Yujun’s fingers flex around mine, an angry gesture. And, I, who hate confrontation, jerk my hand away and shove my fingers into the pockets of my pants. The girl backs away, clearly not wanting to greet me. She tugs at the arm of her male friend. The guy makes a half shrug and says, “Sorry,” in Korean, and he walks away, too.
Yujun is furious. I can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him in waves. He takes a step toward the couple. I haul him back with two hands. “No. Don’t.”
“It’s not okay,” he seethes. “That bastard’s father went to jail for tax fraud and embezzlement, but they can’t be polite and greet you.”
I knew that it wasn’t okay, but I also knew that Yujun couldn’t force someone to accept me, not by punching them or with words.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I can’t keep last night’s encounter out of my head. The part where the girl physically recoiled keeps replaying over and over.
While there are no laws that keep Hara and Yujun apart, traditions will. . . . Choi Wansu did not send Yujun away or prepare dating profiles for you because she does not think you are good enough for Yujun or that he is not good enough for you. She does it because she loves you and does not want to see you in pain. . . . I realized that I could never have an open relationship with her. You know what happened in her last relationship? Her boyfriend hid her away like she was a bad secret and then dumped her for a Korean girl. I realized that I can’t do that to her again.
I can’t imagine a relationship where one person is the source of constant embarrassment and pain for the other. How would that work? It wouldn’t.
I stare at my screensaver. I need a distraction. There must be something I can do. I’m going to have to have a frank talk with Bujang-nim, and if there is truly nothing for me to do, then I need to move to another division. I don’t know what that would be. Maybe I could monitor the security cameras. That wouldn’t require language skills.
He’s not at his desk this morning. When his phone rings, I jump up and answer it before anyone else even raises their head. To my everlasting joy, the person on the other end speaks English. They’re from LA and want to know when the marketing materials for an upcoming trade show will be delivered.
“I’ll leave a note and we will get back to you right away.”
The phone rings again almost before the receiver is fully settled. This time the speaker is Korean and I don’t understand a word. In halting, horribly pronounced Korean, I ask for their name and number. The answer comes fast and I’m sure I get it wrong. I repeat it, but before I can get out the last digit, the person has hung up.
Chaeyoung makes a disgusted noise. Guess we won’t be moving into frenemy territory soon. She must’ve lost her desire to cozy up to celebrities.
I shoot her a glare. “If you have something to say, say it.” She glares back but remains silent. “I thought so.”
I stomp over to my desk and stare at Soyou’s empty chair. She’s been gone for a while. I wonder where she is. Bujang-nim shows up about ten minutes later. All fired up, I ask him for more work.
He brushes a hand across his chin. “I sent you a project.”
“I worked on that two weeks ago.”
His eyes fall to the awkwardly penned Hangul on the sticky note. “I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, you could study your Korean.”
Chaeyoung snickers.
I clench my fingers into fists and push my nails into my palms to control my flaring temper. She’ll meet Ahn Sangki over my dead body. Cheeks burning, I lift my chin. “Sure. I’ll do that.”
Back at my desk, I pull out a notebook and start lettering the Hangul characters. Soyou appears, looking uncharacteristically mussed. Her usually tidy hair looks as if she’s run her fingers through it several times in frustration, and her skirt is askew. It’s the sign of a bad morning. I’ve been there, and if we were closer, I’d slide her a chocolate bar or maybe send her a funny gif, but we’re not, so I keep my hands and thoughts to myself. She shucks her slightly scuffed heels and shoves her feet into her office slippers—the ones most employees wear at their desks. When she slumps into her chair, her shirt pulls to one side, revealing a bruise on her collarbone. Strict Soyou making out with someone in the bathroom at IF Group strikes me as unusual, but it’s definitely a hickey. The security guards are sort of hot. Maybe she’s hooking up with one of them. Even so, I’m sure she would be mortified if she knew what she was revealing.
I tap my fingers against my desk, telling myself that Soyou hates me and would not ask me for help if I was the only person standing between her and a speeding train. I last five minutes before scratching myself in the very same spot, hoping that my actions will prompt her to check herself, but she doesn’t look my way even once. I scuffle my feet against the floor and make loud throat-clearing noises. When she finally glares at me, I pat my collarbone. Her eyes flare in some kind of recognition. A slam of her desk drawer and a muttered curse later, she’s off to the bathroom. When she returns, her shirt is buttoned all the way up to her neck.
I pull out my phone and restart my Korean lesson. I’m conjugating verbs now. Every ten minutes or so, I check my inbox, but it remains stubbornly empty. I’m not even getting Korean spam. Saturated with grammar rules, my head starts to ache. When you’re not busy, time slows to a crawl. The minute hand never moves. Your eyelids get heavy even if you’ve had hours and hours of sleep. I press the tips of my fingers into my sockets and shout silently to wake up. I might be a drag on this team, but I can’t be caught sleeping, literally.
Salvation comes in the form of Yujun, who sends me a text around eleven.
YUJUN: Take a coffee break. I’m in the stairwell.
I smush my lips together to hide a smile and tuck my phone into my pocket.
“Keopi?” I ask and make a motion with my fingers of running an errand. For the first time today, people talk to me.
“I’ll have an iced Americano. Two packets of sugar,” one calls.
“I’ll have the same. No sugar,” says Yoo.
Chaeyoung looks up, but when she sees that Soyou is ignoring me, she puts her head down. No one else makes a request.
Yujun is leaning against the stair rail when I arrive. I almost launch myself into his arms, remembering at the last minute the security camera. I back away and jerk my head toward the flashing red light. Yujun curses under his breath. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I won’t be home until late tonight. My department wants to have a team dinner to celebrate my return. I offered the company credit card, but they insist that I come.”
“It’s not a problem,” I say with false brightness, as if my entire day isn’t ruined.