The Comeback, page 2
I put the phone on the counter and the knife back in the wooden block. After quickly rebuttoning my blazer, I go down the hall and knock on the bathroom door. “Ah. Jihoon?”
“Are you armed?” Now that my fear has abated, I notice he has a deep, raspy voice without much of a Korean accent.
“I put the knife down after Hana vouched for you.”
The door swings inward, and Jihoon, who has skipped back to the far wall to maximize the distance between us, inspects me cautiously. I can spot the family similarity to Hana. Both have the same sharp curve under the eye that dips down to a strong jawline and pointed chin. Under that flawless bone structure, he looks absolutely beat. Dark circles ring his eyes, and the corners of his mouth are tight.
“I’m Ariadne,” I say with the professional smile I activate for work and most social interactions. It’s enough to say, I am friendly and mean you no harm, but not so welcoming as to invite anything further.
“Ariadne.” He comes forward and says my name carefully, pronouncing all the syllables so it sounds like music. “Choi Jihoon.” He bows slightly. There’s an uncomfortable silence until he says, “Am I allowed out?”
“Right.” I step away. “I’ll show you Hana’s room.”
He drags over two of the world’s largest suitcases and closes the bedroom door after giving me a polite smile. Excellent, I don’t have to navigate any awkward conversation and can focus on the memo due tomorrow. The headache that’s been lurking all day starts to take over. I pull out my laptop case, but I’m too distracted to work. Instead I pour a glass of water and bid a silent and mournful farewell to the serene solitude I had planned. A stranger in my space means being social and friendly instead of relaxing with unbrushed teeth and ripped leggings. I’ll have to be “on” all the time, instead of only at work. It’s exhausting to think about, but I agreed and that’s it. I’m stuck.
I finish the water and send Hana a quick text outlining all the ways she owes me. Then, unable to delay it any longer, I put Jihoon out of my mind and open my laptop.
Two
I have an unvarying morning routine that involves a single hit to the snooze button, a mental review of what’s coming in my day, some deep breathing to cope with it, and a struggle to roll myself out of bed. Today, my ritual is interrupted by a text.
Alex: Favor time.
Alex Williams is the public relations vice president for Hyphen Records, and this message bodes ill for me. I stare at the screen with bleary eyes and try to force myself back into a work headspace despite only getting four hours of sleep. I fail.
Me: No
The phone rings, and I pick it up while kicking off my duvet. “No is a complete sentence, Alex. Also it’s six in the morning.”
“No choice. You’re Luxe’s lawyer. Since Hyphen is Luxe’s client, together we have a problem. I technically called this a favor to be nice, but it’s not. Ines said to call you direct.”
The most exhausting yet fascinating of my clients is Luxe, a luxury concierge firm catering to the rich, famous, and supremely dickish. Luxe can source any consumer good or experience for those who can pay, from exclusive dinners to carriage rides with white horses dyed mint green to seeing an acrobatic Argentinian clown troupe perform in a park. It’s owned by Ines, an unflappable woman who goes by one name, like Madonna or Cher. Ines is the only woman I’ve met who can get away with that kind of personal statement, because she has a huge presence that fills every space she enters.
“Did one of your man-child rock stars screw up?” I leave out the again.
“Hey, it’s like we’ve done this before.”
“Give me the details.” It’s as I expected. A band with more fame than brain trashed a snooty restaurant after Luxe wrangled them a private chef’s night. Since Luxe organized the event, it’s their job to take the lead in working with Hyphen’s PR and legal teams to soothe the restaurant and get it all swept under the rug. As Luxe’s lawyer, this has now become my job.
This isn’t as weird as Luxe’s problems sometimes get—their clients can be a toxic combination of imperially demanding and oblivious to social norms—but it’s aggravating to have to drag a bunch of entitled jackasses out of the hole they dug for themselves. One thing I’ve learned working with Luxe is that celebrities are the glitter of humanity: pretty to look at, useless except at parties, and an utter pain to clean up after.
Coffee. I need coffee to deal with Alex’s problems this early. I put on a robe, collect the outfit I set out last night, and open my bedroom door, thinking through what I’ll need from him.
“Alex, do we have the—what the hell?” The phone goes flying as my foot catches on something in the middle of the floor. I land ungracefully on my hands and knees, straddling a warm lump that manages to be simultaneously hard and soft.
It’s Jihoon, and he moans in pain as he struggles beneath me.
“Holy shit!” I plant both hands on his chest but accidentally slam my elbow into the corner of a chair before I can lever myself off him. “Ow.” I collapse, and Jihoon’s warm arms wrap around me, no doubt to protect himself from further injury.
Alex’s concerned squawks sound from under the couch. “Ari, are you okay? Do I need to call the cops?”
I roll off Jihoon to paw for my phone. “Alex, I tripped over my new roommate. Give me a second.”
“Call me back.” Few things faze Alex after a decade in the music industry.
After I hang up, I turn back to Jihoon. “I’m sorry for falling on you, but what were you doing?” My entire arm has a nasty shivery numbness. Jihoon sits up, rubbing his ribs with a grimace, and my brain shorts out because he’s only wearing a pair of low-slung black pants. I don’t even know where to focus my gaze as it moves from the indent between his impressive pectoral muscles to the curve of his shoulders before dipping down to the many, many rows of abs leading to a molded V. I didn’t even think men had that outside of underwear ads, and I’m not ready to deal with this knowledge so early in the morning.
“I was meditating.”
“On the floor?” While shirtless, but that seems like a detail pertinent only to me, so I don’t say it out loud.
“I fell asleep.” He twists to examine the red mark where I kicked him. I try not to gawk and almost succeed until the stylized black tiger tattoo that wraps around his body comes into view, stretching down from his side to cross his lower back. I have no choice but to give it the aesthetic appreciation it deserves because the tiger ripples on Jihoon’s muscles as he moves. It’s art, really.
Then it’s back to business because I should be getting the details on Alex’s dipshit rock stars instead of ogling Hana’s cousin. I’m not even into tattoos.
I give my arm a test bend, and Jihoon turns to me in concern. “Are you hurt?” He reaches out to check my elbow as I suddenly realize my robe has fallen open to reveal my very skimpy tank top. I’m also sitting back on my heels, and my pajama shorts are…well, they’re short.
He freezes, and we sit there eyeing each other for what seems like forever until we jointly come to our senses.
“I’m sorry!” His voice is almost a squeak as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“My fault!” I snatch my robe closed and scramble to my feet. I’m now maximally alert and can skip the coffee, so I try not to let my shorts ride up my ass as I bend to grope around for my dropped clothes. Behind me is a flurry of activity as Jihoon takes off to his room.
Wondering if daily shirtless floor meditation is one of Jihoon’s breakup coping mechanisms—and how I feel about that—I head into the bathroom. I flip on the switch and survey the counter in disbelief. Overnight it’s been turned into a Sephora.
I need to look groomed for work, so I have a standard collection of cosmetics that sit in a drawer, tidily out of sight. Jihoon clearly likes to see all his options, because his skin-care assemblage overflows the counter. I don’t even recognize most of the products, which are presented in stark packaging that makes the serums and creams look like serious pharmaceuticals. Long cylinders of white and silver stand in a group next to sleek black tubs of various masks. Most have Korean labels, but the ones in English wouldn’t be out of place in a chemistry class. Hyaluronic acid. Peptides. Niacinamide.
No wonder he looks so good. I peer into the mirror, noting the bags under my eyes and the freckles dotting my face from years of sun exposure thanks to my parents’ 1990s disdain for any UV-blocking product. Am I growing a hair on my chin?
It’s only a cat hair. That’s one beauty crisis averted, although we don’t have a cat, so where it came from is another question. A cold shower helps settle me, and after I answer a few emails from Alex between fitting my hair into its usual bun and spackling on my work face, I’m ready to go.
Jihoon is in the kitchen. We both pull up short. Now that my adrenal glands are not pumping my body with fear hormones, I can take better stock of him.
Even like this, puffy from sleep and travel, hair a tousled bird’s nest, and wearing a huge green hoodie that reaches midthigh, he’s almost surreally attractive. He has monolid eyes like mine but much bigger, and as Hana had indicated, his eyebrows are a testament to meticulous grooming. His lower lip is almost pouty, it’s so full. I could only hope to achieve lips like that through cosmetic surgery or painstaking hours in front of a mirror with products designed to plump, sculpt, and highlight. His features look large on his smallish triangular face, which would look incredible in photographs, the same as Hana. Even in real life, I want to keep watching him.
He looks down at the sink, and I realize my open staring is rude as hell.
“Hi,” I say, trying to act casual and as if we haven’t already seen each other half naked. At least I’m in the armor of my work clothes. I can handle anything dressed like this, even though Hana sometimes calls it my corporate-android look.
“Good morning, Ariadne.” His voice is so low, I almost can’t hear him. Hana said he was quiet, and it hits me that he might be shy.
“You can call me Ari.” I summon up the power of the structured blazer to cover the fact that I don’t know what to say to him either. “Are you finding everything you need?” I sound like a flight attendant.
“Yes, thank you.” He sounds like a man talking to a flight attendant.
“Good.” I want to be polite, but he should know I won’t be around a lot. “I’m going to be late at work, but help yourself to anything in the kitchen. If you don’t feel like cooking, I can tell you a few good places to eat around here.”
“I’d like that.” He looks relieved to be left on his own, and I try not to take it personally, since it’s what I want as well.
The lure of being able to give a visitor tips to enjoy the neighborhood outweighs the threat of running late. After all, I was up at six to deal with Alex’s problem. I can get into the office at 7:45 instead of 7:39. I’ll still be the first in.
I grab a pad and sketch out a quick walking map, noting restaurants in the area, where the subway stop is, and my favorite local hangouts. I love doing travel itineraries for people. I even have a special notebook where I log interesting places. It’s silly because I’ve rarely left the province, but it’s the perfect escape from…I’m not sure from what. It’s a waste, since time is money when you work with billable hours, but sometimes dreaming about those urban spice markets or white-capped blue waters is what gets me through the day.
I snatch the thoughts of all those appealing places and roll them up into a tidy package before tucking them away. Those things exist for later, if later ever comes.
“Here’s my number.” I jot it down as an afterthought. “You should give me yours as well.”
I give him my phone, and he pauses for an almost insultingly long time before putting in his number. Then he takes the map I hold out and aims a polite smile at my feet. “Thank you,” he says.
I nod at him before going out the door. My attention has already narrowed in on the day’s concerns, none of which have to do with tiger-tattooed men or scenic vistas. So it’s annoying that I keep thinking of both those things instead of preparing for my client meeting. I shake my head and return my attention to my screen. No use—I’m distracted by my screen saver, a cityscape of Buenos Aires.
I should have read Dad’s article about keeping focus after all.
Three
Wednesday, 7:13 a.m.
Living with my new roommate is like living with a ghost. I assume his jet lag causes him to wake at odd hours, because I rarely see him, although I sense traces of his existence. Whenever we see each other, caution emanates off him like he’s wearing an electric fence jacket. He’s watchful, taking my measure, and I would be lying if I didn’t find this irritating in my own house, where he’s a visitor.
Thursday, 7:58 a.m.
Three cups of ramen fell on my head when I opened the cupboard foraging for coffee this morning. I text Jihoon when I get to work.
Me: You like ramen.
Jihoon: Yes. Ramyeon is a Korean food group.
Me: I’m not a fan, particuflarly when it falls on me. Can you put them away properly?
Jihoon: I’m sorry.
He adds a GIF of a sad cat for emphasis. It makes me smile, but only a bit because how hard is it to put ramen away so it doesn’t fall out? It’s shelf-stable in multiple ways. I ponder possible responses and send back a cat with a noodle cup on its head. Amusing, but also—don’t let noodles drop on me.
Friday, 10:10 a.m.
I rub my neck as I turn away from my computer, wondering what to tackle next. Work is a hydra of tasks to be completed. The moment a project closes or the email is sent, another seven pop up the queue, ready to take its place. Even if I did miraculously finish everything, there would be that nagging sensation I should be doing more.
Before I can decide, the phone rings. It’s Alex with good news: Hyphen Records is expanding and wants to bring me on retainer.
I cheer up because bringing in new work looks very good indeed, even if a record label isn’t as high-profile as some of Yesterly and Havings’s more blue-chip accounts. Then he asks what I know about K-pop.
“K-pop?” I draw a blank but think fast. “It’s pop music. From Korea.”
The silence on the other end is enough for me to know my answer was sorely lacking. Finally Alex says, “Hyphen works with one of the big Korean entertainment companies to distribute their artists in North America.”
“I’ll study up,” I promise. I’ve learned about glass installation and cat food (not together) for other clients. I can watch some music videos for Hyphen.
“Newlight Entertainment’s biggest band is StarLune,” he says. “Might want to start with them. I’ll send you a playlist and some fact sheets about the industry.”
We chat for a bit longer before I say goodbye. Reflected in my monitor is the big smile I’d never wear outside my closed door. Hyphen wants me. Not one of the partners. Me. Richard assures me I’ll get put on the bigger clients if I keep proving myself.
“What’s got you so happy?” Brittany didn’t bother to knock before opening my door.
My smile falls off as if it’s been power washed. “Nothing,” I say.
“Sure. Well, Meredith told me to tell you not to bother with the thing she assigned you.”
“What thing exactly?”
Brittany shrugs, already shutting the door. “She said you’d know.”
I don’t, and now I’ll look ignorant for asking.
That’s not me proving myself.
Saturday, 2:30 p.m.
Hana: Jihoon says you’re not at home. It’s Saturday.
Me: He snitched on me?
Hana: I asked him.
Me: I’m at the office finishing up some stuff.
Hana: You’ve got to be kidding.
Me: Did you text me to nag about work?
Hana: That’s my secondary purpose. I wanted to see if you were being nice to Jihoon.
Me: You know when a man goes on a rampage and all the neighbors say how shocked they are because he was a quiet guy who kept to himself?
Hana: Hoonie is not a serial killer.
Me: That could be why he had to leave home so fast. Police were closing in.
Hana: Like I TOLD YOU he takes a while to feel safe with people and is going through a rough time. Doesn’t like to talk about himself.
Me: You sure he’s related to you?
Hana: Funny. He’s had some bad experiences meeting people, so he’s a bit cautious. He likes privacy. It’s not you.
Ah, the classic it’s not you. It seems a little bit me when the guy shies away when we pass in the hall. I don’t want to take on the emotional labor of having to coax Jihoon out of his shell. Why is it my job to get him talking?
Because you’re the host. In fact, I’m the Triple Crown winner of making it my responsibility: I’m the host, I’m older, and it’s my apartment. I make a face at the wall before submitting to the inevitable.
Me: I’ll try to try.
Hana: That’s my girl. Got to go.
Sunday, 1:36 p.m.
Me: Hey Jihoon, checking to see how you’re settling in. Finding everything? Jet lag better?
I add in a happy face emoji for good measure.
Sunday, 5:09 p.m.
No answer from Jihoon. Fine, not everyone checks their texts frequently.
Sunday, 6:32 p.m.
No answer from Jihoon. I frown at the blank phone screen. It’s not like he has a lot to do. It’s simple courtesy to text back, especially when your host contacts you. What’s with this guy?
Sunday, 7:56 p.m.
I can’t tell if he’s in his room. He could be dead for all I know. Ten minutes and I’ll go knock.
Sunday, 8:05 p.m.
Jihoon: I’m fine, thank you.
It came exactly nine minutes into my waiting period, as if he’d timed it. I got all uptight for nothing. Why was I even worried? He’s an adult and can take care of himself. I send back another happy face because, unlike Jihoon, I know it’s polite to reply promptly.
