Six
When we get home, Jihoon waves me away when I reach for my wallet and pays the cab driver. I idly watch a group of dude-bros barrel down the sidewalk, slapping each other on the back for no apparent reason. Dad is safe, so I shouldn’t be worried, but it’s not like I can schedule my anxiety.
Jihoon walks around the back of the cab to join me, but I don’t want to go in. The thought of being cooped up in the apartment is unbearable. “I’ll be up soon,” I say. “I’m going for a walk.”
He glances up the now-empty street. “May I come?” he asks, pulling his mask down slightly.
“It’s getting late.” It’s almost ten.
“I don’t mind, and I’ve spent a week lazing around.” He touches my arm so lightly, I barely feel it. “I’d like to join if you want company.”
I’m ready to say no out of habit, but he rocks back on his heels as if nervous about getting rejected. It would be good to have company, and Jihoon has a comforting quality, present but not intrusive. “Sure.”
We head down a small side street. Each step lessens my fear about Dad a bit more. Mom said he’s fine, and she wouldn’t lie. Beside me, Jihoon respects my silence and strolls along looking curiously at the houses we pass. He pauses at one decorated with disco balls along the front porch and turns when I point at the car parked out front in the street, an old Chevy that’s been bedazzled to within an inch of its life. The steering wheel is lined with fake fur, and a small hula girl bobble figure sits on the dash. “I don’t know if these would be fun or nightmare neighbors,” he says thoughtfully.
We decide against peeking into the front window and move on, slowly creating a story about the house and its occupants. By the time we’ve walked two more blocks, it’s stretched to incorporate a hidden entrance to an underground cavern, spaceships, and a taco truck, and as we try to one-up each other, Jihoon relaxes further. When I stop to create an elaborate sketch, using a stick and some dirt, of the aliens who live in the space taco truck, he laughs loud enough to startle a nearby cat.
“Your aliens are hideous,” he says with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and illuminates his whole face. “Here, give me the stick.”
“Yours are worse,” I inform him when he’s done.
He frowns. “They really are. I blame the stick. It wasn’t sharp enough.”
I haven’t laughed like this in a while, and it’s tinged with guilt that I’m enjoying myself while Dad’s in the hospital. Shouldn’t I be lurking in a dark bedroom, feeling morose?
Jihoon glances down at me. We’re under a streetlight, and the shadows play on his face, highlighting the geometric planes and corners of his features. “Ari?” Even his tone seems different, almost softer.
I take a step but stop at the slight pull on my sleeve. All his movements are gentle and precise. “What?” I ask.
“Something is bothering you.”
“Well, my Dad’s in the hospital,” I snap. I can’t help it. The best defense is a good offense when it comes to feelings.
“I know. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t lift his gaze, and I twist around uncomfortably until it’s clear we aren’t moving until I spill something.
“Being out here is nice,” I say finally, staring at the sky to avoid looking at him. The streetlights block any stars that might be out.
“That’s good. You need to distract yourself.”
I snort. “No, that’s the point. Isn’t it wrong to be having fun when he’s sick?”
“You feel guilty.”
“I guess.”
“What do you think you should be doing instead of this?”
Three dark pines partially obscure the gate in front of the house across the street. “I don’t know,” I say. “Sitting around being sad in solidarity?”
“Would that please your father?”
This makes me laugh. “Only if I’m also working. Otherwise he’d consider it a wicked waste of time when I should be trying to get promoted.”
I start walking again, not wanting to elaborate. Normal people would let it go at this, understanding that it’s a sensitive topic.
Jihoon doesn’t. “He wants you to succeed.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” I get the feeling that I could drape myself in a gigantic red flag to warn Jihoon off but he’d ignore it to get the bottom of something he found important.
We turn left and into a small park. I’d never go there alone at night, but with Jihoon, I feel safe enough to cross through. We walk along the well-lit path to where it branches into a small stand of birch trees. I pause at the fork for a moment before deciding to go straight.
“My parents want the same thing,” he says finally. “For me to be a success. You know my mother and Hana’s are sisters?”
“I did. Are they similar?”
He makes a noncommittal noise, which I take as a tacit agreement. “I grew up in Busan but wanted to do an arts training program in Seoul when I was a teenager. My parents were against it. They wanted me to stay in school so I could get a stable government job that would last my whole life.”
“You live in Seoul, so I assume you ignored them?”
Jihoon kicks a small pebble out of the way. “When I left, there was much drama. My mother refused to speak to me for a year. My father told me how disappointed he was in my choice every time I called home.”
“You stuck with it, though.”
“I did.” Jihoon takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. “It was hard, but I knew what I wanted. I made some friends and began to learn what I needed to know.”
“How do your parents feel now?”
He laughs. “I made a career for myself, but my field has high turnover. They still think I should have taken a government job.”
This makes me laugh, too. “Parents.”
“You can’t do anything for your father now. You have nothing to feel guilty for.”
“Yet I do.” It’s about eleven now, and the warm night combined with our solitude makes me more open than I would normally be.
Jihoon touches our shoulders together. “Hearts are strange things. They never do what you wish. Never take the easy path.”
“No. Let’s cut them out as sacrifices to the god of doing the right thing.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I’d take the heart and its twists and turns over feeling nothing, though. Wouldn’t you?”
I think of my role model, Meredith, who would rather die than express an emotion. Before I need to answer, we emerge onto a busy street and get crowded to the side as we pass groups of laughing people barhopping.
We head east, but I’m distracted by my companion, who has started walking with his face pointed at the ground. All I can see is the brim of his hat. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, an impressive feat given how tight his pants are, and his shoulders are pulled inward as if he’s trying to look smaller. It’s how I’d expect someone in a witness protection program to navigate the world.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“What?” He swivels his head up and promptly walks into a fence that partly blocks the sidewalk. I do my best not to laugh, but his expression as he warily eyes the area for more obstacles is priceless.
“You look a little anxious.”
This makes him look more anxious. “I’m fine.”
“Sure.” We keep walking—me normally, him not. I wonder if Hana’s been completely honest about his sudden departure from Seoul. Maybe it wasn’t a breakup but something more exciting like running from the mob with rows of diamonds and cocaine sewn into his very fitted jeans.
Clearly preposterous, Ari.
But…he did arrive suddenly. Very suddenly.
“The other day I learned the strangest thing. There’s a mobster museum in Las Vegas.” I watch him carefully, but he doesn’t react to the word mobster.
“There is?”
“I bet there might be one for jopok somewhere. Or the triads or yakuza. The Mafia.” I dangle every organized crime name I know like candy.
No change of expression except slight interest as he stops at a window display of artisanal cheeses. Then he gives me a conspiratorial look. “Did you know that one man rules Seoul’s underworld? They say he’s too young to manage it, but he has the city under his thumb. He disappeared recently. The city is in turmoil because all the gangs are turning on each other.”
“What?” I stare at him.
“He’s said to be as witty as he is brilliant. Well-dressed. Charmingly handsome, especially with black hair.”
“Very funny.”
I feel myself go red, but then he gives me an exaggeratedly wicked wink, exactly as a sleazy rich son would give before climbing into a Lambo, and it makes me laugh. He looks pleased with himself. “I’m only a man who needed a change.”
He sniffs the air as we pass a burrito food truck. “Hungry?” I ask, to change the topic. “I like this place.”
He’s reading the menu. “Chana masala burritos? Chicken wing burritos.”
“I promise they’re good.”
“Ice cream burritos.” Jihoon looks suspicious. “Really?”
“They’re better when you’re drunk,” I admit. “Even sober, you won’t regret it, cross my heart and hope to die.”
His eyebrows rise. “Dramatic for a burrito. You order for us. I like surprises.”
I shudder. I hate surprises.
I order two burritos to share: the tofu and the pasta. We take the silver-wrapped rolls to a bench on the corner. The streetlight is broken, making it feel dim and intimate, with the people walking by on the sidewalk becoming performers in a show we’re watching.
My conversation defaults to Canadian Standard Basics: Occupation Query. “Hana didn’t mention what you do for a living.”
He hesitates. “I’m in the entertainment industry.”
“Ah, that’s what you meant about your parents wanting a more stable field.”
He nods as he inspects the pasta burrito. It’s packed with cheese ravioli and mini vegetarian meatballs in sugo that’s been covered with parmesan before being rolled in a spinach tortilla. “It’s competitive.”
“Entertainment. Do you work in K-dramas?”
He takes a bite, then another. “It’s good,” he says in shock. “Dramas aren’t your thing? You liked the one we watched.”
“Hana loves them, but generally I find them too melodramatic.”
Jihoon raises his eyebrows. “This from the woman who thought I was a mobster.”
“I never said that, but in my defense, you wear a mask and hat everywhere. What should I think?”
“That I value good sun protection,” he says with a serious expression.
“It’s night.”
“They also keep me warm.”
“In the summer?”
He clears his throat. “Back to your dislike of K-dramas.”
“I don’t have a lot of time, and the episodes are movie length. Is that what you work on?”
He shakes his head. “I’m a music producer and a songwriter.”
Interesting. “Any songs I’d know?”
Jihoon glances away. “How well do you know K-pop?”
I frown. “Not at all, but I need to learn more for a client. Have you heard of a band called—” I falter for a moment, trying to remember. “Starry?”
The tofu burrito has a wasabi mayo that I forgot to warn him about until he bites in, sniffs, and gets glassy-eyed. He said he liked surprises, but I assume that doesn’t include a horseradish-based chemical burn in his nasal passages. I pass him a napkin. “Sorry, I should have told you about the wasabi.”
After recovering, Jihoon says, “The band you’re thinking about is StarLune.”
“That’s the one. I hear they’re popular. Do you like them?”
He pauses. “You never heard of StarLune?”
“They came up for work, but I don’t listen to much music in general.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t listen to music or watch shows?”
“I do, but not a lot. I do better when it’s quiet.” One of the assistants at the office always has a murder podcast playing, and I have no idea how she concentrates.
He shakes his head. “What about graphic novels? Webtoons?”
“No.”
“Video games?”
“Please.”
“Podcasts?”
“BBC World Service.”
“Movies?”
“Only if it’s action for the special effects. I don’t pay twenty bucks for dialogue.”
“Books?” He sounds frantic.
I glare at him. “Yes, I read.”
Jihoon closes his eyes with relief. “I thought we would have to stop being friends.”
It’s churlish to point out that we’ve known each other about ten days and are hardly deep into friend territory, so I don’t.
“I work a lot,” I excuse myself. “All that media takes time. An hour of TV a night and games on your phone and a movie on the weekend? Let’s say that comes to sixteen hours a week.” I work the numbers. “Thirty-four solid days a year of casual content consumption. That’s time an entertainment company controls instead of me.”
We’re done eating, so we gather up our trash. “You don’t get joy from stories?” Jihoon says as we start walking again.
“All I’m saying is there’s a lot of mindless stuff designed to get you hooked so they can sell more.”
“Music and art also bring meaning and help people define their humanity.”
A thin line now divides Jihoon’s dark eyes. I belatedly remember he makes his living in entertainment. “I don’t mean the work you do is useless,” I hasten to assure him.
“Thank you!” He gives me a slight bow. “Very generous.”
I sigh. “I deserved that.”
To my relief, he laughs. “You haven’t found the right thing to touch your heart yet, Ari.”
Again with my name. I didn’t think I needed validation this much, but every time he’s said it tonight, I had a warm sense of being seen. It’s after midnight now, but neither of us suggests going home. It’s like he’s finally decided I’m safe enough to at least have a civil conversation with. More than civil, even. Friendly.
Being with Jihoon is easy, and we start chatting about nothing and everything as the topics come up. We pass a boba store and talk about our favorite bubble tea flavors (rose milk for me, lychee green tea for him). A vet clinic brings up the question of the best animals for pets (cats, unanimous). A convenience store starts us on the best snacks, which quickly turns into a debate over which country has the best selection, Korea or Canada. I have a sure advantage with Coffee Crisp chocolate bars, but Jihoon makes a strong argument for Kkokkalcorn corn snacks.
Jihoon is really listening, even though there’s nothing special about what we’re saying. Hana is amazing, but she has a habit of lapsing into her own head sometimes and not paying attention. I also wouldn’t rank open and easy communication among my own family’s virtues. Jihoon looks at me as I speak and then asks follow-up questions instead of using whatever I say to launch into his own story.
When we hit the subject of roommates (one for both of us), I say, “I met Hana in university. How’d you meet yours?”
“Through work,” Jihoon says. “It’s strange to be without him. We’re at the same company.”
“You don’t find it nice to be alone?” I love Hana but relish having the place to myself. Or did, until she sprung a guest on me.
He kicks at a small rock. “It’s boring. We’ve been together for years, so I feel better when he’s around. My other friends as well.”
Wow, we are very different people. “Why did you come to Toronto, then?” I ask.
His face clouds. “They understood I needed some space away.”
I want to ask more because I can tell there’s a hell of a story behind this epic breakup. I also know I won’t be able to respond with the sensitivity the circumstances, and Hana, would demand, so I back off with a wimpy, “Makes sense.”
Jihoon casts me a doubtful glance, as if waiting for prying questions, but he catches me mid-yawn. “It’s late,” he says. “You have work tomorrow.”
I do, and a fierce irritation overtakes me. I have work tomorrow and the next day and the next and every day until I die.
He sees my expression. “You don’t want to go to work?”
“Doesn’t matter if I do or not,” I say, turning the corner that will take us home.
“It does.”
I pull my hair over my shoulder. “I’m a lawyer. I have to work in an office. That’s how it is, so it doesn’t matter how I feel about it.”
“Law is what you do, Ari. It’s not who you are.”
He draws close to me while we walk, and our hands brush as I consider his words. It’s a nice sentiment out here, wrapped up in the dark with no one around, but Jihoon is wrong. In the morning, I will be the same old me, doing the same old thing because I work so much at my job that it’s become both what I do and who I am.
I guess that’s kind of sad.
But that’s how it is.