Page 75 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

Yujun waits for me to finish my outburst and then says, “Do you know the meaning of han, Hara?”

“Like the Han River?”

“The word han itself has meaning. This small peninsula has been the object of envy for all the neighboring countries and they have fought for it, pushing us out, hurting the people, and yet, we always survive. The cost is high. Our land is divided. Our most precious relics taken from us. Our palaces burned and rebuilt and burned and rebuilt. And that is the meaning of han. You may think that you don’t belong here because you don’t speak the language or you think you do not belong in America because your polka-dotted dress is so different than all the striped dresses, but inside you have the same blood that I have. It’s the blood of everyone that came from here. There’s han in you. No matter where your journey takes you, you are filled with it.”

I let his words seep beneath my skin, sink into my blood. I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about what I was made of—what my heritage was—because I was left on the street in some foreign country. My breath slows and deepens.

“Eomma gives money to the education and support of adoptees. Helps them find jobs. It’s a cause very important to her. She also hires many single mothers. She would want to help you. Will you allow this, Hara?”

It’s so gently asked, as if I’m doing him such a great favor. Jules’s comment that meeting someone’s parents is the same as a marriage proposal gallops through my mind, but I know it’s different in this circumstance. This is like if I broke my leg and his mom was a doctor. Would I refuse that? No, it’d be stupid to say no. It still feels off, as if I’ve moved past a line I shouldn’t, and I don’t know if I’ve done right or not, but when I open my mouth to speak, I say, “Yes.”

His hand squeezes mine tight. I hadn’t realized we were still holding hands, but maybe we’ve been holding hands since that first encounter at the airport. We don’t talk much the rest of the night. We simply sit there, holding hands, listening to the slap of the water against concrete, watching the city in the reflection of the river as the red string of fate binds my heart to his.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A phone call wakes me up, or maybe it’s the unrelenting stream of sun shining in my eyes. I came in at dawn, crashed facedown on the bed, and didn’t take the time to close the blinds. My mistake. I roll over and grab my phone. Through bleary eyes, I make out a text from my mom.

MOM: I haven’t heard from you in days. I miss you. Are you okay? Text me back or I’ll have to start looking for flights.

The two smiley-face emojis at the end look vaguely threatening. I try to think back to the last time I texted Mom. Was it two days ago? Three? I engage in the mental math of time zones, give up, and use the world clock feature on my phone. It’s past midnight back home, so I default to texting.

ME: I’m good. I walked a hundred miles yesterday but I ate two ice cream cones and according to my health app I broke even. I love you.

I’m about to put the phone down when I notice there is another text tucked inside my unknown senders folder. Curious, I tap the alert and read the message in growing shock.

KWON HYEUN: It is Kwon Hyeun. I would like to meet with you today. There is a coffee shop off of Gangnam Station exit 10 called Angel’s Brew.

My heart leaps. When was the message sent? I scan the time. The display says almost an hour ago. Please, I plead internally, don’t back out. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely type my reply.

ME: Yes. When.

The three animated dots appear immediately. My fingers fold tight around the phone. “Say yes, say yes, say yes,” I chant.

KWON HYEUN: Yes. In an hour?

I confirm and then leap to my feet. I want to look nice but I also have no time. The map app tells me it’ll take at least a half hour to get to Gangnam even in a taxi. I briefly contemplate texting Yujun for his black car service but decide that it’ll take longer for a car to get here from wherever he is than it will for me to hail a cab. After washing up, I throw on a dress—the black-and-white-striped sundress—grab my purse and cardigan, and rush to the door. I don’t even own a single polka-dotted thing. I got my metaphors all mixed up last night. I’m shoving my feet into a pair of sandals when I hear, “Hara?”

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