Page 10 of XOXO

“That’s really cool,” Jaewoo says. When he smiles, I feel my heart melt a little.

“What about you?” I ask, hoping the dim lighting beneath the tent will mask my blush. “Do you have any dreams?”

An indecipherable expression flits across his face, gone in a second. “I don’t sleep enough for dreaming.”

“Wow,” I drawl, “what an answer.”

He winks.

On the other side of the tent, a group of people enter. I glance at my phone to see that it’s a quarter to midnight already. Jaewoo hands over our empty plates to the tent cart owner as I start to cover and pack the leftover side dishes. As we stand, I lift my head and make eye contact with a guy directly across from me.

It’s the rude guy from the bus. He’s surrounded by his college friends, most of whom are jostling for a seat at the counter.

“What are the odds he recognizes us?” I say to Jaewoo, who’s noticed the direction of my gaze.

At that moment the college guy points at us, like we’re in some sort of action movie and Jaewoo and I are criminals.

“I’d say very likely.”

Five

I don’t know who moves first or why we both jump to the same conclusion, but we make a run for it.

Neither of us looks back as we sprint back the way we came, past the food carts, making a sharp right into an office building and down a flight of stairs.

Here we stop to catch our breaths. The basement level appears to be a shopping center. Most of the businesses are closed—a nail salon, several retail stores, and a lunch box shop—but a few are still open, including a twenty-four-hour spa and an arcade.

“There!” I point to a freestanding photo booth, one of those sticker booths where for a couple dollars you can take photos with cute backgrounds that are then printed on the spot.

Jaewoo pulls me inside and I close the curtain behind us. In the darkness, our faces illuminated by the neon fluorescent light given off by the touch screen, we stare at each other.

“Why did we run?” he asks.

“I—I don’t know.”

He blinks. I blink. Then we both start to laugh. Whydidwe run? There really was no reason to. It’s not as if those college kids would have actually beaten us up—we were in a public space, with adults. Still, it was exciting. My heart is still racing from the adrenaline. Or maybe because, shoved into this small space, I’m practically in his lap.

Were photo booths always this tiny? He’s pressed all the way up against the far wall, on the bench with his long legs diagonal across the entirety of the booth. One of my legs is propped beneath me, the other draped over his. I have one hand gripping the edge of the seat and the other pressed flat against the back wall.

“How tall are you?” I blurt out.

“One hundred eighty-two centimeters.”

Right. I forgot nearly all other countries besides the US use the metric system.

His brow furrows. “I think that’s five foot eleven?”

“You just calculated that in your head?”

He shrugs. “How tall are you?”

“Five six. I don’t know what that is in centimeters.”

He nods slightly. On the touchscreen, the ad for the photo booth plays on repeat, showing smiling faces of groups of people in twos and threes, and a few alone.

He adjusts the sling of his cast, tightening the strap.

“How did you break your arm?” I ask.

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