At that time, there wasn’t anything in my life that warranted a small- or big-screen adaptation. A few months ago, I was Hara Wilson, a twenty-five-year-old adopted Korean American living in Iowa with my mother, Ellen, while estranged from my father, Pat, who had been dipping his wick in the well of a woman not much older than me. He fathered a “real” kid and then died. For some reason, even though we hadn’t had much of a relationship since I was twelve or so, I had an identity crisis, which resulted in me running off to Seoul, South Korea, in search of my biological father. I landed in Korea two days after Lee Jonghyung died.
A person shouldn’t have to attend more than one funeral for a parent in a calendar year. That should be a cosmic law. It’s too much for any single individual to process. I once read that insurance money allows people to not make hasty decisions following someone’s death. The beneficiary can press pause in their lives instead of selling everything that their loved one owned in order to feed themselves. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as emotional insurance that allows you to put your heart into deep freeze so your head can make rational choices free of all the grief and confusion that death brings, and because of this I am now working at a Korean company while not being able to speak the language and sleeping in a giant room with more marble than you’d find in a hotel lobby.
I don’t live in Iowa and I don’t have one mom anymore. I have two of them. Choi Wansu doesn’t look like she’s ever seen a glue stick or hiked in the woods or broken the law. Her home is modern and minimalistic, with marble floors and marble walls and marble pedestals upon which precise and perfect bonsais rest. My bedroom isn’t merely a bedroom but a small suite of rooms.
I drag my tired body out of bed and wonder if Yujun is going to break up with me over the telephone or whether he’ll make a special trip back home to do it. Wansu will be happy. Her gambit worked. She sent Yujun away and he found someone else. I don’t know how else to interpret his silence. I didn’t get another text message and he didn’t call me last night. It must be over between the two of us.
I choke back tears as I brush my teeth. A flash of red in the bathroom mirror catches my eye. I reach under the neckline of my sleep shirt and tug on the silk cord until the jade duck pendant is free. Yujun gave me this the night before he was sent away. Ducks mate for life. The jade is a symbol of health and fortune—a mystical stone that wards off evil spirits. The red cord is the physical manifestation of our bond. Pre-destiny is what he’d say. He believes in these things. He’s romantic and lovely and charming and I miss him so, so much. I squeeze the jade duck until the beak bites into my skin. He was busy and fell asleep. That’s all. I’m catastrophizing even when I swore I wasn’t that person.
As I shuffle toward the door to the sitting room, the smell of bacon becomes even stronger. I feel a strange wave of homesickness and almost turn around to text my mother—the Iowan one—before I remind myself of the time difference. It’s past bedtime for Ellen but she told me she sleeps with her phone now so that she can wake up if I text her, which means I never text her when I think she is sleeping.
It strikes me that the smell of any kind of food, let alone meat, is odd given my room is so far from the kitchen. Is the house on fire? I jerk open the door and nearly bean myself on the edge of a tray.
“Good morning.” A sparkling smile, a deep dimple, and gorgeous brown eyes greet me.
“Yujun,” I gasp.
The smile deepens and so does the divot. My knees get watery but I can’t launch myself into his arms because of the stupid breakfast tray. I tug the tray out of his hands and nearly sprint to the table in the seating area of my bedroom. When I turn around, hands free, he’s there, gathering me in his arms.
Our mouths meet. My fingers find the buttons of his shirt. He tugs the collar of my sleep shirt far enough away to expose my collarbone and the red string of the necklace he gave me before he left. His thumb presses the string into my skin hard enough that I can feel the silk cord making an indent. I welcome the slight pain. I welcome him. He breaths into my mouth, a sigh of relief or acknowledgment. I feel the same way having him here in the same space. My head is filled with giddiness, glee, and lust. He walks me backward until my calves hit the edge of the sofa. I fold and let his momentum push me into the cushions.
His heavy weight presses me down. I don’t have much to take off but we spend a good minute wrestling him free of his shirt, undershirt, pants, socks, and underwear until it’s his bare skin flush against my bare skin. He slips inside me easily. I’ve been waiting for him and my body is always ready for his intrusion. I scrape my fingers over the broad expanse of his shoulder blades, down his spine, and to his ass. He groans, his chest rumbling like a big cat against my sensitive breasts. It’s a luxurious, erotic feeling that I want to capture and bottle to take out in times when we are not together, which seem all too often.
I close my eyes and try to capture the moment, try to memorize his mouth against my neck, the muscle movement of his back as he thrusts forward, the sensation of the thick head of his shaft driving against my million nerve endings, but soon, too soon, my own need overcomes me and thinking becomes a thing of the past.
I surface, gasping and sweaty. Emotion chokes me, fills my throat, makes me shake like a drug addict coming off a dangerous high. I used to never cry and now I find myself on the edge all too often. My cheeks will get chapped at this rate.
“Shhh,” Yujun from Seoul whispers against my skin. He shifts into a sitting position and pulls me into the cradle of his embrace. “Don’t move,” he cautions, and reaches between us to untangle the silk cords of our matching jade duck necklaces. Ducks mate for life. I clutch the tiny jade bird in my fist and wrap my other arm around his neck, wondering if I can stay here forever.
He fishes a blanket off the back of the sofa and throws it over us. “I’m exhausted,” he says.
I sink into him, burrowing like a kitten into the one warm spot in the entire marble mausoleum. This is where I want to be at all times, in the circle of his arms with the warm scent of his skin filling my lungs, and the rumble of his chest under my ear. I don’t even register what he’s saying. The sound, the feel, is enough. I rub my cheek against his chest like a cat against a scratching pole.
Then horror turns my blood cold and I shoot upright. “Where’s Wansu?”
He pulls me back against him. “She’s at the office. I called her from the airport to let her know the Singapore office has some questions for her and that I’ve written everything in a report that I was leaving on her desk.”
I collapse. “Then you left.”
“Knowing that she would come straightaway.” He nuzzles my neck. “I may have taken advantage of her.”
“You are workaholics.”
“Perhaps.” He moves on from my neck to lave my collarbone.
I cup the back of his head. “How much time do we have?”