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CHAPTER SEVEN
“Wow,” says the petite blonde who comes down to open the gate. “Is that your boyfriend? And, not to be rude, but why are you staying with us? He should be putting you up. I’m Anna, by the way. Did I already introduce myself? Let me take that. Wait, are you Korean? Annyeonghaseyo, jeoneun Anna-ibnida.”
I catch the “hello” and “Anna” bits, but I’m not sure of the rest of it. “I don’t speak Korean and I’ll handle these cases. The big one weighs as much as you. I packed way too much.”
“I’ll get the small one, then.” Anna darts behind me before I can protest. “I’m the one that is subleasing this place, although we’re not supposed to but since we have an empty bed, why not? You aren’t going to throw any wild parties with your chaebol boyfriend, are you?”
“Who has a chaebol boyfriend?” asks a new voice from inside.
“Our new girl.” Anna jerks a thumb toward me as I lug my suitcase up over the threshold. A half dozen shoes—mostly sneakers with their backs folded down—are scattered along the small entrance.
“A chaebol?” The taller girl leans her frame up against the wall and watches as I slip my shoes off. “Which one? I’m Jules, by the way.”
“Don’t know. Which one?” Anna asks as she turns to me.
Since I have no idea what Anna is talking about—chaebol is not on the list of things Boyoung has taught me—I shrug. “He gave me a ride here as a favor.” It’s a little shading of the truth, but to admit I climbed into a car with a total stranger in a foreign country would create an image I’m not enthusiastic about. The farther Yujun is from me, the more foolish my actions appear. “I don’t even know what a chaebol is.”
“Oh, you speak English.”
“She does,” Anna says. “American, right? She’s American,” Anna confirms without me saying a word. I guess I look it. Or smell it. Surreptitiously, I sniff my shoulder.
“Did you two meet when he was overseas for college? All the rich kids go to America for college, where they smoke weed and have orgies.”
“Sometimes England, too,” interjects Jules.
“Yes. Oxford, Cambridge, Imperial College London. Anything that sounds Western is impressive.”
I feel like I’m getting a crash course in some sort of cultural context, but it’s zipping over my head.
“Technically, a chaebol is a company, not a person, but it’s shorthand for anyone who doesn’t have to suffer the ills of helljoseon,” says Jules. I nod even though I don’t know what helljoseon is, though I can guess after climbing the hill.
“You’re scaring her,” Anna chides. “Seoul is like any big city. There are good parts and bad parts. You see fewer of the bad parts if you’re rich.”
“The good parts have elevators instead of stairs.” Jules points upward.
Chaebol or no, Yujun did me a huge favor lugging my suitcase up the hill. I lift the fifty-pound behemoth past the shoes and over the small threshold onto the main floor. Hopefully, I only have to go up one flight of stairs. I may not make it if there’s more than that.
“Don’t mind Jules. She had one bad experience with a guy and now she hates all of them.” Anna sets the smaller case on the wooden floor and swipes her blond hair away from her eyes.
“I do not.” Jules lifts the carry-on and sets it at the base of the stairs. “But the first thing you should know about Korean guys is that while they remember shit like the first date and celebrate little things like your hundred-day anniversary and bring you pretty gifts, they’re as terrible as American men. It’s a universal truth. Jane Austen wrote about it.”
“I thought she said the universal truth was that a single man with money wanted a wife,” I reply.
“Exactly. They want a wife, not love. Besides, it doesn’t matter because the good ones aren’t going to marry a foreigner anyway, although it might be different for you because you’re Korean.” Jules’s eyes narrow as she inspects me.
“It was a ride,” I protest.
“Stop grilling her.” Anna shakes her head. “She just got here.”
“I’m trying to prepare her.”
“Do it later.” Anna starts up the stairs with the small case, waving her hand for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room. It’s up on the third floor, so you might want to unpack down here and carry your stuff up in smaller batches.”
Filled with the foolish confidence of someone who is eager to escape an uncomfortable situation, I tighten my hand on my suitcase. “Nah, I’m good.” By the second floor, my arm feels like a noodle and I’m beginning to regret so many things, such as why I didn’t listen to Anna, who lives here and has trekked up these stairs multiple times. I should learn to be less hardheaded.
