Thirty-Two
I hate parties.
No, I’m looking forward to this event. Then I repeat it, out loud and with zest. “I am looking forward to this corporate party. I am looking forward to this corporate party.”
The affirmation doesn’t help. I am not looking forward to this corporate party.
After the workday, I force myself under a cold shower, filling the bathroom with pained yelps but knowing it will be worth it to feel slightly more alert. In twenty minutes, my hair is up in a high bun because I can’t stand it on my neck in this unseasonable heat, my black dress is on, and I have a good red lip and even a cat eye. Alex, who looks like a movie star in charcoal pants and one of those suit vests with the satiny-looking back panel, nods in approval when I meet him in the hallway.
We slide into the cab, and he gives an address on the other side of the Han River. Seoul is enthralling, and I want to investigate every street and alley we drive past. So far I’ve only seen around the hotel and the commute to Newlight, which is sad. More pathetic is that putting off pleasure for work is standard for me. At least I feel bad about it now, so that’s growth of some kind. The next but distant stage is doing something about it.
The neighborhood we arrive in is surprisingly multicultural compared to the office in Gangnam. “Itaewon,” says Alex as we get out of the cab and walk to a small alley lined with a green carpet. “Gay town, party town, and where a lot of foreigners hang out.”
We halt in front of a chrome door etched with tulips that swings open on silent hinges when we cross a dark square cut into the carpet. I wait for another robot to come up, but instead beautiful women smile and bow as we enter. I can’t help but suck in my stomach because they have waists so cinched they resemble wasps, an impression heightened by the black-and-yellow dresses they wear and hair that rises above their very pale faces in sculpted bouffant styles. Fresh sympathy grows for Hana if this is the obviously not impossible but very difficult body standard she’s being compared to by her mother.
Hyesu and her team are there to greet us, lit by the spotlights that gleam down on the bars lining the room. Smeared glasses litter the tables, and the sickly sweet smell of alcohol floats in the air.
“Ariadne!” Wonho comes up, already at the level of drunk where his eyes are hazy and a slight slur makes him hard to understand over the loud music. Yet his tie remains a work of art, and he hasn’t even downgraded to a French tuck. “You need a drink.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
It doesn’t take. He plucks one from a pretty tray that’s flashing LED lights into the glasses so they glow and hands it over, then he waits until I sip it. Only when the glass is empty does he smile contentedly.
The first hour of the night passes. Wonho introduces me to his colleagues, and Alex chats to Hyesu at one of the bar counters nearby. The atmosphere is overwhelming, and my skin feels too humid from everyone’s breath. Not helping are the idol holograms that cluster in tableaux near the bar, similar to the ones at Newlight headquarters. More of the groups are recognizable from my meetings, and I’m pleased to identify KntK as well as StarLune.
When Wonho is distracted, I escape to a quiet corner. Tilting my head against the wall, I survey the crowd, noticing how many people StarLune keeps employed. There’s the staff at Newlight, the stylists, dancers, and videographers. It’s a mini economy, and most of it comes directly from StarLune. Jihoon wasn’t lying when he said his decision impacted more than only him.
Programmers, too. Newlight has propelled their technology game to boss level with a set of holograms that make their way around the room, so realistic I could have sworn it was StarLune in the flesh. They’ve dressed the images in blazers and black jeans, and when I peer closer, the faces are extraordinarily expressive. I knew Korea was light-years ahead of Canada, but the expertise here is more than I can imagine. A slight aura seems to follow the band and people melt out of their way because it would be weird to have Kit walk through you like a ghost.
I catch sight of the Jihoon hologram, and my breath simply stops. He has lilac hair trimmed in a sleek undercut that emphasizes his bone structure. As I stare, Alex appears at my side from the opposite direction. “We’ve put in enough of an appearance,” he says. “Want to head back to the hotel or look around Itaewon?”
“Itaewon so we can see the oldest jazz bar in Korea, but in a minute.” Bemused, I move across the room to get a better look at Jihoon. Longing for the real man itches along my fingers.
Ariadne Hui, you are an absolute and utter jackass to have done what you did.
“This technology is phenomenal,” I say. The black boxes lining the ceiling must be projecting the holograms.
Alex follows me. “What are you talking…oh no. Oh no.”
As I step close to the hologram, I reach out to see what happens to my finger in the light. A murmur goes up around me.
“Ari!” Alex grabs my arm before I make contact.
I freeze as I recognize the light citrus cologne. Computer generations don’t wear cologne.
The not-hologram Jihoon looks right at me.
“Oh my God,” I say. “You’re real.” Then I cringe.
“Jesus, Ari,” mutters Alex as he tugs at me. “How much did you drink?”
Jihoon at least keeps his cool, although his eyes look a bit wild. “Min of StarLune.” He’s so close that when he bows, a breeze flows over my sweaty skin.
Two issues occur to me simultaneously: I’m not supposed to know Jihoon, and I’ve basically accosted the guest of honor at my client’s event. Behind Jihoon, Kit stares at me. Correction, everyone stares at me. I must have broken a thousand etiquette rules in the past twenty seconds.
Kit nudges Daehyun, and the two of them cast me cold looks that I only see out of my peripheral because I can’t take my eyes off Jihoon. Then Kit steps forward to pull Jihoon subtly away. It’s like the spell is broken as the rush of blood in my ears gives way to the driving techno beat of the music and the buzz of Newlight’s entire staff complement gawking at me. Hyesu bustles forward, bowing and speaking quickly. It must be along the lines of she’s a blundering Canadian, please cut her some slack because she has no idea how to behave like a functioning adult.
Jihoon smiles at her, then leans over to speak in English. “Would you like an autograph? We love to meet our fans. Starrys are so important to us.”
I feel my face go purple, but his expression is completely earnest, like we’ve truly never met and I’m nothing but a starstruck fan. I should let him have this brief triumph, because God knows I deserve it. I might not have a choice but to let him have it because I can barely breathe, let alone think of a retort.
So I only stare at him. He stares back, smile fading until his gaze darkens and his eyes flick across my bare neck to my lips.
Alex clears his throat. “Well, this is fun, wow, so great,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you.”
He leads me away, hissing, “Don’t even think about looking back. Not one fucking glance, am I understood?”
He must be mad if he’s swearing, but I can’t help peeking over my shoulder. Jihoon’s watching, his teeth biting so hard into his lip that I can see the indent. I wish I could smooth it out, but I’ve humiliated myself enough for one evening.
“You up for that jazz bar?” Alex asks once we’re outside.
“I only want to die.” My voice is muffled behind my hands.
“Hotel it is.”
In the cab, Alex throws himself back with a groan. “How did we not know they’d be there?”
“You know, it was fine.” I’ve recovered a bit. “I looked like an awestruck fangirl, nothing too bad.”
“Says you. I thought you were going to rip off that Bottega jacket and climb the poor guy like a tree.” He gives me a penetrating look. “You didn’t tell him you were here.”
“I tried, but I couldn’t do it.” My mind is all over the place. “You can recognize who designed a blazer?”
“Yes, and it’s not difficult to tell someone you’re in Seoul. It’s three words. I’m, there’s one. In. Two. Seoul. Three, there you go.”
“They were hard words,” I say.
My phone buzzes. Jihoon.
You’re here.
Alex looks down at my phone, which lights up the back of the cab. “I don’t know why you’re playing this game with yourself.”
“It’s not a game.” He’s right. Everyone is right. I want this, so why can’t I admit I was wrong and ask him to give me another chance?
Alex looks at me with raised eyebrows.
It might be the drinks, but I give him the truth. “I don’t know what I want, okay?” The words rush out faster than the traffic we’re speeding through. “I thought I did, and now I don’t know. What if I’m wrong about this, too? I want it all to be simple again.”
“It never was simple,” Alex says. “It was small. Now you’re opening up.”
“Thanks, I hate it.”
“Think of it like a new city to explore,” he suggests.
“Except if I make the wrong choice in a city, I can grab a cab or check a map. This is my life, and if I screw up, that’s it. It’s a one-way ticket.”
We go silent as we cross the bridge. Most bodies of water at night are a little freaky, because how can you look at a black ocean and not get worried about being dragged out to sea by a giant squid? But there’s something about a dark river that’s eternally romantic. I wish I could appreciate it better, but Alex’s words rise in me with the same power as a sea monster.
“Do a pros and cons list.” Alex’s voice breaks in on my thoughts.
“Those don’t work.”
“I know. I did one before asking Ben to marry me. The con side was much longer than the pros, starting with his parents.”
“You got married, though.” I glance at his wedding band. I’d seen photos of the ceremony in Costa Rica, both the grooms in custom-made linen suits with Bermuda shorts and gigantic smiles.
“Because there was one pro that negated every con. Every last one. That’s when I realized it’s not a pros and cons list, it’s a weighting. If I weighed all my concerns against all the benefits, what would win out?”
Now I’m interested. “What was the pro?”
He grins. “I’d written Ben, in all capital letters. He was all that mattered.”
I glance back at my phone. There are so many cons: the distance, work, the fame. Then that one weighted pro: it’s Jihoon.
I really liked him. Like him. I can’t stop thinking about him, but more than that, what my existence could be with him. More intense and richer. Deeper and broader. I wish I hadn’t been such a quitter. I wish I’d given my life half the attention I give to work, that I’d valued myself as much as I had a law firm that couldn’t care less about me. I wish I’d given us a chance to be something.
Alex reaches over to give my hand a squeeze. It’s warm and comforting as we drive through the busy Seoul streets. Then he releases me and looks out the window to give me space to think.
When I take out my phone, l let my heart lead the decision.
It takes three tries for me to type out a reply that doesn’t have any typos from my trembling thumbs. Then I read it over again. I’m about to read it one more time before my finger unilaterally decides to commit to this course of action, dragging my brain along with it.
I’d like to talk to you, my reply reads. To apologize.
The reply comes blessedly fast: I’m free tomorrow night.
This time I don’t wait or bother with checking my message, so what I send back says, yse.
He understands. I’ll send you the address of a café.
When I look up, Alex takes one glance at my beaming face and bursts out laughing. I don’t even care.
I get to see Jihoon again.
Then there’s a pause and another message comes in. You looked lovely in that dress. Good night, Ari.
I don’t hate parties that much after all.