Nine
Instead of preparing for Who Is Jihoon Day, I sit on the balcony staring at the tops of trees, selfishly wondering what I would plan for a Who Is Ari Day. Hiking? Scavenger hunt? The beach? I pause. Have I ever liked swimming or only thought I should? In fact, most of my thoughts end up boomeranging back to one question: whether I like the things I thought I did.
Such as my job.
I grab my travel notebook and flip through the pages. In Istanbul, I could haggle for saffron in the spice bazaar. In Belize, go cave tubing through a Mayan archaeological site. Visit Tanzania and climb Kilimanjaro. The world offers so many options, and yet I only write them down as I sit here in Toronto with stress and a job I worked years to get in an office that makes me feel like half the person I could be.
Who the rest of that person I’m missing is, I don’t know.
Movement from inside the apartment catches my eye. Jihoon sees me, waves, and comes out to say hello.
“You’ll be late for work,” he says as he leans over the balcony, nose buried in his arms and unrivaled ass curved out as he stretches his hamstrings. He’s in shorts and smells like the synthetic coconut of his sunscreen, which means he’s about to go for his usual eighty-kilometer or whatever run as the healthy person he is.
I check the time. Jihoon’s right; I will be late for work. I haul myself out of my seat. “Duty calls,” I say. “What are you doing today?”
He doesn’t answer, so I don’t press him. I’ve seen the open notebooks around the house, filled with crossed-out lines and doodles and suspect he’s suffering from writer’s block, if that’s something music producers get.
Hmm, artistic block. An idea sparks for what we can do.
When Saturday morning finally comes around, I first call my parents. Dad’s home, and both Phoebe and I have made separate trips to the house. Mom made it clear I wouldn’t be welcome this weekend because she had enough on her plate trying to get him to relax instead of doing his usual weekend tasks.
No surprise, Phoebe hasn’t bothered calling me.
“Are you ready to go?” I call to Jihoon. I’ve sublimated my discomfort at skipping my normal Saturday things into organizing an outing with the precision of a military campaign. “Today we help you find yourself.”
“As long as I can spend the day with you, Ari. That’s all I need.” He glances up as I fix my hair. “Will you leave it down?”
I peer at him, both my arms back and behind my head. “Why?”
“It swings when you move. It’s pretty.”
I hide my flushing face behind my elbow because I like the idea of looking pretty, and that makes me feel like some sort of anti-feminist throwback. “I usually have it tied back for work.”
He gives me a sweet smile. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
I tuck a tie in my pocket just in case but shake my hair so it tumbles to my waist. I instantly feel more like myself with the comforting weight of it distributed rather than always tugging at one spot on the back of my neck.
Jihoon reaches out as if to touch it but then blinks and ducks away. “What’s first?” he asks.
I’m staring at those long fingers, wondering what they’d feel like tangled in my hair. “What?”
“Our day. What’s first?”
I snap out of it. Now is not the time to be fantasizing about Jihoon, although given his breakup, living in Korea, and being my current roommate, I’m not sure when the right time is.
Back to business.
I check over our itinerary for today. I had Yuko help me with some of the details, and she was effusive in her praise of my plan. “Damn, you’re good at this. Can I use these?” she asked, flipping through some of my discarded ideas. “It would totally suit some of our clients when they need to keep people entertained.”
“Go ahead,” I told her. It was only a silly thing for fun anyway.
Five minutes later, we’re ready to go. Jihoon watches me pull on my shoes with an air of polite disapproval, and I check his feet. He’s wearing a pair of spotless sneakers.
“Another pair of Pradas?”
He looks appalled. “These are Balenciaga. Balenciaga!”
Teasing him is too easy, so I lay off and turn away so he can’t hear me laugh.
“Ah, Ari.” He rolls his eyes. “One day I’ll buy you a pair of shoes so cute, you can’t help but adore them.”
I never felt any particular way about my name, but when Jihoon says it, it’s like a caress. I stuff my wallet in my bag. “I don’t need shoes.”
“You can have wants as well as needs.” As I’m about to dissolve into a puddle at the low purr of his voice, he straightens. “Let’s go.”
We get on the subway, and Jihoon watches people from under the low brim of his hat as if he’s been stranded in space and starved for human interaction. Meanwhile I watch him. Jihoon’s face—well, his eyes, which are all I can see over his mask—is so expressive, I can read almost every thought that passes through.
I’m 100 percent confident if there were ever a man unable to outright lie, it’s Jihoon. It’s nice to be with someone like that.
I sit back, the rattle of the subway around me, and relax.
The first stop is a bookstore, and Jihoon peers curiously through the window. “Used books?” he asks.
“Not just any used books,” I correct. “This place has the most random selection I’ve seen.” In front of us is an assortment of books that are visually unified and topically chaotic. A hand-drawn guide to mushrooms of North America is beside an explanation of fencing strategies. A treatise on how to be a competent secretary sits above them.
I usher Jihoon in and let him look around for a few minutes, picking books up curiously, before walking over. “We’re going to play a game today. At each place, the winner gets a point.”
He perks up. “I’m competitive,” he warns me.
“I once refused to talk to Hana for hours because she got a package in the mail before I did.”
Jihoon nods, understanding how serious this is. “I’m ready.”
I take out my notepad from my bag with a flourish. It’s more for the drama, because the game’s pretty simple. “Round one. The perfect book.” I look up. The cashier is staring at her phone, totally uninterested in us, so I continue, “We have two minutes to find the most inspirational book.”
He looks around, hands on his hips. “In cover design or topic?”
“Entire package, and inspirational is broadly defined. Winner decided by mutual consent.”
“The most inspirational book.” He looks down at me. “Why that?”
“You seem frustrated with whatever you’re working on.” I flip through the pages of my notebook, not wanting to meet his eyes because, as usual, what seemed like a good idea at first now seems laced with potential drama. “I didn’t read any of your notes,” I add.
“You can’t,” he points out. “They’re in Korean. You don’t know Korean.”
“There was that, too.” I put the notebook in my bag. “I thought it would be good to find a book to motivate you.”
I avoid looking at him as the silence grows. I completely misjudged him, and my soul collapses down into a black hole of shame. Passions can be difficult creatures, I suppose. I never had one. Making itineraries for fantasy trips I’ll never go on doesn’t count because it’s not serious. I’m about to ask if we should leave in the least defensive way I can muster when he speaks.
“You are observant, Ari. And right. I have been having trouble. Music used to flow, and now there’s nothing but a watery flatness. Nothing to grip.” He tilts his head to the side and rubs the back of his neck, contemplating the shelves before he smiles at me. “It feels better since I’ve been here but not as it should be. I like this idea.”
Emboldened, I raise my eyebrows. “Do you accept the challenge?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure, if you want to be a quitter.”
His eyes narrow. “Set the timer, Ari.”
We separate as the numbers count down, each of us retreating to a different part of the store. I look at a 1970s tome on pickling before turning to a book on road maintenance. Neither seems particularly inspiring to a songwriter, so I pull out another. Bread Sculptures for Fun and Profit. There’s a photo of a toasty golden brown mermaid on a shell, raisins decorating her throat in an edible necklace and almonds covering her like a bra.
I put that in the maybe pile.
Across the store, Jihoon reads through the titles on the shelves. I feel a pang of guilt. I assumed his English was as good when reading as it is speaking, and I hope I didn’t embarrass him. I should have asked; Hana is always telling me to use my words.
He catches my eye, and my knees get sweaty. As we’ve gotten to know each other, Jihoon has become even more attractive. I think he’s starting to stand closer to me when we talk or touch me more, but I’m not sure if it’s wishful thinking. Occasionally, when he laughs or looks at me a certain way, I wonder what he’d do if I caged him against a wall and kissed him. I have that feeling right now, and as if I’m somehow broadcasting my thoughts across the store, Jihoon’s eyes get bigger.
They drift down to my mouth. Or so I think.
Definitely I wish.
My phone softly beeps out the James Bond theme song, which Hana set as a joke, and we both step away from the shelves. Since I’ve been busy mentally undressing Jihoon instead of paying attention, I grab a book without looking and hope for the best.
Jihoon comes over, waving his book triumphantly. “I win,” he declares.
“Not so fast.” I look down at the book in my hand, Theater Interiors for You! “Proscenium arches are very stimulating.”
“Really, Ari?”
I’m ready to defend my terrible choice. “Theaters mean plays and plays are art.” No lie there. Before she left, Hana and I saw Operation Oblivion with Sam Yao and Wei Fangli. It had been stellar, even for a Philistine like me. The chemistry between the two had been off the charts.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m confident.” He shows me his book, which, incredibly, is called Inspirational Exercises for Mental and Physical Strength.
I can’t even be mad at how bad he’s trounced me. “Unbelievable.”
“I know.” He pages through. “It says I should dictate my ideas to a willing helper as I do a handstand to take advantage of the blood flowing to my head.”
“A willing helper?”
“Are you volunteering?” Jihoon touches a finger to my bare arm, and to my horror, I come out in goose bumps.
I do my best to edge away without looking obvious so he doesn’t notice. “I’ll consider it.” Pleased with how steady my voice is, I take him to the back of the store, where a cheery turquoise vending machine sits, and hand him a toonie. “Put it in.”
“A book vending machine?”
“Think of it as an idea generator.”
Bemused, he slots in the coin, then reaches down after the soft thump indicates his prize has been dispensed.
We unwrap the brown paper and look at the book, which is called Hannah, the Story of a Girl.
I gawk at it. “You’ve rigged this store.”
“You could be onto something with this game, Ari.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I’m keeping it for Hana.”
He pays for the first book, and I take both purchases and pack them into my tote. “I’m winning,” he says complacently and, frankly, unnecessarily.
I try not to be sore. Today is about Jihoon. “For now.”
He grins. “We’ll see.”