I didn’t know she’d lived there. They sip their wine, and Phoebe fidgets. “Can I put on the TV or some music?” she asks. “In the background.”
“God, yes.” I didn’t realize how heavy silence could be until Imoved away from home. Noise is a social lubricant, like alcohol, pets, or extroverts.
After a brief struggle, she connects her phone to the screen and starts running a playlist. “Hope you don’t mind pop music,” she says. “It’s been a hell of a year, and the algorithm decided I needed to listen to the uppest of the upbeat.”
The screen erupts into blue light before settling on five stunning Asian men staring seductively at the camera.
“K-pop, Pheebs? Really?” The old nickname comes out before I can think, but Phoebe doesn’t seem to notice.
“The playlist picked it, but I bet it’s catchy,” Phoebe says.
“It’s designed to be.”
“Is there anything you can’t be judgy about?” Phoebe looks honestly interested, like this is a question of great importance to her.
“I’m not judgy.”
“Sure you’re not.”
The music is familiar. “Were you playing this the other day?” I turn to Jihoon. Instantly I feel terrible about subjecting him to my argument with Phoebe and what I said about the music,which is his job,Ari, you bonehead.
He’s tucked himself into the corner of the couch and is staring at the screen with blank eyes as if disassociating. “It’s StarLune,” he says. “The song is called ‘Candor.’”
“Hey, that’s the band I asked you about.” It’s familiar because it’s on Alex’s playlist. I can consider this research for my new role with Hyphen.
Phoebe looks at the screen. “That blue-haired singer looks a bit like you, from what I can see.” The men all have extremely artistic makeup that acts almost like a mask, complete with facial gems.
I give her a look, and she rolls her eyes. “Obviously I don’t mean that in anall Asians look the sameway,” she says, waving her hand at her face.
“I get that sometimes,” Jihoon says before he drinks down half his glass and hiccups.
“Great smoky eye,” Phoebe and I say at the same time. We stick our fists out at each other without looking. “Jinx,” we say in unison, and I get a flash of warm memory. That was one of the best feelings: a fleeting moment of someone getting you perfectly, like two waves coming in sync.
They start dancing again, and I whistle. “Did you see the one on the right?” I exclaim. “Black hair.”
“Do you see how he moves those hips?” asks Phoebe.
It’s hard to miss. There’s a moment of silence when I wonder if it’s appropriate host behavior to be gawking at a video of hot men in front of my guest—also an attractive man, don’t get me wrong. As the performer completes an illegally hot body roll, Phoebe says, “God, did he vacuum seal those pants on his thighs?” She turns to Jihoon. “Do you know his name?”
His mouth is a thin line. “They call him Kay. He’s known for his dancing.”
Phoebe doesn’t answer because we’re busy admiring Kay flash his abs, which have stylistic flames painted across the lean muscle. Although Kay the Dancer is hot, my eyes are drawn to the blue-haired singer. It’s something about how he moves, and yeah.
That guy is unreal.
“Not so bad, huh?” Phoebe elbows me.
I give in. “I stand corrected.”
The song finishes and goes into “My Favorite Things” fromThe Sound of Musicbecause, of course Phoebe’s playlist would be as unpredictable as she is. My sister proceeds to bombard Jihoon with questions. What does he do all day? How long is he staying? He wilts a bit under the cross-examination but manages to answer to her satisfaction. Then comes the next volley. Does he live with roommates or on his own? Has he done his military service? What does he love?
This is the first question that Jihoon balks at. “Love?”
Phoebe is intent as she always is when digging past what she sees as the bourgeois bullshit of small talk to get to the real person. “You’re on a deserted island. What’s the thing you’d do even though no one is there?”
Jihoon’s gaze goes hazy, as if he’s looking at the white sand and palm trees. Imaginary deserted islands are always tropical because no one’s going to pretend to be on some cold rock in Baffin Bay even as a mental exercise. “Music,” he says finally. “I would write music.”
“Do you do that now?” she asks.
