Forty-One
I go numb. “Hana, is it Hana?”
Jihoon shakes his head rapidly. “No, no. Nuna is fine.”
My relief is short-lived, because if this entire thing with Jihoon has taught me anything, it’s that phones are the medium through which global-scale problems arrive.
“Something was leaked,” I surmise, putting the deductive powers of my highly trained legal brain to use. “Photos from today.”
Both men nod.
“Of the two of us.”
Again with the nods. My phone is in my room, so I hold out my hand, and Kit passes his over without comment.
We’re in the background of a casual selfie, and the person’s face is blurred for privacy. They caught the exact moment when our masks were both off as we sat on the rock. My face is up and his is down. It looks exactly like two people about to kiss, and there might as well be a tagline written in cute font across our chests.
“What’s the caption say?” I ask, doing my best to speak around the lump in my throat. Oddly, it’s not the photo itself that bothers me but that it captured such a private moment. I’d never felt possessive about an experience before.
Kit takes back his phone. “It identifies Jihoon and a woman. No name for you yet.” He scrolls down. “Apparently you met on a trip to Korea when Jihoon was a trainee and have been in touch since. That’s from an unidentified source. Wait. They’re saying Newlight has been keeping you apart for years.”
“Who says this?” I demand.
Kit doesn’t look up. “They. The internet.”
In the middle of this, Jihoon’s phone rings, and he starts pacing the living room as he talks.
“You’re taking this well,” I say to Kit. He’s not bursting with an I told you so.
“No,” he corrects me. “I’m not, but I can deal with that later. Now we solve the problem.”
That sounds ominous, but before I can reply, Jihoon hangs up. He looks furious as he snaps at Kit, who walks away with his hands in the air.
“I need to go to the company,” Jihoon says, taking my wrists. “Ari, I am so sorry.”
I nod, but in a way, it’s a relief. I don’t have to wait for the worst to happen because it’s here.
“I can fix this.” Jihoon sounds urgent. “Let me handle this. I know I can fix it.”
“How?” I’m genuinely curious.
“I have a few ideas. Do you trust me?”
“I’d be more confident if I knew what you have planned,” I say. “Let me come to the office with you.”
“That would be a bad idea. I need to focus, and there will be media out front. Too many fans, both at the gates here and at Newlight. We can’t expose you to that.”
Fair enough. I take a deep breath and try to stop it from coming out shaky. “I understand,” I say. Although it’s terrifying to relinquish any semblance of control, I’m trusting him not to hurt me the same way he trusted me back at the café.
Relief breaks over his face, and he kisses me. “Good.”
Then he and Kit are gone. I’m left in the empty apartment for exactly three minutes before I get a call.
“Hey, Hana,” I say.
“Jihoon texted me. Oh my God. I can get my local partner to cover me for a day and come up from Busan if you need me.”
“I’m okay. Jihoon said he’s going to fix it.” I sit down. “I’m going to trust him.”
There’s a long silence. “You don’t trust anyone to do anything,” she says.
“He says he has this.”
“What’s the plan, then?”
“Not sure.”
“How are you doing?”
“You know those fish that live at the bottom of the ocean and when they drift up, the lack of pressure makes them explode?”
“Yes.”
“Like that. In minutes, I will be exploded fish guts all over this fancy apartment.”
“Hell of an analogy, but I get it.” She coughs. “Are you looking at social media?”
“No.”
“You want me to tell you what’s going on?”
“Definite hard no.”
“Okay.” Her fingernails tap against the phone. “At least you weren’t identified. Call if you need me.”
I manage one hour and seven minutes.
One hour and seven minutes with nothing from Jihoon.
One hour and seven minutes of pacing.
One hour and seven minutes of staring at my phone, torn between wanting to check it and knowing I shouldn’t for my own mental health. Fuck it. I’m about to grab the phone when Hana calls me at one hour and eight minutes.
“Ari.” Hana’s voice is low and serious.
“I don’t want to know.”
“You do.” Her voice breaks. “They know who you are. Your name is out.”
Before this, I considered it pure hyperbole when someone said they needed to sit down because their knees went weak. I can now say this is not an exaggeration at all because my legs turn to jelly so fast, I stumble.
If they know who I am, they’ll learn too much about me. My work, my family. Yesterly and Havings, Richard, will never put up with this kind of publicity. I have an image of my dad getting harassed at his law office and their house surrounded by StarLune fans. The internet can dig up dirt on anyone. I’m boring as hell, but I don’t know what Phoebe’s done while she’s been out of my life.
No, get the facts. First get the facts.
Even as I stare at the floor, wordless, messages roll in from Alex.
Hey, text me when you can.
We have an issue. Text me.
“I need to go,” I croak. I disconnect and start fear scrolling, desperately searching for information. I keep my eyes half-closed as if that will somehow mitigate the experience the way it does for horror movies. It doesn’t.
Where are you text me
Call me
Do not answer your phone to anyone except me I’m calling now
The phone rings—Alex—but I decline it. I don’t want to talk to him until I find out what’s going on for myself.
StarLune’s Min dating Canadian lawyer
K-pop dating scandal
Min Gfriend identified: Who is Ariadne Hui?
Fans demand apology from StarLune’s Min
There are comments about me, and while there a large subset who are vocal in their support of Jihoon, many are less positive. There’s disbelief Min would date anyone, let alone someone like me. I’m too big. Not pretty. Old. Canadian and Chinese, so a double whammy of foreign. A nothing and a nobody. A few defend Jihoon’s right to pursue a relationship but in a conceptual way, not one with me specifically.
I decline another call from Alex.
WHERE ARE YOU CALL ME NOW
Multiple threads are combing through the band’s lyrics to decide which ones are about me, which is romantic but untrue. The stories get wilder by the minute with zero evidence and have shifted to a narrative about me as a temptress rather than Jihoon and I as star-crossed lovers.
answer your phone its me alex
If it weren’t me they were talking about, this experience would be a fascinating psychological study into how people make connections out of nothing. Since it is me, it hovers right at terrifying.
Another call from Alex. I decline again, needing a moment to absorb what’s happening. To process it.
UREGENT
Had I run a marathon, I don’t think my heart rate could be higher or my body more exhausted, so I put the phone down and walk over to the window on shaky legs. Seoul lies out in front of me, and it hits me that in this city and others, legions of fans are currently talking about me. I feel cold. Jihoon does online chats with over a million people watching. How can you even train to deal with that level of scrutiny?
Unable to resist the lure of the phone—it’s not FOMO but POMO, petrified of mob outrage—I check again before the reality of this hits me. My name is trending. My name is a goddamn hashtag.
I reach the bathroom right before I throw up.
I’ve barely rinsed out my mouth when I grab my phone. Jihoon said he was on this, so I shoot him a text that links to one of the stories about me. Me, specifically by name.
His reply comes up instantly. I’m sorry. I know. Trust me, Ari. Be strong.
I’ve seen how people get eviscerated on social media. I’ve been part of the conversations as my clients decide whether it’s safer to cut an outspoken or offensive employee loose rather than feel the weight of the internet’s judgment.
I look at his message. I trust you, I write back. I know you’re busy dealing with this, and I trust you. Then I think about what he said on the mountain, and I type three words.
I love you.
The message—the declaration—sits on the screen as I tap my fingers on my knee. Telling Jihoon how I feel fills me with exhilaration instead of fear about his reaction. I can do this. I need to do this.
I send it.
Then I wait for a response that doesn’t come.