“It’s not a ranking but more a role in the band.”
I lower my head, trying to grasp this, as he continues, “Other channels have shown StarLune’s airport footage, and they’re always masked, or it’s concert footage. It’s hard to see Mr. Choi’s face, so I don’t think your parents will make the connection if they see it on the news.”
That’s a relief, although I’m more worried about people finding out about my parents than them finding out I brought an idol to dinner. “What about Jihoon?”
Alex looks confused. “What about him?”
I swallow hard because, even though I didn’t answer the door when he knocked, I’ll be unhappy (devastated) if he leaves before we talk. “Has he left for home yet?”
“No.” Alex pauses. “We’ve been trying, but he refuses to go until he sees you.”
“What?”
“You heard me, and the others won’t go without him.” Alex coughs. “Not going to lie here, you’d be doing me a real solid if you talk to him so we can get them all out of Toronto. The Seoul team is much better equipped to deal with this, plus once he’s gone, this should die down quickly.”
“Tomorrow.” I know I need to talk to him again, but I’m drained and also not ready. I want to do more research into who he is first so I can be prepared.
Alex frowns. “It would help me a lot. I can’t stress how much it will help if you talk to him as soon as possible. Right now, for instance.”
“I said tomorrow. First thing, I promise.”
I escape Alex, dragging my shopping bags into my room and noting the heavy security in the main room even though we’re in a private penthouse condo. Jihoon won’t leave until we talk, which goes far toward mollifying me. It’s a bad situation, and ignoring Jihoon and Hana and cutting them both out of my life—I can’t forgive one and not the other for the same transgression—isn’t a reasonable answer. Well, it might be, but it’s not a productive one, even though the juvenile part of me wants to do it to make a point.
The same way I did with Phoebe for years and look how happy that made me. I shove that thought away like I do so many others. It’s better that way. Or easier, at least in the moment.
Twenty-Three
Alone in my room, I take stock of my surroundings. It’s a homier version of an elegant hotel room, minus the branded pens and tip envelope and plus real art on the walls. The floors are deep oak and strewn with patterned area rugs that have a silken slide when I walk over them. After hanging up my new clothes in the closet—which comes with a mirror that illuminates different light settings depending on whether you want to know what you look like in daylight, dim light, or blacklight—I head for the shower.
It’s like washing in a showroom. Both sinks are formed from a single block of pale stone with only a slight dip under the faucet. To someone used to a more plebeian white porcelain basin, it’s unnerving in its flatness and lightning drainage speed. A full-size set of toiletries from Amorepacific lines up against the tiled wall as if Hyphen keeps this place fully stocked and waiting for VIPs.
I analyze the shower and its multitude of jets before checking the digital pad and tapping the all-over clean, regular heat option. Water flies in from every direction, even angled up from the floor high enough to hit your calves. The steam is magically fanned away before it escapes the stall. I take a shower long and hot enough to boil the day out of my very body and breathe in the smell of money via body washes.
They’ve even given me the option of rough or fluffy organic cotton towels.
After a thorough slathering with a floral-scented lotion so light it absorbs on contact, I pull on the new pajamas, braid my hair, and clamber into bed with my laptop.
I’m in research mode, and it feels good. I’m in control again.
The first thing I discover is that StarLune has put out an astounding amount of content. I click through pages of interviews, vlogs, music videos, award show and concert footage, dance practices, and relay dances. There are variety show clips, including one where they’re all performing in unison while inexplicably dressed in inflatable vegetable costumes. This I watch for sheer entertainment value, but it’s not subtitled, and I have no clue what the context, purpose, or public reaction is. This could be a normal thing for K-pop bands to do or wacky beyond belief. Jihoon is a turnip. Kit is a leek, or possibly a napa cabbage. There are thought pieces about their impact and why they’re the best or most terrible band in the world.
Then there’s the fan content—podcasts and reaction videos and fan cams. There are compilations and profiles and then more videos of band members. There are listicles and lyric translations and GIFs galore and so many inside jokes, I can’t even.
I have to. I tap my fingers on my laptop and ponder how to prioritize this information fire hose. The first thing I should do is know all their names. That’s an easy search that brings me to a useful starter video.
Two hours later, my eyes are burning and my head is spinning because I have consumed alotof video. This isn’t only a world I’ve been unaware of but an entire universe. I put the laptop aside—the fan has been whirring at a concerning volume for the past ten minutes—and try to calm down.
Alex and the others weren’t exaggerating. Now that my eyes are open, I can’t believe StarLune existed and I had only the barestinkling. The small sphere of life I’ve been content with knowing is shameful compared to what I’ve missed. The degree of fame Jihoon has achieved is more than I can comprehend. According to aRolling Stonearticle, he’s one of the most famous men in the world. Their top videos have over a billion views.
The sleeping video he mentioned is both legit and up to thirty million views. Thirty million people wanted to watch him take a freaking nap. Or ten million people watched it three times or three million ten times each. Any way I slice it, a lot of people were personally invested in watching a guy lie there with his eyes shut.
What bugs me most is that if I had paid more attention to Alex, I wouldn’t currently be trying to splash my way out of this pool of ignorance. If I had done the research right away instead of putting it off to the last minute, I’d have recognized Jihoon and his band of merry men. This is what I get for worrying about the clients I wanted instead of the ones I had.
I open the laptop and dive back in to avoid thinking about this. A video of Jihoon singing comes up. Curious, I click it.
Jihoon—Min—is astonishing. There’s no other word. The clip is from a concert, and he sings a solo as he dances alone on the stage. When his deep voice goes breathy, it traces along my skin. He moves with smooth effortlessness that must take years of work to achieve.
I can’t deal with this. It’s time to call in the big guns. I grab my phone. Hana is at my door in less than five minutes.
