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“A Korean person would be the last one to scoff at you for that. We are always seeking our parents’ approval. It’s literally the gas in our engines. At the age of fifty, my father would still bow to his mother, still take direct orders from her. One Chuseok, she said she didn’t like his tie—it was one that had pumpkins on it. I’d picked it out with Eomma. He took it off and I never saw it again.”
“Well.”
“Well,” he agrees, a small sympathetic smile dotting the corners of his mouth. The barest hint of his dimple peeks through.
I’ve never felt this comfortable with anyone before. It’s as if there is no flaw, no admission that I can make that will turn him from me.
“If I confessed that I’d killed someone, what would you do?” I ask suddenly.
“I’d likely ask where the body was. If there is no body, it’s hard to convict someone.”
My throat gets tight. “I haven’t had that hard a time here. I met Yujun from Seoul after all.”
He smiles wider; the dimple grows deeper.
“Will you come to visit me in America?” The thought of never seeing him again slices through me.
“Of course. Will you return?”
“Yes.” The sooner the better.
“Even though your experiences here haven’t been the best?”
“What are you saying? I love it here.”
We both laugh. His hand comes up to cup my face. “Hara-ya, I believe in fate. Our red strings are tied together somehow. It’s not a coincidence that we met at the airport. It was meant to be. We Koreans are a romantic people. We like couple clothes and one true pairings. First loves. Destiny. First snowfalls where you meet your love. Come back in the fall and see the winter with me, Hara-ya.”
I lean forward and kiss him. And the feeling of his lips on mine explodes in my chest. Unfurls like one of those midnight blooms that open under the moonlight. It’s Paris in the rain, the desert under the moonlight. It’s Iowa in the fall when the leaves turn golden red and the air is crisp. It’s Seoul with its gray skies, tall buildings, constant rumble of car engines on the pavement, the lapping of the river against the shore. It’s the rolled r’s and the guttural emphasis, the smell of fish cakes deep-fried and salty. It’s his taste, his warmth, his long fingers spread across my cheek, angling my head so he can drive the kiss deeper. I could heal under this. Under him. Under the hot Seoul sun. The same place that wounded me so long ago could cover the sore I tried to pretend for so long never existed.
The tears come, hot and furious and so out of place I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste the salt on my lips. I pull back and try to wipe the wetness away, but the tears are like a flood bursting through a dam, and a little finger or two isn’t going to stem the deluge.
“I don’t cry,” I say, weeping.
“Of course not.” His smile is tender and it makes me weep even harder. I don’t even know what I’m crying about. Is it Pat’s death? Is it Lee Jonghyung’s death? Is it Ellen’s betrayal? Is it Wansu? Is it me feeling like I don’t belong in the one place I thought I could call home? Is it that I found Yujun, who has suddenly become so precious and vital to me, but that I’m about to leave him to go back to my boring existence where I fill my cup with books and television shows? I feel like I’m crying for everything at the same time. My nose starts to run and my chest and throat ache. My knees begin to buckle. Yujun catches me and pulls me against his chest, pressing my face against his shirt. He tries to dry my face with his own hands, but he doesn’t have enough fingers, so he pulls a tie out of his pocket and presses the expensive silk against my eyes.
“I’ve never kissed a girl until she’s cried before. Not even as a kid.”
“I’m going to pretend that you’ve never kissed anyone until me because I feel fragile right now and the thought of you with other girls is a little too much.” I snivel into the silk.
“It would be the truth.” He places an arm on either side of me, a protective shield against the outside. “Plus, you are the only woman I’ve allowed to use my Hermès tie as a handkerchief.”
I laugh but a sob catches in my throat, choking off the sound. Yujun pats my back until I stop coughing.
Someone comes over and says something to Yujun. He answers in English, probably for me. “She dropped her phone in the river.”
“You should buy her a new one,” admonishes the woman.
