Page 8 of Love in Focus

But then, of course, Ian drops the bomb.

“So,” he says, slightly slurring his words. “I have to be honest with you. I feel like we do have a great connection but… I’m not looking for anything serious. I’d love to keep spending the night with you, though, if you’re down for some fun?”

He nervously smiles while waiting for me to respond.

I swig back a cold glass of water and put it down on the bar top. Here I go. “That’s fine,” I say. “I just got out of a long-term relationship, so I’m looking for something casual, too. Want to head out?”

All the hesitation instantly disappears from Ian’s face, making me wonder if it was all an act. With a smirk, he says, “Sure. We can take an Uber to my place.”

Faint alarms sound in my head. I need to sober up.

“Great,” I reply. “Let me freshen up a bit in the restroom before we go.”

“Cool.”

As soon as I’m out of Ian’s line of sight, I lightly slap my cheeks on my way to the restroom. I might be feeling reckless, but that doesn’t mean I want to be too incapacitated to call for help if Ian turns out to be a serial killer.

The bar is completely packed, so I’m surprised there isn’t a line for the women’s restroom. In fact, bizarrely enough, the hallway leading to the restroom is completely empty. And it doesn’t take long for me to figure out why.

“You asshole!” a woman shouts, her words coming out slurred. “I should have known you—”

The distinct stench of vomit hits me like a thick, revolting wall when I open the bathroom door, along with the shrieks—and retches—of a woman in the innermost stall. I’m about to ask her if she needs help, when I hear another woman’s voice.

“I’m sorry things turned out this way, Gretchen. I really am—”

My ears twitch. I’ve heard that voice before, but where?

“Fuck you!” Gretchen cuts in.

Oh God.If I weren’t sober before, I definitely am now. It’s just my luck to walk into an explosive breakup tonight out of all nights. At this rate, if a clown came unicycling down the hall, juggling little balls shaped like broken hearts, I wouldn’t be surprised.

For some of us, romanceisdead.

I’m tempted to leave and not butt into their business, but I decide to stay out of my concern for Gretchen. Girl code still exists, right? Even when the person who caused the mess is another woman.

I also want to know why the other woman soundsso familiar.

After splashing water onto my face at the bathroom sinkand drying myself off with a brown paper towel, I pinch my nose with two fingers and approach the last stall.

The door is unlocked, as if, in the chaos, both women forgot to lock it behind them. When I knock and push through, I realize where I’ve heard the other woman’s voice. Many times before.

“Celeste?” I ask. “Is that you?”

There’s a Korean word,inyeon, for the fated destiny between two people. And apparently Celeste and I have that, butagyeon, or the bad kind that leaves you tossing and turning at night, because there’s no other explanation I can think of for the stall door opening to reveal Celeste Min, my ex from college. She’s holding back Gretchen’s hair as she vomits, but both women straighten when they see me.

Gretchen wipes her mouth, flushes the toilet, and then fixes me with an icy, but slightly unfocused, glare. “Who are you?” she asks.

But before I can answer her, Celeste says, “Gem.”

Her low, alto voice caresses every consonant of my name, sending chills down my spine.

Celeste was always beautiful, with large doe eyes made sharp by her signature winged eyeliner and long, elegantlimbs. But the youthful awkwardness I remember her having back in college is gone, replaced by the goddess-like air of a fully defined woman almost in her thirties. Her entire body looks different now, toned and with the kind of ass you can only get from spending countless hours at the gym. Instead of the long waves that softened her features when we were younger, her hair is now pulled tight into a straight, sleek ponytail, accentuating her perfect jawline.

And her tattoos. Holy shit, Celeste has tattoos now.

Tattoos aren’t widely accepted in Korean society, or at least not as much as they are in the US. When I was growing up, my parents would tell me only criminals and other social deviants have tattoos. That isn’t to say no one in South Korea has tattoos—a good number do. But it’s much more of a big “fuck you” to traditional values than it is here in the US, especially prominently visible ones like Celeste’s. And definitely more so if you’re a woman.

Gorgeously inked black flowers trail across her left arm and leg, giving her femme fatale vibes that make my heart skip a beat. I get the sudden urge to run my hands over them, to trace all the lines and curves.

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