| |
I huff out a breath, my heart practically pulverized in my chest as I shake, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
It amazes me how I can go from being so happy, so high on what Jaeyong and I shared, that I’m now this quivering mess.
But honestly, who would send death threats to Jaeyong? Who? Who am I going to have to fight, and dispatch assassins for?
WHO?!
Jaeyong still knocks on the bedroom door, even if it’s his room, and I sit up in bed, pulling in a deep, deep breath at the sight of him. All warm, golden skin, low-slung sweats that haven’t been changed since earlier today. I don’t want to be distracted, but he is distracting, it’s just a fact of life.
“How could you not tell me?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper when he takes a seat next to my legs, body turned towards me. His hand moves out, palm facing up, and I place my palm in his, trying to ground myself with the knowledge that he’s here right now, with me, very much alive and whole.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
I hike myself up onto my knees, anger burning fire up my throat, hot enough that I have to tamp down on what I want to say, need to say. “Not that big of a deal? Not that big of a deal?!” My voice rises in pitch and I have to pull in sharp, deep breaths to keep my volume at an all-time low. “Death threats are not a big deal?”
“How did you find out?” he asks, voice calm and steady, impersonating the eye of the storm while I am the storm.
Even though we’re holding hands, it feels like we’re worlds apart. “Jaeyong, how could you not tell me?”
“Because! Because.” He adjusts the level of his voice so he doesn’t wake his parents. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing to do with me?” I ask, voice whisper-soft, a ghost of my normal voice. “It has everything to do with me, everything. That’s it, we’re never going out again, like ever. I’ll take Haneul to live with me for the time being. I’ll take care of him. You’re not allowed outside anymore. I’ll bring you groceries, or whatever, just...” My breath hitches, the traitorous thing, cracks right down the middle, spilling out of me. “Do you really think I wouldn’t be upset about this? Is that what you think?”
“Raleigh, no. That’s not what I think at all. Come here, let me hold you.”
I follow orders, because I want to be cuddled, and I think he needs some cuddling too. “Aren’t you scared, like at all?”
I feel him shrug more than anything, his chin settled on the top of my head, rubbing up and down my back like I’m the one that needs soothing, needs calming, when I should be doing it for him.
Death threats, fucking death threats. Against a K-pop idol.
Not saying I hate a lot of people, but death threats should be reserved for those that actually deserve it.
What the hell did Jaeyong do, except sing and dance on stage and figuratively get everyone pregnant with those body rolls of his?
Nothing, that’s right, he did nothing.
This isn’t fair, and I’m mad about it, mad enough for the both of us since he seems all calm and normal and steady.
“I didn’t really think about it. I’m protected everywhere we go, except for this weekend, because I begged off the security team. I wanted to keep this private, like you wanted, and the more people know about us, the worse it’s going to be. I just want to live life as normally as possible.”
“If you get hurt, I’m going to kill you.” I sigh against him, knowing that it’s not the end of this, not the end of this conversation, not by a long shot, but it has to be for now. I don’t even think his parents know, if he’s been keeping it this hush-hush. Jesus Christ.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
“I mean it, Jaeyong. Don’t trivialize this, don’t make me sad.”
He shakes his head and leans back so he’s looking at me in the eye. “Do you want me to stay here?”
I gasp dramatically, clutching my pearls. “And have your parents catch us? Hell no. I’d rather die.” I groan. “Why am I joking about this? I’m upset and trying to cover it up with shit humor.” I look at him, trying to rub away the ache in my chest, but it feels just seems to yawn wider.
This is who he is—a public figure that gets death threats.
What the actual fuck?
It’s so easy to forget that he is who he is, that his job is what it is, because of hiatus, because we always hang out at home (the way I like it).
What the hell’s going to happen when the schedule’s going to ramp up? Is his security detail going to get tighter now that promotions will be coming up for the new comeback? Will he be under round-the-clock surveillance? Will they run a background check on me (honestly, please do, I’m not an exciting person at all, and what they find would be a total snooze-fest)?
Where can I learn to get a licence to kill, and can I get it immediately?
“I love you, you know,” Jaeyong says, easy as pie, just laying it out there while I freeze. He shrugs, the corner of his mouth hitching up in a half-smile. “In case you didn’t know. And I promise to live long enough that you’ll get to say it back to me.”
Won’t say it doesn’t mean I can’t say it.
Jaeyong’s hand comes up to settle against my cheek, pulling me close to kiss me. “I love you, Raleigh Montgomery, pretty sure I have since I was a kid. Waiting a little longer isn’t going to change that.”
Pain flares in my throat, and it’s a tight squeeze to talk around it. “You sure about that?” I ask, faking it. I know that this is going to end, even if he doesn’t.
Jaeyong smiles, knocking our foreheads together gently, sighing out a breath that we end up sharing. “As sure as I can be. I’m going to wait forever for you.”
I try to smack at his shoulder, even while my heart thuds harder in my chest. Is this allowed, for him to be talking to me like this? Being so freaking sweet? Who allowed this, who allowed him into my heart like this? Who?
Fate? Destiny?
“Don’t worry about me so much, okay? Now that I’ve got you back, I really don’t plan on going anywhere.” Jaeyong nods, then kisses my forehead.
I shake my head at him, running my hands along his shoulders, down his arms. “Better not be. I’ll kick your ass.”
Jaeyong steals another kiss, then leaves his old bedroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
It feels like it takes me years to fall asleep, my thoughts buzzing in my head, keeping slumber away.
I stare into the shadows looking for answers, but don’t find any.
I don’t see Jaeyong for two weeks after we come back to Seoul from Daejeon.
Life gets busy for both of us, especially as I hang out more with my colleagues for after-work drinks, the equivalent of Montreal’s 5 à 7 drinking culture, but with soju and Korean barbecue. It’s nice, sure, but I don’t feel like my colleagues trust me yet, like I’m not really their friend.
But maybe that’s just me, seeing things that aren’t there.
One of the co-teachers, Park Mirae, who’s around my age, starts asking me questions about my personal life, the kind of surface questions you get all the time from people you’re getting to know—where did you grow up, what’s life like back in Canada—until she finally nails me with a question: would I be willing to meet a guy she knows for a blind date?
Blind dating is a thing here in Seoul, and I’m guessing maybe the entirety of South Korea. It’s probably easier, depending on which way you look at it, by getting your friends to set you up with other friends, expanding and expanding the friend group until eventually everyone’s paired up.
I flubber the question and nearly spill soju all over myself.
“Come on, he’s really nice and handsome,” Mirae says, nodding her head, like it’s going to get me to do the same thing. “He works for his father’s company, in the engineering department.”
I murmur something but don’t really give her an answer, the conversation being pulled elsewhere as the meat gets grilled in the middle of the table for typical barbecue and then divvied up among the four of us, me hitting the soju much harder than the others.
I could say yes, go for coffee with the guy and leave it at that, or I could lie my ass off and tell everyone at the table that I’m in a long-distance relationship with a guy from back home. Yeah, that might work, and it should nip this all in the bud. I don’t want to seem stuck up, like I’m not willing to date a Korean, like I’m some kind of asshole from Canada.
It sits a little oddly in my chest, a heavy, squirming weight on my heart that I can’t just tell them, even if I’m the one that wanted to keep everything private. These women aren’t really my friends yet, but it would be nice to say ‘yeah, I’ve got a boyfriend, want to see how adorable he is ?’ and then show him off by scrolling through the pictures in my phone,
It’s a little isolating, if I’m honest.
But it’s not that big of a deal because the only people who should know about my relationship with Jaeyong already do: The Mins, my mom knows I’m dating someone over here, but we’ve never really had a relationship where I felt I could tell her things about my love life so at least there’s that, and my old roommates—pro-footballer Maddie and Aria, who’s in Toronto, her weekly emails hinting at an upcoming comic con.
The swell of longing rises up too thick, too fast in my throat, and it’s hard to talk around it, let alone push it down with food. I give it my best shot, letting the smoke coming off the grill make my eyes water, wanting a real reason for why I’ve gone all glossy-eyed than getting hit with a tsunami of homesickness for friends that I no longer have beside me, that I can’t seem to sync up our schedules to make time to talk to.
If I let myself think about it, Jaeyong was my first love, the kind of love I didn’t know was love until he was gone, and while it was never romantic or sexual (ewww) since we were too young for that, maybe if we had both stayed in Montreal, fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it would have stayed the course and maybe we would have been married by now. Hell, maybe we would have had kids, boys that look like me and little girls that look like him, all of them driving me crazy in the best way.
And now we haven’t seen each other in two weeks, and texting and video calling just isn’t the same when he seems harried, the circles under his eyes getting darker and darker, even though his under-eye bags are cute and I’m not too sure how that’s possible.
It’s award season, so Trickshot is probably going to have to make appearances on all the big shows, and the holidays are getting closer and closer. I get that he’s busy, but it still breaks my heart that he looks so tired, when he’s supposed to be on a break.
“I have a boyfriend back home,” I say finally, lips a little loose from all the alcohol, and I end up stuffing my face with samgyeopsal (Korean pork belly), chewing at the end of my chopsticks with nerves.
Please don’t ask me anymore questions, please don’t ask me anymore questions!
“Oh? Do you have a picture? Let’s see, let’s see!” Mirae asks, clapping her hands together to get the attention of the rest of our dinner party.
Ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I didn’t see this coming!
My entire camera roll is practically promo shots of Trickshot with a super heavy focus on Jaeyong (who looks amazing in everything he wears, honestly, it’s not fair), and some random American celebrities. Like, I’m pretty sure that Mirae’s gonna know who Chris Evans is, and I can’t play that off as some fangirl delusion.
I scroll through my camera roll, telling her something along the lines of “Yeah, he takes really bad pictures, so please don’t judge him too harshly.” bringing up a few high school pictures of guys I dated in the past, left around on the internet even though I thought I had deleted them, but they end up saving my ass in the end, so it’s a win-win.
I shove my phone in her face, and let her swipe to the left and right, where I’ve lined up three pictures, and squawk when she gets to a picture of Jaeyong on stage. “Oh,” I mumble, flushing from the soju, from embarrassment, from it all, as I hastily take my phone back, and shove it in my purse.
“Yeah, I was able to go to a fansign for Trickshot. Do you know them?” I ask, like asking someone if they know about sliced bread.
Trickshot’s too big for the entire world population to not know about them so what the hell am I playing at?
“Oh, Trickshot?” Mirae says, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin after eating a piece of pork belly.
I rub at my forehead, feeling the dampness there, especially along my hairline, and I can tell I’m starting to sweat elsewhere, too.
It definitely doesn’t help matters when my phone buzzes in my hands, the MJY (in the Latin alphabet) flashing, which I’m going to have to change, and Mirae’s sitting close enough to me to catch the notification. I stow it in my purse, even though three more messages come through, one after the other, and I’m torn between checking to see if it’s an emergency and then worrying that Jaeyong might be sending me dick pics in the middle of dinner, in public.
Heat suffuses my entire body, coiling in my lower belly, and the burn in my cheeks goes bonfire high and it’s got nothing to do with sitting close to the grill, nothing.
I end up excusing myself, leaving money behind for my order and drinks, and wish them all a good night and good weekend. I’m planning on trying to catch the bus or walking to the next stop along the bus line so I can clear my head a little. Plus, it’ll give me ample time to think about all this distance between Jaeyong and me now, all this silence.
Did I do something wrong? Did I make him believe that I thought he did something wrong because I refuse to tell him that I love him?
Shit, life was so much simpler pre-Jaeyong, pre-Seoul.
Don’t say that, that’s mean.
Them’s the facts, though.
My phone buzzes in my purse again, and I fish it out, swiping it open. “Hello?”
“Yeah, Raleigh? Raleigh?” Jaeyong’s voice comes through broken, staticky, breathing too heavy just to be taking a leisurely stroll.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, frozen, afraid to move, afraid to think. “What, what is it? Tell me.”
“You’re not coming to my apartment, right? You’re not on your way here?” he asks, breathing erratic.
“No, I’m not. I was planning on going home. What’s wrong?” I bite my tongue so I don’t say his name out loud so I don’t implicate myself in whatever is happening. Strangers are always listening. Everyone’s a potential reporter, looking to sell a picture, a story.
I resume walking, keeping my pace as leisurely as I’m gonna get it, power-walking down the blocks, dodging around cars as I jaywalk the shit out of the crosswalks, phone pressed to my ear.
“Just...I’m not gonna tell you over the phone. Can I come over?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll have something for the pup, too. You’re kinda freaking me out,” I say, blind to the people around me, the stares of surprise I get when they see me speaking Korean into the phone. Right, right. I switch to French and English, completely and utterly paranoid now. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Are you all right, is Haneul all right? Are either of you hurt?”
Jaeyong sighs, and there’s a strain to it, a pulse of worry underneath it that has me shutting up. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes, is that all right?”
“Of course it’s all right. You’re absolutely freaking me out now, shit. Okay, the pass code’s Goku’s birthday—the one in the manga.”
“Shit, shit, really?”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Please, just get there in one piece if you get there before me, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Jaeyong sounds tired, so tired. “Okay, okay.” There’s silence for a time. “Just...stay on the phone with me for a little while longer?”
“Yeah, sure,” I murmur, “anything you want. Have you eaten? Should I order something?”
Jaeyong grunts. “No, I don’t think I can eat right now.”
I nod, because while his response to being worried is not being able to eat, my response is to down as much sugar as is readily available. Fuck it, when I get home, I’m gonna bake cookies, my world-famous (not-so-world-famous) chocolate chip cookies, and I’m glad Past Raleigh had the forethought to pre-make the dry mix for them.
“Are you safe?” I ask, heart thumping hard in my chest, in my wrists, at my temples. I let out shaky breaths, pulling in as much air as I can handle at a time, worried that it’s going to tip me into panic mode.
“Yeah, baby, I am, I promise. Just getting down into the car now. Everything’s taken care of, don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry about you? We’re going to have to talk about this when I see you. I’m gonna punch you in the arm for worrying me like this, shit. Are you in the car now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Drive safely. I’m just getting on the bus now, should be there in fifteen.”
“I know you’re mad at me,” he says as I stumble onto the bus after swiping my transpo card against the reader and take a seat.
“I am no such thing.”
“Raleigh, please don’t.”
“But I’m not mad, I swear! Annoyed is a completely different emotion. And I’m mostly annoyed at myself, okay? Like, I didn’t expect to get so clingy with you. Who am I? I’ve never really been like that. You got some special superpowers or something I don’t know about?” I babble, trying to break the strained silence, trying to make time move faster so I can get to be where he is, so I can see him, all in one piece.
There’s a weak chuckle at the other end of the line, and it makes that invisible vise around my chest loosen, allowing me to breathe that much more easily. Fuck, whatever it is, it must be bad, must be shit. “You’re not hurt?” I ask again, needing to make sure. “Do I need to meet you at the emergency?”
There are so many hospitals in Seoul I wouldn’t even know where to start on how to get there.
Oh, hey, there’s this little thing called GPS!
I shake my head at myself, worrying my bottom lip, sitting ramrod straight in my seat, looking around to see if anyone’s listening too closely, but while I get the occasional looks since I am a foreigner that doesn’t fit in with the rest of the Koreans, and I’m out of place, especially since I’m talking so loudly, panicked, nervous, all of the above.
Fever-heat courses down my body, making my skin prickle even as I fight to ground myself, keep myself calm. The both of us can’t be freaking out, especially if I don’t even know what it is I’m freaking out over.
“I’m fine, baby. Haneul, too. We’re good. Just really need to see you.”
“Okay, I’m...I don’t know, another ten or so stops away. Are you there yet?”
“Almost.”
“Wanna do me a favour and bake some cookies? I have a mix pre-made, you just have to cream the butter and sugar together, and add the chocolate chips.”
Jaeyong groans, but it’s not from pain. “Chocolate chip cookies and you? You’re spoiling me.”
He sounds so much better now, his voice not strained under pressure, the words no longer sound like they’re going to cave in on themselves. Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened, and who do I have to fight to make it better?
There’s silence for a time, five minutes, I don’t even know, but the length of two songs on the radio or whatever Jaeyong’s using for music, humming along to it while murmuring platitudes to Haneul, the dog whining high in his nose, unsettled.
I don’t know of a pet store that’s open this late at night, and I could find one, sure, but do I want to, when Jaeyong clearly needs me right now?
“All right, I’m heading upstairs now. I’m gonna make those cookies for us. How far away are you?”
“Five stops away. Should be there soon,” I murmur, craning my neck, leaning to one side only to start looking out the window to make sure of my position. The neighbourhood looks different under this much cover of night, but I think I guessed it right.
I run once I get off the bus and end up sprinting up my stairs, fumbling my pass code twice, double-clicking some numbers because my hands shake so much and twitch all over the place before I’m opening my door. Haneul makes a run for me, pouncing up my body, bouncing on his hind legs in canine happiness that I have to stop, just for a second, to make sure the door is locked and secured with the security chain and take off my shoes before giving Haneul all the pets.
“Jaeyong?” I call, even though I’m sure he can barely hear me over the sound of him creaming the butter and sugar together, the way his phone’s blasting out music.
I slide into the kitchen on my socks, the floor like a skating rink and I’m the hockey player. I choke on air when Jaeyong turns around, an awful gash over his eyebrow, already stitched up with one, two, three, four freaking stitches.
I point at him, stabbing viciously into the air. “You told me you weren’t hurt!” I screech, pointing at his wound.
Jaeyong turns off the electric mixer, sets it down, the silence too loud for my apartment, pressing down on my ears, trying to take up the space left behind by words left unsaid.
I can’t move, the adrenaline from trying to get home quicker than him, and now just seeing Jaeyong and Haneul safe in my apartment is doing me in. My heart’s still beating hard in my chest, but my blood is no longer pounding in my ears, my breathing too loud in the silence of my apartment.
Jaeyong doesn’t make a move toward me either, not one move, instead staying in the kitchen and looking at me, reading me as I struggle to figure out what to do next.
There’s a part of me that wants to wrap him up in bubble wrap and lock him away in a closet or something, just to make sure he’s safe.
The wound on his head is jarring, and I really don’t care if head wounds are the ones that bleed a lot relative to how small they are, anyone’s head is the most fragile part of their body. Give someone a good enough knocking and they can die.
I clench my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, the pain sharp and bright as I shake in place from the comedown of all the adrenaline, crashing even if I can’t seem to move.
I pull in deep, deep breaths, and it takes me a second to hear my own breathing, the way it’s wet now, the way I can barely see Jaeyong for the tears welling up in my eyes. There’s a yawning chasm in my chest that grows and grows and grows, and I wonder if I’ll fall through the cracks, too, if I’m stupid enough to stay rooted to the spot instead of making a run for it.
“Baby,” Jaeyong murmurs, voice soft and gentle, like he’s trying to talk to an animal caught in a trap, trying to reassure and calm me while I don’t really hear what he’s saying, just the tone. “Raleigh, please, don’t cry. I’m all right.”
I watch him leave the kitchen and come to move in front of me where I’m standing in the living room, stuck to the spot.
He still looks like my Jaeyong, still broad and tall and big, even if he’s kid-like some of the time, and sweet and soft that all I want to do is pad him in body armour and make sure no one ever hurts him or his feelings. His face is still his face (even if it’s swelling), the golden skin, the cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the dark, dark eyes that follow every micro-expression on my face, trying to figure me out.
He’s wearing comfortable clothes, sweats and a huge long-sleeved shirt that swims around his hips, and his hair is pushed back off his forehead, a pinch of worry between his exposed eyebrows, mouth firm, and downturned.
“Sweetheart, you’re killing me,” he says, hands moving up to hold onto my arms, banding around my shoulder muscles, while I stand there, coiled tight like a spring. “I’m fine, me and Haneul, we’re both fine.”
I shake my head, unable to speak past the pain in my throat, a hot, boiling ember clogging up the words I should say but doing nothing for my sobs. I shake my head again, shutting my eyes, sniffing hard, and shove my head against his chest, like Haneul does when he’s demanding pets and cuddles.
I’m able to move my arms to squeeze around his middle, squeezing him tight with all the strength I have until I’m able to turn my head, and place my ear over his heart, hearing it’s incessant beat, the rhythm of it the only thing that feels real.
There are questions that need to be asked, and then answered, but I’m tired now, and still tipsy and the world is blurry along the edges as my muscles are sore, and the rest of me is exhausted.
I keep holding onto Jaeyong, unable to make out his murmurings, only that he’s saying them, running his hand down my hair, rubbing the other one along my back in soothing circles, keeping me as tightly to him as I’ve pulled him to me.
It’s this that helps me breathe a little better, that helps me realize that he’s here, with me, and he’s okay.
But how much longer is that going to be for? How can I protect him when he already got hurt?
How did this happen and why?
And who am I going to fight to fix this?
