Thirty-One
We’re ready bright and early for Newlight. Although there’s almost zero chance of seeing Jihoon in the corporate office, I have a shaky feeling in my chest, like my heart is vibrating.
“Why isn’t the GPS working?” says Alex, squinting at his phone map as he turns it upside down and to the side, trying to line it up with what he thinks is north. “Newlight is in Gangnam, same as the hotel.”
Because we’re losers, we begin humming “Gangnam Style” and doing the horse dance with our hands. The driver keeps his eyes professionally on the road, no doubt used to clueless foreigners.
We pass through what looks like a typical urban center but with more designer stores and pull up at the Newlight building, a midsize skyscraper with the corporate logo, a stylized torch, emblazoned on the top. After passing through the revolving door, we arrive in the next century.
“Stop staring,” Alex mutters, trying to look blasé. “You look like you’ve never set foot outside the village.”
In my defense, there’s a lot to see. The entire lobby is sheathed in white plastic tiles so bright the reflection of the sun through the huge round windows hurts my eyes. Holograms of StarLune and Newlight’s other groups dance along the edge of the walls. I avert my gaze from a twelve-foot-tall Jihoon with chocolate-toned hair wearing a suit that’s been shredded to reveal the sapphire-encrusted satin lining. Non-holographic yet fashionable people stride past us with purpose and impeccable grooming and style, making me feel duller than usual.
Alex’s cool demeanor doesn’t crack until a little green robot with a smiling faceplate rolls up to greet us in perfect English. “Mr. Williams and Ms. Hui of Hyphen Records. Welcome to Newlight Entertainment, where innovation is content. Please follow me.”
“Innovation is content,” I murmur to Alex. “I know the winner of the buzzword bingo game.”
“It’s better than shut up and give us your money,” he says. “I guess we go with the robot.” I hum a few notes of “Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” the theme song for killer AIs, and Alex tugs on his lapels. “I’ll follow anything as long there’s coffee at the end of it,” he says.
The robot, which plays a soft acoustic version of “Candor” as it moves, takes us to a glass elevator where we stand in silence because I’m unsure of whether I should make conversation with it or if it’s recording us. When we arrive at our floor, the door opens to a hallway that is also doused in light.
“I should have brought sunglasses,” I say, retreating into jokes to mask my anxiety.
Alex is staring at the rows of trophies and framed metallic records. “I’ve never seen so many awards in one place outside a museum,” he says with awe. “There’s an entire section for StarLune.” I’m not sure what sort of a sound I make, but Alex peers over. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” My voice squeaks, and I cough and try again, pitching it as low and confident as when I speak in a meeting. “I’m fine.”
I’m something, that’s for sure, surrounded by airbrushed images of Jihoon. From the vinyl images that cover the wall, his face beams down on me with the same soft smile he has in the morning, sleepy-eyed as he dozes over his coffee. I look down at the polished floor because thinking of Jihoon as a person is not convenient at the moment. This 2D image is Min, and Min is not mine.
Nor is Jihoon.
I want him to be. A rush of possessiveness flashes over me, immediately followed by a disappointment so sharp, I taste it like blood in my mouth.
Yeah, I’m living my worst-case scenario.
“Remind me to hit the gift store,” Alex says as he continues down the hallway after the robot.
I catch up when he pauses at another display case, this one with a row of trophies showing what looks like a mermaid. “The what?”
“Newlight merch is a huge moneymaker. StarLune has their own snack-food line.”
Once we get into the boardroom, it’s like any business meeting but with more bowing. I can match the people from the dossier Alex gave me, so I know the woman in the black dress is Hyesu, Newlight’s head of publicity, the man in the navy suit is her assistant, and the man in gray is their legal, my equivalent. There’s a translator, but Hyesu is fluent in English, as is Wonho, the lawyer. Both went to school in the United States.
The morning passes quickly, with the usual formal introductions and small talk. After we watch a corporate video that has better production value than a Marvel movie, Hyesu pulls out her laptop.
“Let’s get to it.” In seconds, spreadsheets and timelines display on the wall in front of us. We hunker down to work, and it’s satisfying to be able to focus entirely on a single client. It might not be Beaconsmith, but it’s a fascinating look at the industry. I feel naive for my argument with Alex at the bar now that I have a better sense of what’s involved.
“This group, Kay-Ent-Kay.” I stop when Alex kicks me under the table.
“Kinetic,” he interjects smoothly.
“Of course, my apologies.” Because naturally KntK would be pronounced Kinetic.
The day passes without further incident, and Alex and I go back to the hotel, change, and stagger out to the cute café. We drink raspberry-champagne lattes, the most bonkers item on the menu, while digging our toes into the floor grass and barely talking. I didn’t know jet lag drained you so bad. I don’t even have energy to worry about contacting Jihoon. Hana, bless her, has limited her messages to suggestions on the street vendor foods I have to eat, and Phoebe concentrates on giving me updates on Dad and photos of dogs she sees in the park, all captioned, Hail Lord Pugglesworth, regardless of breed. In a way, both of them being so careful to avoid talking about Jihoon makes me think about him more.
Back at the hotel, I send Hana a text with photos of the convenience store food I picked up on the way (a cup of ice with a mango drink pack to add in) and debate replying to Phoebe. If she’s trying, I will, too, so I send her photos of the hotel room and tell her about my day.
Phoebe: There’s a gift store?
Me: I’ll get you something.
Late that night, I start a text to Jihoon.
Then I delete it, because what can I say?
I could say I made a mistake, but then we’re back to where we started, him in Korea being a big-ass idol and me living in Toronto. There’s no point.
So I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to my heart argue with my obtuse head.