“Jihoon texted me. Oh my God. I can get my local partner to cover me for a day and come up from Busan if you need me.”
“I’m okay. Jihoon said he’s going to fix it.” I sit down. “I’m going to trust him.”
There’s a long silence. “You don’t trust anyone to do anything,” she says.
“He says he has this.”
“What’s the plan, then?”
“Not sure.”
“How are you doing?”
“You know those fish that live at the bottom of the ocean and when they drift up, the lack of pressure makes them explode?”
“Yes.”
“Like that. In minutes, I will be exploded fish guts all over this fancy apartment.”
“Hell of an analogy, but I get it.” She coughs. “Are you looking at social media?”
“No.”
“You want me to tell you what’s going on?”
“Definite hard no.”
“Okay.” Her fingernails tap against the phone. “At least you weren’t identified. Call if you need me.”
I manage one hour and seven minutes.
One hour and seven minutes with nothing from Jihoon.
One hour and seven minutes of pacing.
One hour and seven minutes of staring at my phone, torn between wanting to check it and knowing I shouldn’t for my own mental health. Fuck it. I’m about to grab the phone when Hana calls me at one hour and eight minutes.
“Ari.” Hana’s voice is low and serious.
“I don’t want to know.”
“You do.” Her voice breaks. “They know who you are. Your name is out.”
Before this, I considered it pure hyperbole when someone said they needed to sit down because their knees went weak. I can now say this is not an exaggeration at all because my legs turn to jelly so fast, I stumble.
If they know who I am, they’ll learn too much about me. My work, my family. Yesterly and Havings,Richard, will never put up with this kind of publicity. I have an image of my dad getting harassed at his law office and their house surrounded by StarLune fans. The internet can dig up dirt on anyone. I’m boring as hell, but I don’t know what Phoebe’s done while she’s been out of my life.
No, get the facts. First get the facts.
Even as I stare at the floor, wordless, messages roll in from Alex.
Hey, text me when you can.
We have an issue. Text me.
“I need to go,” I croak. I disconnect and start fear scrolling, desperately searching for information. I keep my eyes half-closed as if that will somehow mitigate the experience the way it does for horror movies. It doesn’t.
Where are you text me
