Page 87 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

I pull on the gate and it falls open so easily that I stumble back into his solid frame. His hand circles my shoulder to steady me and we stand there, breaths held, for a half second, maybe more. At any other time, his hand on my arm, his heart against my ear, his larger body engulfing mine, would be welcome, wanted. From the moment I spotted him in the airport, he’s been the safe port in this foreign city, and a part of me wants to cling to him.

“You’re the one she kept. Even if you didn’t know, you’re still the one she kept.”

He has no response to this because there isn’t one. Facts are facts. I can sense he’s searching for words, for a way to convince me to forgive and move on, so when he says, “Where will you go?” I’m caught off guard.

“I— I—” But this time it’s me with no response. A hotel, I suppose, but I’d need one where they speak English and that isn’t too expensive.

“A hotel?” he guesses like he can read my mind. “Let me take you to one. Let me do this small thing for you. My car is here. I will drive you, check you in, and then leave.”

His words have an edge to them, somewhere between a plea and a demand, because the former is unfamiliar and the latter is too harsh. When I don’t immediately turn him down, he presses. “I’m not here because Eomma—Choi Wansu asked me to be. I came because of you. Because I needed you and I wondered if you needed me.”

Again, he surprises me. “Why would you need me?”

A pained expression crosses his face, tightening the skin across his prominent cheekbones, drawing a line in his forehead. “Because, Hara, when I wake up I think of you and when I go to sleep, you’re there. Since I saw you in the airport . . .” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if it’s the same for you and I didn’t want to rush things even though in my head I wanted to spend every minute of the day with you. When I had to leave to go see my father, I could feel you slipping away. When you didn’t answer your phone, when Choi Wansu-nim didn’t answer her phone . . . it was as if you’d already left, and I am not ready for you to leave. Not yet.” He pushes my hair away from my face. “Not yet.”

I close my eyes and swallow hard. He sounds earnest. He sounds like these are his true feelings, and they are a soft salve on my wounds. I totter on my feet, weakening into that person I just said I’m not.

“Hara, let me take care of you. I am only Yujun from Seoul. Nothing more.”

I close my eyes and slot him into a place far away from Choi Wansu. “All right, but we can’t go down to your car.” I’m afraid she’s still there.

“We’ll get a cab,” he replies immediately. He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and we walk silently to the top of the hill. There are no cabs around, which is why everyone goes down the hill instead of up, and so we keep walking toward lights and people and traffic. Neither of us speaks, not that I know what to say. I suspect it is the same for him. At a bright intersection, we stop and Yujun from Seoul hails a taxi. He holds the door open for me and I climb inside. After he gives instructions to the driver, we take off. The two engage in some short conversation and I stare out the window as the neon signs, streetlamps, and headlights blur into one giant stream of light. I close my eyes and lean my head against the glass. When the taxi comes to a halt, it’s in front of a tall, fancy hotel. A doorman wearing white gloves approaches.

“Stay a moment,” Yujun says to me, and then he’s gone before I can respond.

The driver and I meet each other’s eyes in his rearview mirror and I steel myself for a question in Korean that I will not understand followed by a faint look of disappointment if I’m lucky and disgust if I’m not. But he only gives me a brief nod before fiddling with the GPS screen. The quiet in the car becomes almost oppressive. I wonder if I should pay him. Then I glance at the doorman waiting by the amber-lit entry and wonder if I can afford to pay for even a cup of coffee here. Yujun from Seoul may be able to swing this, but Hara from Iowa only has a little room left on her credit card. I pull up my translation app. If there’s one person in this city who knows of a cheap hotel, it has to be a taxi driver. I type in the question and hope that it translates it decently. What was “Excuse me” in Korean? The word pops into my head.

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