a/n: a longer chapter. the beginning scene is my favorite flashback in the book. it got me in the feels when i wrote it so i hope you enjoy it :')

please stay safe wherever you are.

with love,

krissy

__

FEBRUARY 2007 

BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA

THE WIND TASTES likes lemon.

It's coming from the beachside tea shop, and it fills my senses with citrus. With a wrinkle of my nose, I lean back on my hands and watch the gray sea rise and fall.

A dance bag plunks onto the sand beside me. I glance up, startled, as Jihoon kicks the bag aside to make room for himself. He's wearing a plain white shirt that ripples in the wind, his dark hair sticking up in odd angles. Then he sits down, wipes his hands, and glances out with elbows on his knees.

I shoot him a wary look. "Aren't you cold?"

"Nope." His lip curls. "I'm all sweaty from dance. Wanna smell?"

"Ew. No."

Oblivious, he leans over and yanks open the zipper of his duffel, unearthing two cans of beer from the chaos of clothes. "So." A mischievous smile curls his lips. "Guess what eomma didn't see me sneak out."

I jump with alarm as he starts shaking them. "Stop, Jihoon, they'll explode all over the place."

"Really?" He moves the cans closer with a tug of the tab. "Well what if—"

I shriek as he pops it open, but when I turn around, he's facing the other way, slurping up foaming beer. The relief is heart-dropping—replaced quickly by a glare. I advance on him. "Jihoon, I swear one day I will—"

"Ow. Hey, it'll actually spill this time if you—"

I pause sharply. "If I what? Huh?"

He studies me, then leans away with a slow smile. "It's so easy to get you riled up," he teases. "Here."

A flush of frustration warms my cheeks as he hands me a can, a devilish grin lingering on his face.

The beach is a nice place to be when the world feels too loud. Sometimes, the house grows too suffocating and even the rooftop feels too close to it. There's a cove that's a twenty minute bus ride from our neighborhood, hidden away from nosy tourists, quiet and calm. It smells of salt and brine, as it does often around here. But it's home.

I swallow, trace my thumb over the rim of my can, and take a long sip.

Jihoon doesn't have to look at me to sense what I'm feeling. "So what's wrong?"

The question hangs in the air. I shrug and squint my eyes, unable to find the energy to explain. It's always the same damn pattern, you know? Come home from school. Report a punishment. Get yelled at, depending on how moody eomma is feeling. Make sure she takes her meds. Make sure she eats something substantial with it.

Jihoon turns his eyes on me curiously. I expect him to push, but he surprises me, instead brushing my stray hair away with a laugh. "Are you drinking beer or is your hair drinking it?"

I shoot him a pitiful look. "Pushing it back hardly makes a difference. My hair is too short, anyway."

"Then why not grow it out?"

"I know, right?" I shake my head. "Eomma thinks this hairstyle is ugly, too."

Jihoon rolls his eyes. "I never said it was ugly."

I stare at the can's metal tab. "Appa liked short hair."

His amusement fades at the shift in my tone.

"Yeah?" he answers, turning back to the sea. "Well, I like it, too."

I snort. "Please. You couldn't stop talking about Seo-yeon's long hair last year. Nari, it's so pretty. Nari, isn't she cute? What a loser."

"Okay, first of all, it was that perfume. It was all over the back of the class. I couldn't not notice it. And even then, I was admiring from afar," he protests. "Plus, that was before I found out how she treated you."

"What do you mean, how she treated me?"

"I don't know. She was mean."

My brows furrow. I laugh. "I think I was meaner than her. She had really bad insults, you know. It was like...like she was just asking for it."

He smiles and shakes his head. We must be remembering the same thing—a few classroom incidents that have turned into full-on standoffs—all of which have ended in hands raised high, knees to the cold classroom floor. Never regretted it.

We sink into silence again, and in the muted darkness my barriers grow muddy, allowing thoughtless words to slip through. "Do you know why my mom always has medium-length hair?"

Jihoon looks at me, listening.

"Because it's the in-between," I say. "She can't bear to have short hair because my appa isn't there to adore it. She can't bear to have long hair, either, because she thinks having shorter hair will bring her closer to him, somehow. Like he'll think she's prettier when it's not all grown out."

Jihoon remains quiet for a while. Then he takes a sip and smiles. "My mom's like that, too."

My gaze slides to his warily. "Your mom has long hair."

"Not with her hair," he says, shaking his head. "With flowers." He pauses, watching mist gather on the horizon. "She's like that with flowers. I'm pretty sure you've seen them around our house before—they're those small wildflowers from Jeju, with strong stems and tiny yellow petals. They're similar to the ones your mom has. You know the pot by our water pump? Back then, when my dad liked my mom, he got teased by all his friends because he couldn't afford to buy her fancy flower bouquets on her birthday, so he found those flowers in full-bloom next to his house and gave them to her. She says she thought they were ugly."

A smile spreads across my lips. "Did she throw them away?"

"She used to." He glances at me with a fleeting pull of his lips. "They started appearing in our house after he left us."

Heaviness settles across my chest. "Oh."

The tone of my voice seems to snap him back to the present. He looks to me with amusement, gives me an affectionate nudge, and stretches out his legs. "At least we have each other, right?"

A warm feeling spreads across my stomach. "Yeah."

I don't know what I would do without you.

We stay like that for a long time, heels digging into the sand, and watch the sea until the sky darkens. I remember, then, how nice it was to feel reassured that someone would never leave your side. Even if the feeling was temporary.

___

PRESENT DAY 

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

___

"BEEF SOONDOOBOO."

A lady serves us two simmering hot bowls of red-stained tofu soups. Hyerin claps her hands together excitedly, a spoon already poised and ready in her hand. The lady smiles and bustles away across the squeaky clean linoleum floor.

It's mid-afternoon on Friday, the sky overcast but bright as it promises autumn rain for the weekend. Jaebong Soondooboo is a quiet restaurant basking in the warmth of overhead space heaters. Flyers for street gigs and concerts cover the walls, and outside the glass panels that form the storefront, business men and women rush back and forth the intersection in front of our office building.

Hyerin coughs from a bite and fans her mouth. "Hot hot hot—"

"Relax," I mutter, waving my chopsticks with amusement. "Not like the tofu's going to run away from you, you know."

She downs cold barley water painfully, then sighs. "After that meeting? It feels like everything will."

I wince. "Don't think about it."

Woobin called us in for a meeting with marketing and finance to get some numbers straight, but stress had tempers running short. He'd left the meeting for a breather halfway. Maybe to get more Advil from his car.

"I saw him again today," says Hyerin after we've eaten in silence for a while. A smile plays on her rosy lips.

"Who?" I say.

She clears her throat. "Song Nam-il."

I blink. "Song who?"

"Song Nam-il," she repeats, taking a sip bashfully. "He works at Dal.komm." Another pause. "Seriously cute."

"Yeah? Have you talked to him?"

"Look, I tried to at the lunch, but it was too difficult with Woobin and Jooman making small talk. I mean, we always end up in the same elevator together when I'm coming to work, but it's not the best time." She shakes her head with a purse of her lips. "Those things make me claustrophobic. Twenty people squeezing in there at eight a.m. with coffee to the brim. Someone spilled a cup on my coat last week. The white one."

I wince.

"Exactly." She tucks her hair away and reaches for banchan. "You should have your friend introduce me to him. That'll be easier."

"My friend?"

"Eoh. What's his name? Ryu Jihoon, right? Junhee mentioned you were neighbors and that he's the new guy at Dal.komm." She shoots me an excited look. "They should know about it, right?"

I cough on food, then swallow painfully. "You want me to make him your wingman?"

"Okay, the way I'm seeing it is a trade-off." She dips a spoonful of rice in soup with a knowing glance. "You go out with him to shut up the rumors about Minseok, and I get an actual date with a really cute guy. Apps really aren't working for me these days." She swallows her bite. "At least to shut up the rumors, Nari. Really. This is good for you."

Rumors. The topic is sobering. I fish around my stone pot for a piece of beef, recounting what I've heard.

Apparently, Minseok has made it clear to his office that he and I are no longer together. But I was stupid to think that what he'd said at the lunch would vanish. Now, nosy peers at Dal.komm and even younger interns at EA South Korea are wondering what happened, who broke up with whom, and even speculating that we're still seeing each other to "work things out." We passed each other in the building lobby today, and all it took was one slip—one catch of his frustrated gaze—to make it clear he was unwilling to let us go.

"Minseok is an ass," is all I say, reaching for barley water. Then I wince. "I keep thinking he can't get worse, but he manages to prove me wrong. Every time. That's his talent. You know how people say he's talented, right? That's it."

"I told you," stresses Hyerin with a sigh, "just take Jihoon into a crowded elevator during rush hour and give him a nice peck on the cheek. You'll redirect the rumors instantly. Easy. I mean, he works at Dal.komm, he's pretty attractive, he dresses well..."

I laugh. "Thought you wanted to date Nam-il."

"I'm saying it objectively," she shoots back firmly. "What? He's your friend. Hype him up."

I flush. "I just don't want to get him involved."

Hyerin tilts her head. "Well, if you want people to stop talking and staring, you've gotta let someone give you hand."

I hold her gaze with reluctant consideration. But the night at the playground flashes across my mind. The memory of his sad eyes settling on mine. How bothered he was.

I shake my head quickly. "I'll deal with it."

The answer is unconvincing, but she drops the subject anyway. We both know I've always been stubborn.

"By the way," interrupts Hyerin, jutting her chin at something behind me. "Do you know him?"

I pause, startled, and follow her gaze. In the corner of the tofu house sits a man suited in dark charcoal grey, a silken ebony tie pulled high up to his neck. He has dark eyes and pale, pristine skin. There's no doubt he's rich.

His eyes dart to his menu just as I turn.

I turn back and shrug. "No."

Hyerin leans forward, eyes sparkling. "He's been staring at you for the past five minutes."

"So?"

"He's hot."

I shoot her a helpless look. "Is everyone attractive to you?"

"Must be, huh?" Her gaze slides to mine teasingly. "Everyone but you, I guess—"

"Ah, fuck off..."

My voice trails off as my gaze catches something outside.

A pair of suited men linger across the intersection. They're both tall, lean, and dressed in well-kept clothes. Armed with glimmering watches. One of them is on the phone, a hand in his pocket, while the other leans against the streetlight. Hawk eyes trained on me.

A shiver runs down my spine.

"What?" Hyerin stops, eyes wide, and turns around. "What's wrong?"

The moment she turns, the men shift and cross the street, melting into the crowds. "What?" she presses. "Is someone there? What's wrong?"

I turn toward the back of the tofu house. Eyes now on his phone, the suited man rises to his feet and walks away. Hyerin's gaze snaps to him as he crosses the linoleum floor and leaves, startling a nearby server.

"Nari." A hand waves in front of my face. "What are you looking at?"

Outside, the man crosses the street and melts into the crowds. In the same direction.

Her spoon slams against the table. "Yoo Nari."

I blink. Hyerin is staring at me with a disturbed frown. "Huh?"

"You okay? What's gotten into you?"

I shake my head and meet her eyes. "Nothing. Just eat up quickly. There's work to do at the office."

My gaze drifts to the outdoors as she returns to her food warily. No one is there.

Just a coincidence, I think.

It does little to soothe my unease.

___ 

A GIANT GIFT bag sits on our kitchen counter.

When I come home from work, eomma is seated at our counter, dressed in a big knit cardigan with sleeves so wide they balloon around her arms. Her medium-length hair has been tossed up into a knot atop her head, wisps falling loose to frame her soft face.

She crunches noisily on a pack of almonds as she surveys our apartment in disgust. Her eyes are the color of black coffee, dark and scrutinizing, sharp as the tip of a knife.

Seungho leans against the counter on the other side. I come to an irritated stop in front of the kitchen, purse slipping to my wrist.

Her eyes dart to mine with surprise. "There you are."

I nod at the gift with exasperation. "What is it now?"

"Give it to Minseok." Then she waves a hand hopelessly at the trash filling our living room. "How do you live in a place like this? Did a typhoon hit your apartment? Really—the amount of self-discipline—"

"Seungho trashes it every night anyway," I defend. "I clean once a week. Think of it as maximum efficiency. Right, Seungho?"

"No," he snaps. "I don't drink beer every night. Look at how many cans are here—"

"You finish all the cans I open."

"No, I don't."

"Aigoo. You two are useless," mutters eomma.

I sigh, rein in patience, and join Seungho in front of the gift bag. One glance at the shimmery ribbon inside tells me it's packed with neatly-wrapped boxes of expensive sweets.

"She doesn't buy me stuff like this," mutters Seungho.

My mother tosses him a look. "Because you don't eat it."

"I do eat it," he shoots back, peering incredulously in the bag. "Yugwa. Hangwa. Chapssaltteok. You're going to make him fat. He's a doctor, you know."

"A brain doctor, not a nutritionist. Aish..."

It's a warm night, so we wind up getting naengmyeon a block from the apartment for dinner. It's a hole-in-the-wall place with fluorescent lighting, rowdy kitchen talk, and rattling silver stools.

"Three bowls of mul naengmyeon, please!" calls Seungho.

Voices answer. I fill our waters as eomma's eyes wander across the flyer-plastered walls. Age has etched deeper lines into her skin, but she's beautiful as always, glowing even in the dirty, dusted light of a crooked restaurant.

Once banchan has been served, my mother reaches for a hefty bite of kimchi, then leans forward intently.

"Nari."

"Hm?"

"When are you going to bring Minseok to Busan?" Her eyes are eager. "He should visit soon. We'll take him around the neighborhood. It's only right for him to get a feel for where you came from."

"I don't know," I say offhandedly.

She furrows her brows. "What do you mean?"

I turn away. If she finds out what happened between us, there's no telling how she'll explode, but I'm also in no mood to play pretend.

"Don't bring him up," Seungho tells her quietly. "They fought recently."

My mother's face twists in disdain. A beat passes before she leans away. "Yah, you know, the whole point of a relationship is that you've gotta to work through things. The not-so-great things. Don't be immature."

Anger stirs in me. How can you say anything about this?

Seungho squirms. "Eomma—"

"You should treat him better," she scolds. "Do you know how hard he works? Medical school is painful. Not to mention expensive."

And I don't work hard?

"Eomma," I return, patience waning. "His father is Seo Jaeseok. I don't think money is a problem."

"Still," she insists. "You don't know how it is."

"I have a job," I retort. "I pay bills, too."

"Oh, come on," she drawls, eyes squinting, "you don't know the pressure he's facing. Having a dad like that...it does a lot to a person, you know. It's admirable that he's still working to make a name for himself instead of living off his dad's profit. Like Eunmi..." She shakes her head with disgust. "Yah, that woman still lives off Jihoon's cursed fortune in Jeju. It's just—it's cursed. After what happened—"

"Eomma," I snap.

Her eyes widen defensively. "What? What's wrong now?"

"Don't talk about Jihoon's family like that."

She leans back, appalled. "Why do you care? His mom is being a bum in Jeju, why can't I talk about it?"

"Bum? His mom opened a restaurant in Jeju," I snap.

Her brows skyrocket in challenging surprise. "She did? How do you know? Is it online? How many stars?"

I suppress a wave of irritation. Seungho releases an annoyed sigh, but the sound only sets my mother off. I sense the shift in her attention immediately as she glances at him.

His eyes flash. "What?"

"Eunmi is hard-working compared to you," she snaps.

Seungho rolls his eyes and reaches for more kimchi. The naengmyeon arrives. We eat in unhappy silence.

Silence—which usually never happens with Seungho. When eomma's not around, he asks questions and teases me and complains like no one else. But now, sitting with eomma? I'm starting to realize, for the first time, how much Seungho shuts down around her. I remember passing our Busan living room on the way to the kitchen, seeing Seungho slump in front of his homework as eomma complained about him being slow to learn. I wanted to say something, but I didn't. It was bad enough having her on edge with meds. She didn't need any coaxing for that temper to flare.

And maybe it's that, this cumulation of what has happened—Minseok's drunken face, Jihoon's sad eyes, coming home to see Seungho slumped in front of the TV again, Woobin's patience worn thin—that finally makes me snap. "I don't understand why you're here."

Her brows pull low. "What?"

"Every time you come over, it's always why this, why that," I continue, face twisting. "Don't people usually start with how are you first?"

"How are you?" she repeated, scoffing. "Yah. One look at your apartment and I already know how you are. Who else is going to put you in your place? Look at you, still drinking. Still brooding. It's no wonder you're getting into so many fights with our Minseok. Are you an alcoholic? People change over time, but they change for the better. But both of you are going—wah, I can't even explain—"

"That's not fair. There's a lot going on that you don't understand. We're just--"

"What? What? We're just what?" Now she slams her chopsticks down, fired up, eyes cool. "What am I supposed to tell my friends when they ask who Yoo Nari is marrying? What career Yoo Seungho is in, what kind of job he has, if he's working abroad? What do I say? That you're failures?"

"Eomma."

"Look at you, arguing again. Why do you always have something to say? Aish, so noisy." She lowers her voice, as if giving up, and juts her chin at my bowl. "Hurry up and eat," she says offhandedly. "I want to stop by the supermarket after."

I watch, exasperated, as she eats another hefty serving of noodles.

Seungho nudges me. "Just eat," he mutters.

I release a frustrated breath and dig in. No use blowing up in a restaurant. Eomma barely spares me a glance, clearly unbothered by what effect her words have as she slurps up food noisily.

Even as the subject falls away, my chest aches for the softer moments I had with my mother. For the days when I was too small to argue. When she pulled thick blankets patterned with blue flowers and vibrant leaves up to my chin and smoothed back my hair with calloused fingers. For the rare moments when her face dissolved into a smile when I spilled shaved ice across my shirt. Not scolding me for being so clumsy and stupid.

Sad. I guess time has hardened us both.

Unfortunately, the evening hardly grows more peaceful. She directs us to fresh produce at the supermarket, snapping at Seungho when he picks. bruised fruit. When we get home, she has him run the vacuum cleaner over our living room and shoves me bags to throw out the trash. Perhaps the war-like scene would be amusing if she didn't reference Minseok the entire time, as if he were her golden son.

Hours later, head pounding, when my mother is cleaning the bathroom, I exhale sharply and snatch my keys off the counter.

"Watch my room before she tosses out all my sketches," I tell Seungho, swiping my bag off the island stool.

He throws me a helpless glance. "You're just leaving me here?"

"I have work."

"No, you don't. It's nine in the evening."

"I'll be back in an hour."

"She's leaving? To where?" calls my mother. But the door closes behind me before I can hear Seungho's answer. Outside, a cool wind whispers in my ears, trails its fingers through my hair. I find relief in the silence, in the faint hum of traffic.

For a moment, wrapped in my coat, I lean against the closed door and release a long, heavy sigh.

My eyes stray to Jihoon's door. I think of him with his takeout. His medicine. The snacks Seungho devoured. That giant container of danmuji in my office fridge. I glance at the door, wondering what eomma would say if she knew the truth. I don't want to alienate her. I don't want to keep this from her. But I'm tired.

My fingers dig into my pocket for my phone. As if on instinct, they seek out his contact name.

Only before I'm about to click call do I hesitate.

I think of the playground. Precautionary distance. Was that what we called it? Something about that conversation makes me tuck my phone away. It's not like falling back on him will make my problems go away.

I dig a tongue into my teeth and message Hyerin instead.

___ 

AT MIDNIGHT, THE BAR in Itaewon smells of sweet alcohol. The dimness of gold light casts a film of shadow over the musty place.

The darkness is comforting. I've spent more than enough nights here, and tonight, the bartender is a woman my age who's served Hyerin and I for years. She's well-muscled with high cheekbones and hawk eyes, the foreign hazel in them catching the light winking off a row of rice wines, beers, and liquors.

She throws me a look as I slide onto the bar stool. "Again? Haven't seen you around in a while."

I toss a smile back. "Right? I thought it was a little too long."

"Friend?"

"Just me today." Hyerin's with Seolhee at the office, occupied.

I haven't gone off on my own since the day I broke up with Minseok. I'm not sure why I've decided to come here now. After an hour of wandering around the slopes of the neighborhood, the restlessness grew too much, and my feet took me onto the subway straight to this Itaewon pub.

The bartender passes me soju and beer with an exasperated thump. I study the drinks for a moment, faltering.

You're doing it again. This is just like all those nights in Busan. Running away from an argument. Flattening all that pent-up conflict into a neat, numb blanket. I don't know why this keeps happening.

I can't stop thinking of that playground. Precautionary distance. The feeling of Jihoon's gaze on mine, so temporary, too good to be true. The glass winks in front of me.

You can't afford to be drinking again.

Funny, how the mind works. Even as the thought crosses my mind, I reach over and shoot the first glass of somaek.

I stare absently at the glass as my finger traces its rim. Why does it matter? Why do I have to be so afraid? Why should anything Jihoon does affect me? Just last week, I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't I?

I pour a second shot with a wince, eager to silence my mind. My gaze wanders lazily around the bar. There's a few men in dark coats, noses in their glasses, stinking their clothes and watering their eyes with the smell of whiskey as I drown my worries with soju. What I've always liked about this pub is that it's smaller, tucked into some ratty hole on a sloped incline. Not in a great tourist-friendly location, so there's no gawking faces drunk on that clubbing high. Just down-to-earth people seeking a quieter release.

Among the splintered shadows, I catch a few rich folks with winking watches and sleek navy suits. A frown crosses my face. Near the door leans a young man with smooth fair skin. Rich. Kind of familiar.

Huh.

I slide my gaze away and pour another shot. The bartender studies me pitifully. "So," she says with an arch of her brow. "Am I gonna have to call your girlfriend to bring you home this time?"

I barely spare her a glance. "She already knows I'm here."

"What happened this time? Boyfriend? Family?"

Without answering, I rest my cheek against a hand, staring so hard at the bronze liquid in my glass that my eyes water. I can't stop doing this. The longer I drink, the more I'm starting to hate myself. But I can't walk away. I want to talk to Jihoon, but I don't want to call him. I want someone to listen, but I don't want to open up. I just sit here and rot in this inescapable funk.

The bartender sighs. "If you won't talk, at least order something a little more interesting. Or at least talk to the guys who want to buy you a drink over there. Just looking at you is giving me depression."

I straighten with a smile. "There's a guy?"

"Eoh. Not bad looking, either." The bartender quirks a brow toward my right and turns away. My gaze follows her cue.

Oh.

I see navy suits and gleaming watches, hawkish eyes and pale skin. Ice touches my spine.

It's those three men again. The same men from the tofu house that were hiding behind menus and staring at me from across intersections. They leer at me from a distance. A rush of anger rises in my chest. What the hell are you looking at it?

I don't know what's wrong with me. I think the bartender's muttering something about how I should be a nice flirt. People love to pair me with rich men, don't they?

My anger flares. I'm deranged, unable to get a grip on myself as my body carries me forward. Suddenly, anger is all I can feel. It fills me with such heat I can hardly breathe.

The closest man straightens with alarm when he realizes I'm not stopping.

Keep staring. I dare you.

The bartender pauses. "Nari—"

My name barely leaves her mouth before I slam my fist into his face.