Page 63 of A World Apart
“Not really,” I grumbled. “I think Jihoon thinks I broke up with him.”
“Is it really breaking up if you’re not technically together?”
“Yes, thank you for that, Becka,” I snapped, scowling at her.
“Sorry,” she muttered, face screwing up, “I didn’t mean that.”
I sighed and rolled over onto my back, staring up the ceiling fan. “I know.” And I did. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t right; it just wasn’t the issue right now.
“Can’t you call him to straighten things out?” she asked, not unkindly.
“Can’t, it’s past 3:00am in Seoul right now.”
“Ah, shit.” She’s silent for a moment, shuffling her feet in a way that tells me she’s feeling awkward. “Might as well come have some breakfast first. Y’know, re-group, re-nourish, get yourself ready to call him later.”
She had a point, and by the way my stomach grumbled, my body agreed. I rolled off the bed and followed her into the kitchen. We both sat at the counter, where Becka had laid out a platter of pancakes, jars of honey, syrup and a can of whipped cream. I eyed her over the feast and she shrugged.
“I really do feel bad.”
“I can see that. I didn’t know we even had half of this stuff.” I pulled the platter towards me and started forking mini pancakes onto my plate until I had a small stack.
Becka snorted. “That’s because I went to the store this morning to buy it.”
“It’s not natural that you’re this perky after a night out and a grumpy, baby bear on a work day.” I opted for maple syrup and liberally poured it over my stack.
“That’s not the same thing,” she protested. “I’m still on a high in the morning after a night out. I’m not high on a work day.”
“I should hope not,” I replied dryly, “they test for that.”
She laughed as she drowned her pancakes in whipped cream.
“Sprinkles?” she asked innocently, holding out the little tub of brightly coloured bits.
“Stop it, now you’re just showing off.”
She laughed again, and then we both lapsed into silence as we devoured our stacks, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Later
We’d alternated between sitting on the couch and binging Netflix shows and doing chores all day, until we’d finally moved into a zone where it was time-appropriate for me to call. But I kept putting it off, feeling nervous bouts of anxiety that weren’t helped by Becka asking me every ten minutes whether I was going to call now.
After the fifth such time, I finally snapped, “For fuck’s sake, get off my ass, I’m going!” I stormed into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
“I’m rooting for you!” Becka called from the other side of the door, and though she couldn’t see, I flipped my finger up at her, the effect somewhat broken by my reluctant smile. She may be annoying, but she was still kind of wonderful.
It was just past 8:00am now in Seoul. Early for a Sunday and I almost used this as an excuse to chicken out, but at the last second, before my screen blanked, I hit the ‘call’ button and waited for it to connect. Anxious energy surged through me, turning my fingers to ice.
I almost dropped the phone when I heard it connect, the familiar blipping-ring of the app twisting my stomach into roiling knots.
It rang for what felt like minutes and I nearly lost my nerve again and hung up, but then−
“Kaiya,” his voice breathed, so close in my ear it was almost like he was there with me.
Chapter 22
“Hi,” I said, trying for neutral, but fearing I missed and hit ‘weird’ instead.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
