihoon or at a minimum get to the base that’s after kissing but before sex.
Whatever unit of time is faster than a nanosecond is what it takes me to decide.
Me: Yes.
Worrying about explaining to Hana that I’m hooking up with her beloved cousin who is leaving the country soon is a job for later. I slip on some clothes and grab a condom so I’m prepared for any decision. I reconsider and grab one more condom before I collect my keys, feeling a bit like I’m sneaking out. Well, I guess I am. My heart races as I pull the door open slow enough to prevent any giveaway squeaks or creaks.
Then all my planning gets shot to hell as I slam the door shut with a scream. Because two men dressed in black and wearing baseball caps and face masks are standing inches in front of me, hands outstretched.