Page 11 of XOXO

“An accident.”

“Had you ever broken a bone before?”

“Once, when I was a kid.” He stops fiddling with his sling and looks up. “Have you?”

“No.” It doesn’t escape me that, as a cellist, a broken arm would have felt like the end of the world. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as the first time.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from asking more questions. He hasn’t been exactly forthcoming about the details of his life. Still, I want to know—why? Why does it hurt less this time than the time before? Because it’s a different bone? Because he knew what to expect as he’d been hurt before?

I want to know more. What kind of accident was he in? Is that the reason he was running away?

Unlike in the karaoke room and at the festival, we’re close enough that I can see the details of his face. His skin that’s almost too flawless—is he wearing makeup?—his beautifully shaped eyes accentuated by dark shadow, his red, red lips.

Either that’s lip tint or he kissed someone who was wearing it, and I don’t know which I’d prefer.

That’s a lie, I don’t want him to have kissed anyone else.

I move closer, my fingers gripping his shoulder. He shifts to accommodate me, his good hand sliding against my back. His face is so close to mine, his breath on my lips.

There’s a loud bang as someone knocks on the outside of the photo booth.

“Hello-o! Are you done in there? We want to take a photo.”

I practically leap across the booth, which isn’t that impressive of a feat, considering it’s so tiny.

“Middle schoolers,” I say, breathless. Their voices are toohigh to belong to the college students. I reach for the curtain.

“Wait...”

I turn back.

Jaewoo’s looking at the touchscreen. “Should we take a photo?”

I slowly sit back down. “Sure.” I can’t really think clearly so I click on a few buttons and soon four snapshots go off in quick succession. For the first two I must look like a deer in the headlights, but I manage a smile for the last two. Afterward, there are options to add borders and designs to the photos, but I just click print.

Outside the booth, we’re met with the judgmental stares of a posse of sixth graders.

“You broke the machine,” one informs me, and when I check the printer, I see that she’s not wrong. Printing Error appears on the little readout display. It did print at least one of the two copies though.

The middle schoolers head toward the arcade and I bring my prize over to Jaewoo. “It only printed one.”

“I’ll take a photo of it,” he says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a phone.

As it turns on it immediately starts to ping and vibrate with messages.

He looks troubled, his lips thinning slightly. Then he flips his phone over and the front-facing camera is smashed. “I forgot about this. It must have happened earlier, when I broke my arm.”

“Why don’t I take a photo of it and send it to you?” I offer.

“Yeah, maybe that’s better.” He pockets his phone and accepts mine from my hand, plugging in his number.

When I take it back, I see that he’s added +82 for the country calling code to South Korea.

We head up the escalator and out onto the main street.

He pats the pocket of his jacket where his phone is still vibrating. “They’ll be here soon, now that they can track my phone. They’re probably circling the area, waiting for me.”

---