Forty-Five
“Hey, Ari.” Alex’s voice comes in a distressingly mild way over my phone as I wait for my luggage in Toronto, headachy, miserable, and with a tongue so dry I can tap Morse code on it. “There’s a bit of an issue.”
“Of course there is. I can get a cab. Is the invitation to the secret condo open?”
“Sorry, that was ambiguous. I’m here. The problem is I’m not alone.”
I get a five-dollar bottle of water from the vending machine and take a sip that gets absorbed into my mouth before I can even swallow. Those vodkas I had in the lounge in Incheon were not the only ones over the course of the flight, and I regret the decisions that brought me to this point because it’s hard to cope when simultaneously drunk and hungover. “Not alone.”
“Looks like someone got your photo at Incheon airport and people here figured out flights. I’m looking at”—I hear some muttered calculations—“yeah, I’d say three camera crews and a good fifty fans.”
“Why?” The luggage conveyor belt starts up, and the first bag drops.
“Do you want me to go into an exposition on the cult of celebrity and parasocial relationships in modern society and how it’s a substitute for the sense of community we lost in the postindustrial era?”
“No. Do they look mad? Like they want to tear me apart?”
He hums. “I’d say curious.”
“Great.”
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You sound bad.”
“Vodka.”
“Shit, Ari.”
“Give me a break, Alex.”
“Did you change, or are you in the black joggers and white shirt you were wearing when you left?”
“How did you know what I was wearing?”
“Social media.”
I don’t even have the energy to be horrified. “Of course I didn’t change.” I sat on my ass ten kilometers up in the sky for a trillion hours being unhappy, watching terrible movies I could barely hear over the thrum of the plane and falling asleep/passing out. Was it a healthy way to cope? Whatever.
“That’s good, I can recognize you. Put your hair in a braid. Have a hat?”
“No.”
“Mask?”
I fish a crumpled one out of my pocket. “Yes, and sunglasses.”
“Good. You’ve seen media footage of what it can be like,” he says. “There will be cameras and noise, people shouting your name. Uh, or other things, so I need you to ignore that and keep walking.”
“What kind of things?”
“I don’t know, ridiculous stuff about leaving Jihoon alone.” He sighs. “Tune it out. If they’re here at the airport to see you, they probably have an unbalanced perspective on their relationship with the band as well.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Go down the right ramp, and I’ll be about three meters away from the convenience store wearing a red hat.”
My first bag slides down to the carousel. “An unusual fashion statement.”
“I’d like to never speak of it again, but there’s a good chance ZZTV will have it plastered on their home page in about eight minutes.”
We hang up. I tug my bags to the floor and make my way to arrivals. Alex wasn’t lying. As soon as the door opens to reveal me, a man calls my name, and a barrage of lights goes off. I don’t know how Alex expects me to keep moving without falling over my feet, but I do my best, even though my eyes are bugging out behind my shades and my back bends with more than the weight of the new clothes in my bags. A woman screams, “Jihoon loves Starrys, not you, loser.” I automatically turn to answer, but a voice sounds beside me.
“C’mon, girl.” I nearly thrust my arm out for protection before I recognize Alex in his red hat. “Let’s go, you’re doing so good. Get your head high, that’s right.”
He takes my bags, continuing to murmur like I’m a skittish horse, and leads me out to a car, where he hands the luggage to a woman and ushers me in. The camera crews have followed us out, and I try not to duck.
He runs his fingers over his head, hideous hat discarded on the seat beside him. “Are you okay?”
“No. That was weird.”
“I know.” His quiet words are sympathetic. We don’t have the kind of relationship where we hug, but that goes out the window with everything else I’ve come to expect from my life when Alex pulls me in close. I bury my face in his expensively clad shoulder and let him pat my back until the hot feeling fades from my eyes. I won’t cry. I won’t.
“Jihoon contacted me,” he says.
I pull away. “When did he turn from Mr. Choi to Jihoon?”
Alex adjusts his lapel. “About the twelfth time I had to field a call from him since yesterday. Hana won’t talk to him, and he was terrified you were in danger. He wants to talk to you.”
This time, I look him right in the eyes. “Mr. Superstar doesn’t always get what he wants.”
“That’s unfair.”
“I appreciate your help in getting me home and through that clusterfuck at arrivals, but screw you, Alex.”
There’s a pause. “I deserved that. What are your plans?”
“To take some time to think.” I’ve never had that. I went from high school to university to law school and straight to work. At graduation, my friends’ parents got them copies of Oh, the Places You’ll Go! with teary handwritten variations of the world is yours, explore and be happy. I got the gratification of meeting expectations.
“You can have Hyphen’s condo for as long as you want. We have some places for you and Hana to look at if you take my very strong suggestion that you move. She said she’s back next week.”
“You spoke to Hana?”
“She wanted to talk about the statement. The yelling made my ears ring.”
We pass the silver silos of the Molson’s brewery, the gigantic Canadian flag hanging limp and dejected. “It was an asshole move for them to do.”
“For us, yes. For them, self-preservation and protecting their investment.” He ponders. “Also, they are kind of assholes.”
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Alex is shaking me awake. “We’re here.”
He comes with me upstairs and points out he had the fridge filled with groceries. Then he tells me to keep a low profile and “for the love of God and your own mental health, don’t go on social media. At least your accounts are private.”
When I’m alone, I put down my bags and lie down on the couch.
Then I cry again, but it’s the last time. I swear.