Forty-Four
I don’t cry in the car but look rough enough that Yeong casts worried glances through the rearview mirror. Finally I give him a brief smile. He’s a nice guy, and I didn’t even get a chance to buy him a thank-you gift.
“Gwaenchanayo? Okay?” he asks slowly enough for me to understand.
“Gwaenchanayo.” I’m not, I’m a mess, but there’s no way Yeong is paid enough to deal with my drama.
He’s unconvinced, and the language barrier is enough that we have to leave it at that. His silent sympathy flows to the back seat, where I huddle against the door.
I didn’t see Jihoon again, but that could be because I left as soon as I was sure I wouldn’t see him in the hall. Yeong was already in the lobby, so I didn’t need to call a cab, which was convenient since a common taxi probably couldn’t penetrate Jihoon’s famous-person security. I wondered if Yeong had been asked to wait, if Jihoon knew I would leave. Or if he wanted me to.
Yeong drops me off under the awning of a luxury hotel that glows gold and unloads my bags. We both bow, him with considerably more grace than me.
“Gamsahamnida,” I say, proud I remember how to say thank you. A low bar, and I should aim higher than toddler-level Korean when in Seoul. Richard once told me a client had to improve his English if he wanted to be taken seriously. He didn’t say anything when I pointed out it was the man’s sixth language and most people at Yesterly and Havings spoke only one despite learning French in school.
Confirmed: Richard truly is a dick.
The moment Yeong drives away, I search my phone for another hotel. I don’t want Jihoon finding me, even though I suspect it won’t be a problem. He made his choice, and it wasn’t me. Despite the pretty words, it was never going to be me because I can’t win against his relationships with his bandmates and his fans. Enjoying my company isn’t enough when he stacks it up against his entire life and lifestyle, the routines and habits of his world.
While I have my phone out, I block Jihoon’s number and his email. We’ve said what we needed. My hand hardly shakes as I pick up my bags and head to the new hotel, a comfortable middle-range place that’s a good two stars below the one Yeong left me at. I collapse on the bed after checking in. I need to book a flight out. I need to call Hana. Alex. I need…to do nothing.
An hour later, I stop staring at the ceiling and look at my phone, which has accumulated messages like plaque. I don’t have the energy to check through them but send a text to Hana to say I’m heading home. A second goes to Alex, asking for help with a plane ticket to Toronto as soon as possible.
Alex: Done. Flight leaves tomorrow. Check your email. I’ll meet you at Pearson.
I swing my feet to the floor and stretch, thoughts zigging through my zagging mind, when Phoebe calls. “We talked to that Alex guy,” she says without preamble.
“How mad was Dad?”
“Worry about yourself first,” she says. “This won’t send him into a heart attack.”
“What if—”
“Ari, enough. He’s an adult and capable of taking care of himself. The question is how are you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s a lot.”
“Did you talk to Jihoon?”
I snort. “Did I ever.”
“It didn’t go well?”
“You saw the statement.”
“Yeah, Alex showed us.”
Great, now my whole family knows my shame. “After he told the world I was a stalker, he said he didn’t want anyone to know about our relationship. As a finale, he picked his band over me. I’m leaving for Toronto tomorrow.”
Phoebe groans. “I can’t believe you didn’t even talk it over with him.”
I goggle at the phone. “I did talk to him. How do you think this happened? Telepathy?”
“Did you keep an open mind? He was probably in a tough place.”
“The best way to get out of that place was not to brand me a sasaeng.”
Phoebe makes a nasal noise that sounds like disagreement. “That was a bad choice for sure, but his company did that, not him.”
“If he had his way, the statement would have said I was nobody. That’s a real step up.”
“It’s not fantastic, but you know it’s not safe to be named as Min’s girlfriend.”
“First, I’m more than Min’s anything. Second, you’re taking his side.” I pace the room. “I can’t believe you.”
“Of course I’m not, but it doesn’t sound like you were ready to hear him out.”
“That’s rich coming from you of all people. You’re so scared of people knowing the real you that you move around the world to avoid it. You can’t even hold a job down.”
She sucks in her breath. “Doesn’t look like you can either, does it?” she says venomously.
I don’t even answer. I hang up and turn the phone off.
Stomping indignantly around the room muttering to myself isn’t enough. I need to get the hell out. I leave my phone by the bed but make sure to write down the hotel’s name before hitting the street, because if there’s one thing this moment requires, it’s comfort carbs. I lose myself in the fast-flowing crowd, seeking out some of Hana’s recommended Seoul street foods. No one looks at me because everyone is thinking about themselves: their own heartbreaks and joys and boredoms and dreams. Eventually I come across a vendor stirring a deliciously fragrant bubbling pan filled with red sauce and thick noodle things that I recognize as tteokbokki and exactly what I need.
With double the cheese, the container has a satisfying heft when I give a test lift in my hand. I sit on a bench and briefly wonder if it’s rude to eat on the streets before shrugging and digging in with the little wooden stick. The rice cakes are pillowy, and the sauce has the perfect amount of sweet spice.
After eating, I drift like a sated jellyfish through the crowds, stomach full and mind vacant. In the near future, within hours in fact, I’ll have to make some decisions, but right now I allow myself the indulgence of not thinking.
Or I try to. I try very hard, but all I can picture is my phone, abandoned upstairs in my hotel room. It’s Schrödinger’s phone, keeping any and all options possible, from Jihoon’s public reversal and declaration of love to some other mass humiliation. It, and by extension me, exists in a zone of possibility. Despite what happened—and it was objectively lousy—I’m not ready to admit it’s completely over with Jihoon. As long as I don’t look at that phone, there’s hope.
What a sad, desperate person I am.
“That’s pathetic,” I whisper to the colored contact lenses lined up against the wall of the store I’ve ended up in without noticing. “You are being pitiful.”
Back at the hotel, I avoid looking at my phone to keep that tiny flame of hope alive and instead set the alarm on the high-tech clock that’s part of the wall. One night of avoiding my problems is acceptable. One night and tomorrow I’ll start fresh.
Fresh, jobless, and alone.
Happy digital chirps wake me up. I silence the alarm and lie back, tingles trailing up and down my legs as I try to pinpoint what’s wrong, because things aren’t right. I’m not even sure where the hell I am.
The nerve-racking ignorance only lasts a few more seconds before my eyes fly open and I sit upright, already queasy at the thought of having to endure this day. I can avoid it for a bit longer by not looking at my messages until after I shower.
Nope. My hands might as well be controlled by a puppeteer because they reach for my phone before I know I’m doing it.
First the texts. Hana’s compassion lifts off the screen, a foil to my sister’s question marks and note telling me to grow up. Yuko with a virtual hug via emoji. My dad, wanting to know how I plan to convince Richard to give me my job back.
The emails. One from Karina the communications manager that gets instantly deleted. Ines casually mentions that Yesterly and Havings assigned a new lawyer and she’s looking forward to my return. Spam messages reminding me it’s time to take advantage of sales. There are also a stream of messages from Starrys who must have figured out my address from other Yesterly and Havings emails. These I delete en masse without doing more than glancing at the all-capped and unflattering subject lines. Then I remove my Yesterly and Havings account from my phone for good measure.
I refuse to look at social media and drag my ass out of bed to make coffee, each step taking all my focus. Rinse the mug. Rifle through the pods to find a dark roast. Insert pod. Swear at forgotten water. Add water, reinsert pod. Watch the little dial show me how long it will take until the water heats.
Don’t think of anything else. Only each drip of coffee.
The mug comes into the shower with me, where hot water beats down on my head as I sip the gradually diluting and increasingly soapy espresso.
Everything happens as it should. I check out and pay. Get in a cab and go to Incheon. Check in. Wander around the beautiful airport staring mindlessly at gate numbers and duty-free stores and dodging fellow travelers. The day is bright and sunny, and the clear blue sky through the windows makes me feel small and leaden.
In the business-class lounge, the first thing I do is look for Jihoon, because that’s what should happen, right? He comes rushing in to reveal his love and atone for the error of his ways by filling the lounge with surprise flowers and balloons. There might be a band. There should absolutely be one, since he’s in a goddamn band that he values over everything. At least an acoustic guitar.
There’s no band. No flowers except for some decorative willow branches in vases. The only people are bored business travelers pecking at devices and adjusting their dark suits. That’s when it hits me that we are done.
I go into the bathroom and cry.
Not for long, though, because I have things to do. Once I take my red and puffy eyes back to the lounge, I delete Jihoon’s information, feeling nothing as my fingers tap him out of my life. I tell Hana I’m good but need some space. Then I run out of steam.
Luckily, the lounge is fancy and filled with distractions like elegant little matcha cakes and mochi and a bar. I very carefully hide my phone in my bag and down three vodka sodas before I board the plane and fall asleep.