Page 5 of XOXO

I’m about to answer with a snarky comeback, when I hesitate, remembering. “I know one...”

“What’s it called?”

“I don’t know the title.” I hum the melody by memory, but it’s been so long since I last heard it. “Sorry.” I shake my head, feeling silly for having brought it up.

“Gohae.”

I blink, startled. “What?”

“‘Confession.’ That’s the title of the song. It’s famous.”

I stare at him. I can’t believe heknowsit, and just from a fewbars of melody. “It was one of my dad’s favorites.”

“It was mine too,” he says.

I frown. “It was your favorite song?”

“My father’s.”

There’s a beat of silence between us as we both recognize we’re speaking of our fathers as if they’re no longer here.

Reaching out, he takes the controller, and with one hand, switches the language from English to Hangeul and plugs in the numbers, his fingers quick and sure.

When the instrumentals begin to play, I feel everything inside me go still.This is the song.I recognize the melody and the distinctive sound of a keyboard, then the boy starts to sing, and I forget to breathe.

I never paid attention to the lyrics before, but now they wrap around me like silk.

He sings about daring to love someone though the world would stand against them.

His voice is far from perfect, rough and not always on pitch, and yet there’s a rawness and vulnerability to every phrase, every word.

A memory washes over me, from five years ago, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my father’s hospital bed. We were playing cards on the blanket, and this song was playing in the background. And we were laughing. So hard that there were tears in our eyes, and I remembered thinking,I’m so happy. I never want this feeling to end. I want it to last forever.

But nothing ever does.

On the screen, a score appears: 86.

The time runs out on the machine. The boy gets to his feet, adjusting his cast. I instinctively stand to face him.

“Thank you,” he says, hesitantly. He then bows, and I bow back, which should be weird but for some reason isn’t.

I want to tell him that he should have won, that any judge would have scored his singing above mine. After all, a true musician doesn’t just perform a song but makes you feel something. And it’s clear with how my heart aches from the memory and the music, he has the spark. I want to ask him where it comes from, and how can I find it for myself.

But I say nothing and he quietly leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Three

In the foyer, I find Bomi pulling a UCLA sweatshirt over her head. “Hey, Jenny,” she says, catching sight of me. “Are you going home?” She stuffs her sweatshirt and the rest of her belongings behind the bar. “Avoid Olympic and Normandie on your way out. There’s some sort of Korean festival going on and the streets are blocked.”

Uncle Jay sweeps back the curtain to the kitchens, holding a tray with a plate of kimchi fried rice topped with an egg.

Bomi doesn’t look up from where she’s exchanging her bag for mine. “Boss...” she begins, handing me mine across the counter, “can I get off early on Sunday? I have to study for an Econ final.”

“Sure, sure. I am nothing if not accommodating.” He glances at me. “Don’t forget to take your leftovers from the fridge.”

“It’s banchan, not leftovers,” I correct.

“Man,” Bomi laments, “I wish someone would givemeside dishes. Instead I’m stuck with making ramen out of a rice cooker.”

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