Hello, I Love You (17 page)

Laughter explodes from his mouth, louder than I’ve ever heard from him, and a grin lights up his face. I resist the urge to clutch my chest as my heart threatens to stop, and not only from shock. I’ll admit it—I’m incredibly turned on right now.

Breathe, Grace.

“But if they hadn’t let you come here, you never would have met Sophie.” His smile softens. “Or me.”

If he keeps this up, I’m going to have a legitimate heart attack. I pray my face hasn’t turned the bright red of his shirt. Just like a boy to send your head spinning and mean absolutely nothing by what he says. I prefer to think that Jason has no idea what he’s implying instead of him buttering me up to get something.

I force my legs to resume walking, buying me time to think of a response. “Yeah, Korea is a lot more fun than Nashville. Promise.”

And I mean it. It was an awkward transition at first, and I saw a lot of negatives for the first few months about basically everything. But now I feel like I actually belong, and I wouldn’t give up rice and chopsticks for corn bread and grits.

He falls into step beside me. “I’d like to visit the South sometime. I met your father in New York, but he spoke highly of Tennessee.”

“It’s been sort of bugging me—where did you see him? No offense, but I’m not sure he recognizes any value in KPOP.”

“My father owns a hotel chain that a lot of wealthy people frequent. Your father stayed there while visiting New York, and my father introduced me to him.”

“Well, I hope he wasn’t too rude.” I laugh, though I secretly pray he really wasn’t—Dad’s not exactly known for his social skills.

“He was polite.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but I’m sure—”

I’m interrupted by loud buzzing from my backpack. I fish out my phone, check the caller ID, and nearly drop it on the pavement.

“What’s wrong?” Jason asks.

“It—it’s my mom.” My pulse kicks into overdrive.

This most likely has something to do with the email I sent her last week that read,
I’m actually spending Christmas with some friends from school. I’ll email you later with more details
. Never did send that second email. Oops.

I take a steadying breath before I answer. “Hello?”

“Grace?” Momma screeches in my ear, like she thinks she has to talk extra loud because we’re an ocean away. “Grace, is that you?”

“Yes.” Who else would have my phone?

“I got your email.” She falls silent, either waiting for me to respond or allowing a sufficient amount of guilt to build inside me before continuing.

“Okay,” I finally say.

Another awkward silence.

Jason shoots me a curious glance, but I angle away from him, letting my hair fall to hide my face from his view.

“You can’t be serious about not coming home,” Momma says. “We haven’t seen you in months.”

“I know that, but I was invited and I said yes.”

“Tell them you need to see your family.” Her tone sharpens, revealing just how much family bonding time she’s interested in—none. She’s probably just concerned with what her friends will think if her oldest daughter doesn’t show up for a holiday gathering.

“I already told you, I’m not going.” I turn off the path and take shelter in the shadow of the stairs leading up to the dining hall, keeping my back to the people passing by. “Besides, Dad probably won’t even be there. He’ll be working, ignoring us like he always does.” I huff. “We’re not going to argue about this.”

“You’re right, we’re not—because you’re coming home!” She raises her voice. “This isn’t up for discussion, Grace. You’re visiting your family for Christmas. Period.”

“
No,
I’m not.” I lower my voice to a hiss. “You can’t
make
me come home.”

“We can yank you out of that school. And don’t think I won’t. I’m beginning to think you moving over there wasn’t a good idea, after all. Do you know how much we’ve sacrificed for you? We—we need to see you.”

Her voice cracks, and, for a moment, I think there might be actual emotion behind her words. But then she says, “And, really, what could you possibly be doing over there that’s worthwhile, anyway?”

Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I spit out through clenched teeth, “I want to spend some time with my friends.”

And not with you,
I want to say, but I bite back the words.

With my last bit of energy, I throw as much anger into my voice as possible. “I’m spending Christmas with my roommate, and if you don’t like that, you can just get over it. I
hate
being at home. Why do you think I left in the first place? Maybe if you’d noticed that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” I swallow the sob that hangs in my throat. “We’re done talking.”

I hang up and let my arm fall to my side. My legs quiver, and I have to grab onto the side of the building to keep myself upright. Adrenaline courses through me, and my hands start trembling. I just hung up on my mother. I told her she could “just get over” my disobeying her, that I hated my home.

I press my palms against my face, the coolness of my hands meeting the heat of my cheeks. Tears seep through my closed eyelids and slide down into my mouth, but I hold in the heaving sobs that threaten to send me into hysterics in the middle of campus. I reach for the periodic table buried somewhere beneath the fear, the hurt, and the nerves.
Iron, cobalt, nickel, copper, zinc
. I fly through them until the flood of anxiety contracts enough for me to pull in a calming breath.

“Grace, are you okay?”

Jason’s voice breaks through the terror and grief churning inside me. My head shoots up, and I swipe at lingering tears with the backs of my hands before turning to face him.

“Fine.” I twist my lips into a smile, though it makes my cheeks ache with the effort.

“Was she upset about something?”

“What makes you say that?” I laugh, though it sounds fake even to my ears.

He frowns. “If you want to change your mind and go home, don’t feel like you have to come with us. I thought—I mean,
we
thought you would like to come. But we understand if you can’t.”

“No! No, I want to go. And Momma can just deal with it if I don’t go home.” This time, my laugh is genuine, and it helps release some of the pressure built up inside my chest.

He still studies me, his gaze perusing my face, no doubt picking up on my splotchy, tear-stained cheeks and the red rims around my eyes. Gah, why can’t I be one of those girls who’s pretty when she cries?

“You’re sure?” he says.

“Positive!” Either because my argument with Momma has left me off-kilter or I can’t see how I could screw up any more relationships, I link my arm through Jason’s and pull him back onto the main path. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to celebrate my new independence from studying. Sophie got me obsessed with this Korean TV show. You want to go watch a couple episodes?”

He tenses at my touch but doesn’t pull away. “Sure,” he mutters.

We spend the rest of the evening holed up with Sophie in our dorm room, eating ramen and watching TV. Jason, Sophie, and I all huddle close on my bed, with me squished between them as we watch the main character in the show kick some major butt.

I catch Jason casting me frequent glances, and my chest tightens at his concern. He even lets me crack a few jokes about KPOP stars turned actors without defending himself, and I find myself calmed by his steadying presence.

And for a few hours, I’m able to forget about Momma and Christmas and how much it hurts to think about home. For a few hours, I can be New Grace—the one that finished her hardest midterm, held hands with a cute boy on a long car ride, and wrote a song with a famous Korean pop star because she kind of likes KPOP now.

I like New Grace. And maybe one day, Momma will, too.

Chapter Fourteen

gracie—

i’m mad at you, p.s.

you left me here ALONE with the ’rents, which is essentially the lowest circle of dante’s inferno. not okay. i will never forgive you … unless you bring me back a cute boy, in which case we will be friends again.

and i want to hear EVERYTHING about seoul. your little letters to me are pathetic, with your “from korea, with love” at the bottom that i feel sure has only one purpose—to make me insanely jealous. (shocker: it’s working)

how is it you are going to my dream destination right now?! (okay, so maybe tokyo is the dream, but seoul would be second.) you can’t see me right now, but i’m glaring at you. i know you are anti-pictures, but PLEASE take lots for me, okay? misssssssssss youuuuuu!!!

from hell on earth, with jealousy,

jane

*   *   *

I stuff my phone into my pocket and throw my purse over my shoulder as we pass underneath the school’s arch and officially leave campus for Christmas break. I follow Sophie’s neon pink suitcase as she rolls it across the pavement toward the shiny black car waiting for us.

Jason trails behind me, a coat wrapped tight around his slim shoulders and collar popped, a pair of aviators perched on his nose—probably to look cool, as I’m not sure the glare from the sun reflecting off the thin layer of snow that fell last night necessitates sunglasses.

A sharp breeze blows in from the ocean, stealing my breath, and I shudder. Let’s be clear: I’m a Southern girl; I don’t
do
cold. And, unfortunately, it’s been an unusually chilly December so far.

“Why is it so
cold
here?” I say through clenched teeth.

Sophie laughs, throwing her arms out to each side. “It’s refreshing.”

“For you, maybe,” I mutter.

The driver exits the car, not the usual one who takes Jason to and from Incheon. This man has gray-streaked hair and a pressed black suit, and he wears a somber expression befitting a stern grandfather. Or a CIA agent.

Sophie squeals and runs around the front of the car to throw her arms around the man. A smile cracks his serious fa
ç
ade, and they greet each other in Korean.

Jason opens the trunk and fills it with all our bags before we pile into the car.

Sophie sits in the passenger seat, though judging by the driver’s disapproving frown, she’s not supposed to. But he pulls away from the curb, and we’re speeding down the mountain, through town, and across the bridge.

Sophie turns around in her seat. “Grace, I want to introduce you to the wonderful Young Jo, our family’s driver.”

“Hello, Miss Grace.” He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror and nods his head, stone-faced.

“Hi!” I wave at him and receive a tiny smile in response, which I take as a victory.

“We’re going to have
so
much fun,” Sophie gushes. “I’m so glad you came with us.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

But my chest tightens when I remember the last conversation I had with Momma on the phone. She called again yesterday, and we ended the conversation basically screaming at each other. I’ve never openly defied her, and I don’t think either of us knows how to respond now. But it’s done. Might as well enjoy myself.

Once through Incheon, Young Jo speeds us down the highway toward Seoul. Sophie babbles on about all the stuff she wants to do with me before we have to go back to school, but I only half listen, my nose plastered to the window.

A light snow begins to fall, and the industrial factories and long stretches of coastline transform into taillights and skyscrapers. I soak up the view with wide eyes, my pulse skipping through my veins.

My excitement grows bigger each second, seeing the crowded hubbub of activity, with people everywhere. Businessmen in suits. Kids heading home from school. Teenagers catching the bus. Coffee shops on every corner—literally.

People walk faster here than on Ganghwa Island. They wear sleeker clothes and hold briefcases. A pack of women hurry down the sidewalk in their sky-high heels, all wearing matching gray pencil skirts and blazers.

We drive over a bridge, and beneath is a long canal cutting through the heart of the city, wide sidewalks on either side of the water. We stop at a red light, and I peer down at the river walk, watching a couple stroll hand in hand.

Jason slips off his sunglasses. “So, what do you think?”

“It reminds me of New York City. It’s huge. And … fashionable.”

He nods. “Seoul is really Western, so I think you’ll like it.”

“Are you implying that I don’t like non-Western places?”

He grins. “Well, you’re not exactly known for your cultural sensitivity.”

I laugh. “Okay, you got me there. I was totally crazy and judgmental. But I’m working on it!”

Young Jo takes us out of the downtown part of the city into a more secluded neighborhood with quieter streets and more residential buildings. We pull up to a two-story white house that’s been built into the side of a hill and pass through a gate. Young Jo parks in front of a path that climbs up the hill to a porch which I suspect is the route to the front door. He helps us get all our luggage out and carts Sophie’s and my suitcases up the path.

We climb the stairs onto the porch, and I follow behind Sophie as she pushes open the door.

“
Omma!
” she cries, kicking off her shoes in the entryway and sliding on a pair of slippers before rushing into the living room.

The plush room has a modern theme, with white walls and carpet, square wooden shelves that divide the room from the kitchen, and a black couch that looks too angular to be comfortable. Sophie sits beside a woman on the sofa, and a sudden batch of nerves twists in my stomach at the sight.

Sophie and Jason’s mom sports a Chanel dress I saw online a few months ago that probably costs more than half my wardrobe. But while all the women I have experience with who wear these kinds of dresses are anything but maternal, Ms. Bae oozes warmth.

The way a mother should.

She looks up when I enter with Jason, and a smile spreads across her face. Getting to her feet, she holds her arms out for her son and says, “Hyun Jun-ah.”

He hugs her. “Hi, Mom.”