Three
Wednesday, 7:13 a.m.
Living with my new roommate is like living with a ghost. I assume his jet lag causes him to wake at odd hours, because I rarely see him, although I sense traces of his existence. Whenever we see each other, caution emanates off him like he’s wearing an electric fence jacket. He’s watchful, taking my measure, and I would be lying if I didn’t find this irritating in my own house, where he’s a visitor.
Thursday, 7:58 a.m.
Three cups of ramen fell on my head when I opened the cupboard foraging for coffee this morning. I text Jihoon when I get to work.
Me: You like ramen.
Jihoon: Yes. Ramyeon is a Korean food group.
Me: I’m not a fan, particuflarly when it falls on me. Can you put them away properly?
Jihoon: I’m sorry.
He adds a GIF of a sad cat for emphasis. It makes me smile, but only a bit because how hard is it to put ramen away so it doesn’t fall out? It’s shelf-stable in multiple ways. I ponder possible responses and send back a cat with a noodle cup on its head. Amusing, but also—don’t let noodles drop on me.
Friday, 10:10 a.m.
I rub my neck as I turn away from my computer, wondering what to tackle next. Work is a hydra of tasks to be completed. The moment a project closes or the email is sent, another seven pop up the queue, ready to take its place. Even if I did miraculously finish everything, there would be that nagging sensation I should be doing more.
Before I can decide, the phone rings. It’s Alex with good news: Hyphen Records is expanding and wants to bring me on retainer.
I cheer up because bringing in new work looks very good indeed, even if a record label isn’t as high-profile as some of Yesterly and Havings’s more blue-chip accounts. Then he asks what I know about K-pop.
“K-pop?” I draw a blank but think fast. “It’s pop music. From Korea.”
The silence on the other end is enough for me to know my answer was sorely lacking. Finally Alex says, “Hyphen works with one of the big Korean entertainment companies to distribute their artists in North America.”
“I’ll study up,” I promise. I’ve learned about glass installation and cat food (not together) for other clients. I can watch some music videos for Hyphen.
“Newlight Entertainment’s biggest band is StarLune,” he says. “Might want to start with them. I’ll send you a playlist and some fact sheets about the industry.”
We chat for a bit longer before I say goodbye. Reflected in my monitor is the big smile I’d never wear outside my closed door. Hyphen wants me. Not one of the partners. Me. Richard assures me I’ll get put on the bigger clients if I keep proving myself.
“What’s got you so happy?” Brittany didn’t bother to knock before opening my door.
My smile falls off as if it’s been power washed. “Nothing,” I say.
“Sure. Well, Meredith told me to tell you not to bother with the thing she assigned you.”
“What thing exactly?”
Brittany shrugs, already shutting the door. “She said you’d know.”
I don’t, and now I’ll look ignorant for asking.
That’s not me proving myself.
Saturday, 2:30 p.m.
Hana: Jihoon says you’re not at home. It’s Saturday.
Me: He snitched on me?
Hana: I asked him.
Me: I’m at the office finishing up some stuff.
Hana: You’ve got to be kidding.
Me: Did you text me to nag about work?
Hana: That’s my secondary purpose. I wanted to see if you were being nice to Jihoon.
Me: You know when a man goes on a rampage and all the neighbors say how shocked they are because he was a quiet guy who kept to himself?
Hana: Hoonie is not a serial killer.
Me: That could be why he had to leave home so fast. Police were closing in.
Hana: Like I TOLD YOU he takes a while to feel safe with people and is going through a rough time. Doesn’t like to talk about himself.
Me: You sure he’s related to you?
Hana: Funny. He’s had some bad experiences meeting people, so he’s a bit cautious. He likes privacy. It’s not you.
Ah, the classic it’s not you. It seems a little bit me when the guy shies away when we pass in the hall. I don’t want to take on the emotional labor of having to coax Jihoon out of his shell. Why is it my job to get him talking?
Because you’re the host. In fact, I’m the Triple Crown winner of making it my responsibility: I’m the host, I’m older, and it’s my apartment. I make a face at the wall before submitting to the inevitable.
Me: I’ll try to try.
Hana: That’s my girl. Got to go.
Sunday, 1:36 p.m.
Me: Hey Jihoon, checking to see how you’re settling in. Finding everything? Jet lag better?
I add in a happy face emoji for good measure.
Sunday, 5:09 p.m.
No answer from Jihoon. Fine, not everyone checks their texts frequently.
Sunday, 6:32 p.m.
No answer from Jihoon. I frown at the blank phone screen. It’s not like he has a lot to do. It’s simple courtesy to text back, especially when your host contacts you. What’s with this guy?
Sunday, 7:56 p.m.
I can’t tell if he’s in his room. He could be dead for all I know. Ten minutes and I’ll go knock.
Sunday, 8:05 p.m.
Jihoon: I’m fine, thank you.
It came exactly nine minutes into my waiting period, as if he’d timed it. I got all uptight for nothing. Why was I even worried? He’s an adult and can take care of himself. I send back another happy face because, unlike Jihoon, I know it’s polite to reply promptly.
He doesn’t want to talk to me any more than I want to talk to him. The problem is I kind of do want to talk to him because it’s weird to have to sidestep him all the time. Or I want him to want to talk to me so I don’t have to go out there and make the first move and risk rejection. Is it too much to ask the guy freeloading at my place to be friendly as well as hot so I can live in peace?
I look at the phone. I guess it is.
Monday, 9:10 a.m.
I reread Richard’s reply to my Hyphen news.
Good work, the email says. I know I can trust you with our most unconventional clients.
I’ve got two wins here: good work and trust. Then we have unconventional. That’s a problem, since Richard is not a man who appreciates any deviation from the norm. He won’t even wear a tan suit. Only black, gray, or navy, and the fanciest his tie gets is diagonal stripes. For him, a good client is an established one, like an oil company, where everyone around the table looks like him. It occurs to me that getting Hyphen might have potentially damaged my reputation. What if I pigeonhole myself as someone who can only handle quirky clients?
No, I’m reading too much into an email that probably took Richard twenty seconds to write. I’ll stick with the plan to show what I can do with clients like Luxe and Hyphen. I’ll do so well, Richard will fast-track me to partner. Beaconsmith is my brass ring, a high-status client like the ones that fill the dockets of others in the firm, and Hyphen will help get me there.
Monday, 10:38 a.m.
Another email from Dad about bringing an entrepreneurial spirit to the corporate office. He’s added: Start joining meetings even if you aren’t invited. Shows resourcefulness.
Or a stunning lack of judgment, but there’s no point in telling him that. He’ll say I need more confidence. I email back: Thanks, Dad! Great tip.
In the hall, Brittany calls out to someone that she’s on her way but to go ahead and start the meeting while she gets a coffee super quick.
I don’t bother to read the attached article.
Tuesday, 12:48 p.m.
Jihoon: Where is the bleach?
Me: Under the bathroom sink.
It takes three minutes until curiosity gets the better of me.
Me: Why?
Jihoon: I need to clean the hair dye.
Me: The what?
Jihoon: You know that tile in your shower?
Me: Yes, it’s white.
Jihoon: It was white and I promise it will be white again soon.
Me: Send me a photo.
Jihoon: …
Jihoon: Best not.
Me: Jihoon.
Twenty minutes later:
Jihoon: Where do I buy more bleach?
This time I send that cat GIF. It’s crying.
Tuesday, 5:31 p.m.
Brittany pokes her head in my door without knocking. “You coming for drinks?”
It takes me a minute to get my head out of my work. “What?”
“Drinks. Are you coming?”
No one mentioned drinks to me. I’m tempted, but Meredith has assigned me two more tasks, and I’m getting stressed thinking about it. “Maybe next time.”
Brittany pouts. “Oh, boo. Everyone will be there.”
That tempts me even more because drinks are always a good way to connect. Then she adds, “It’s to celebrate me joining the firm! It’s so sweet of Meredith to have planned it.”
Screw that, then. I mask my annoyance with my usual smile. “So sweet,” I say.
She waves at me with the tips of her manicured fingers in a toodles gesture and leaves.
Later, I don’t bother to look up from my files when I hear the rest of the group head for the bar.
Tuesday, 10:26 p.m.
When I get home, Jihoon is lying on the floor, which seems to be his happy place. He unwinds to stand, and I see he’s about 80 percent very muscled leg, emphasized by his tight jeans. His oversize gray shirt reveals part of his shoulder. Hana is right, he’s got style and not only in how he dresses. It’s the way he holds himself. His hair is a stark blue black, and I resist running to the bathroom to check his cleaning job.
“Your hair looks nice,” I say politely.
He runs his hand through and tilts his head to the side. “Does it?”
Well, when he looks at me like that, it does. Before I can answer, he gives a brief nod and disappears back into his room. I watch him go, a strange ache in my chest that I can’t quite identify.
I’m probably hungry.
Thursday, 9:15 a.m.
Me: I tripped over your shoes this morning. There are a lot of them.
Jihoon: [photo of a suitcase filled with small cloth bags] I like to be ready for any occasion.
Me: Those are SHOES? Why are they in single-serving bags?
Jihoon: You don’t shove Pradas into a suitcase without protection.
Me: Prada.
Jihoon: You’ve heard of Prada? You have.
Me: OMG, I’ve heard of Prada. It’s that I don’t care about Prada.
Jihoon: You are a monster. Look. [photo of brown shoe].
He must have sent the wrong image.
Me: It’s a shoe. It’s brown. Is that Prada?
Jihoon: [GIF of horrified cat] Levlin. Hand-stitched with copper awls. It takes a cobbler weeks to make. Years of expertise. It’s not only a shoe, it’s imagination made real.
Me: I can get a pair of shoes for $20 that will keep my feet off the gross sidewalk the same way.
Jihoon: I repeat, a monster.
Me: A monster who doesn’t want to trip over shoes in the hallway.
Jihoon: Fair. Admit that shoe is a work of art though.
Me: No.
Jihoon: It’s ok. I forgive you.
The next image is of that goofy cat, one paw raised in benevolent benediction. I laugh. At least he’s less awkward on text.
Thursday, 2:01 p.m.
I look through the streaked window at the traffic sitting idly on Bay Street and visualize the corner office where I’ll be working in a few years. I know the exact one on the fifty-fourth floor, complete with leather furniture and dark wood. At night I’ll stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows as the lights of cars make the roads look like streams of liquid gold. I’ll have exactly what I want and what my parents want for me. After all, I’m Ari, the younger but dependable and ambitious sister, not Phoebe, the flighty dropout.
Will you be happy? That snippy little voice sounds like Phoebe, who was so good at getting under my skin that I can hear her even after she’s been AWOL from my life for years.
Shut up, disembodied Phoebe voice.
I squeeze my eyes harder and try to ignore it, but at times like this, weighed down with a weariness that’s not from physical exertion, I wonder if that voice is onto something, if there’s more out there than what I’ve set my sights on.
These aren’t productive thoughts. These won’t help me reach my goals. I push them away and get back to work.
Thursday, 8:29 p.m.
When I get home, Jihoon is in the living room sitting on the couch surrounded by half-empty chip bags. In his hand is a tall boy. His laptop is open on the coffee table, and he pauses his show to smile at me. It’s small, but this is the first truly positive expression I’ve seen since he arrived. It looks good on him.
“Hi, Ari.”
I debate saying hi and then going straight into the kitchen to avoid conversation, but that’s rude. Also, I want some of the chips. “Hey.” I poke through the bags. “You didn’t get hickory sticks. Those are a classic.”
He groans and puts a hand over his stomach, his black shirt covered with crumbs. “I wanted to explore new flavors we don’t have at home. It might have been a mistake. Help yourself.”
I grab the bag of cheesy garlic bread chips and try one. Then I make a face and go for the sriracha ruffled. Those are better. Meanwhile, Jihoon goes to the kitchen and comes back with more beer and two glasses. He pours me a glass as I glance at his screen, which shows a handsome man in a wide-brimmed hat and a black jacket.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“My favorite K-drama.” He hesitates. “Do you want to watch?”
Not really, but I’m too lazy to go to my room. I nod with my mouth full of jalapeño chips.
He adjusts the settings to include English subtitles. I’m lost within minutes but don’t bother pestering Jihoon with questions. It’s pleasant enough to nibble on the gross chips and watch stunning men in turtleneck sweaters bicker with each other.
We finish the episode, and Jihoon glances over at me. “Another?”
I nod. “And a pizza?” Chips aren’t a proper meal.
He lights up. “Can we get one with Gorgonzola ?”
“I know the perfect place.”
We watch another episode until the pizza comes, and we drink more beer and don’t talk about much at all except for confusing plot points. It’s kind of a perfect night, cozy and unexpectedly comfortable.
I make a mental note to apologize to Hana for calling her cousin a serial killer.
Friday, 3:13 p.m.
Yuko waves me into Luxe’s open space office, which is shared by her and Ines. Ines is on the phone dealing with the personal assistant of an actor insisting on a dress a design house has promised to someone apparently lower in the fame hierarchy. Her voice is soothing and calm, but she shoots a glare at Yuko, who is pretending to gag behind her desk. Yuko stops and waves me over to whisper in my ear.
“Remember that travel itinerary you did for me when I went to Sicily?”
“Sure. It was fun.” I included a catered picnic at the Zingaro Nature Reserve, which they loved.
“My friend’s going to Singapore, and I was wondering if you can do one for her.”
I get a rush of pleasure. Planning trips is my joy, soothing my detail-oriented and results-driven soul and providing some of the adventure I don’t have. “Absolutely.”
Yuko gives me a few more details about what her friend likes, and I take notes in my travel notebook. I glance up to see Yuko’s screen saver is an Asian guy posing in front of a blue star with a full moon peeking behind it. “StarLune,” I say, recognizing the logo. I’d checked the material Alex had sent me before deciding to go more in depth later. I don’t start with Hyphen for another month, so I have time.
“That’s X,” she says. “Don’t tell me Ariadne Hui, straitlaced lawyer, is a Starry?”
“A what?”
She makes a face. “I knew it was too good to be true. Starry is StarLune’s fandom name. How do you know them?”
“A client.”
Yuko pretends to swoon. “If you get to meet StarLune and you don’t bring me, I’ll kill you. I watch a lot of crime shows. They’ll never find your body.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re vegan.”
“Vegans can inflict violence on the deserving.”
“Why do you like them so much?” I ask curiously. Yuko’s in her thirties. Even when I was younger, I never had posters of the latest heartthrobs on my wall.
She raises her hand and begins ticking off her fingers. “Talented. Hot. Good-hearted. Funny. Performance gods. Lyrics that make me cry and dance at the same time.” She pauses and strokes the man on the screen with fond fingers. “Did I say gorgeous?”
“You said hot.”
She sighs. “So hot.”
I look back at the screen saver. X is indeed attractive, but pop stars aren’t my thing.
Ines calls me away from Yuko. “I have a project I’d like you to consider,” she says by way of hello. “It involves travel.”
“How much?” I’m intrigued. I don’t go anywhere because I don’t like taking vacation time at Yesterly and Havings. I don’t want anyone questioning my commitment.
I think about it, though. A lot.
“I’m planning to branch out to more group luxury travel.”
I’m instantly transported from Ines’s office to a candlelit dinner on a black-sand Aegean beach. I had a photo of it on the vision board I kept for a few months until I put it away because it bummed me out. “That sounds fascinating.”
“I need someone on the ground in places that do better with face-to-face negotiations.”
My heart inflates for a moment. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” Ines’s smile is like sunshine. “This is critical work that requires relationship building. I want you to join Luxe permanently.”
Instant deflation.
Swallowing my disappointment, I shake my head. “I can’t.” Dad was bragging about how soon I’d make partner right after Richard hired me, and I only need a few more years. I’m so close.
Ines is silent for a moment. “Think about it? You’re my first choice.”
I don’t hesitate. “Sure.”
I won’t, though, and it hurts a bit to say. I’ve committed to Yesterly and Havings for the long haul. I can’t miss my chance here, not after all I’ve put in.
It would have been fun, though.