I return to my office to do some triangle breathing—three counts to breathe in, hold for three, three counts to breathe out, repeatedthree times—and instantly trash any benefit this mindfulness exercise might have had by googling my new colleague-slash-competition. She graduated after me, and of course, her mother is friends with Meredith and some of the other partners.
I shouldn’t be pissed about this since most of the office, including myself, got in through contacts and networking—in my case, Dad went to law school with Richard. However, I am a woman of contradiction, and this tidbit has me in a fury of injustice that I need to force down before I turn back to my files.
The Brittanys of the world might start one rung higher, but I’m with Dad in believing that performance is the ultimate differentiator. I only need to work harder.
It’s almost eleven by the time I get home. Brittany came by several times to ask me time-wasting questions that a woman with a degree from one of the country’s top law schools should have been able to figure out on her own, like the location of the well-marked washrooms. I’d have felt more generous had she not started every interruption by calling meAdrienne.
I toe off my high heels and set them by the door before laying my purse on the side table. More work waits in the black laptop bag I tug off my shoulder. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to bed before two.
I close my eyes to enjoy the peace of the apartment and rub my face, sore from smiling politely all day. The place is empty since my roommate, Hana, who works as a diversity consultant, is away on a work trip. This one is at least a month, and right now the silence is exactly what I need to decompress. Yawning and rolling my aching shoulders as I unbutton my navy blazer, I pass a man sleeping on the couch and cross through the kitchen.
Two steps into my bedroom, I stop, listless synapses firing a belated alert. I passed a man sleeping on the couch.
A man. On my couch.
I creep back into the kitchen to check that I wasn’t hallucinating. There is definitely a man there. My heart pole-vaults into my throat as I rock back and forth, unable to see anything but the stranger. I pride myself on always knowing what to do, but this has me floored. Do I call the police? Go on the attack? Hide in the refrigerator? Before I decide, he opens his eyes to peer at me through a mop of bleached platinum hair, and I stop breathing. My brain has focused on a single and totally useless thought, which is how angry Mom’s going to be when the paramedics find me dead with raggedy underwear. I’m going to die in my period undies because I didn’t have time for laundry.
Then he uncoils from the couch and stands.
My lizard brain:Fight, not flight. You can take him.
My neo-mammalian brain:No, you can’t.Lookat him.
That part isn’t a problem; I can’t stop looking at him because I’m too frozen to even blink. He’s slender and taller than me with smooth lines of pure muscle on his neck and arms, dressed in a black sweater threaded with red.
Lizard brain:Whoa.
Neo-mammalian brain:Whoa.
All brain functions:Whoa whoawhoa.
Whoever this guy is, he’s striking enough that my hormones register it despite my panic.
He clears his throat. “Hello.” He takes two steps in my direction, lithe and confident as a dancer…or a serial killer homing in on his prey.
This breaks my paralysis, and I scramble for a knife. “Stay back.” It takes me two tries to choke the words out of my dry throat. At least the counter forms a protective wall between us.
His eyes widen, and he raises his hands like he’s under arrest. “I’m Jihoon. Jihoon?” He repeats his name urgently, as if it’s a charm to protect against the sharp steel in my hand.
“I don’tcare.” I grip the knife and lift it higher. The surging adrenaline makes my heart pound so hard that I wheeze, but I have a weapon, and I’ll use it.
I also have a phone, and if I can calm down, I can use that, too. Without taking my eyes off the guy, who has not taken his eyes off me, I pull it out of my pocket to call for help. As my thumb goes for the nine in 911 because I can’t remember how to get to the emergency SOS screen—I’m in acrisis, why did they make it so hard—the phone bleats out the tone I’ve assigned to Hana’s texts, a discordantly cheerfuldah-DAH-DAH.
Not now, Hana. Yet despite being in a very scary position, I check the screen immediately. If I die because I’m distracted, the fault lies with technology and its ridiculously addictive algorithms.
Hana:My cuz Jihoon coming over to stay for a bit. Left my key for him. Sorry, forgot to mention it.
Like a chameleon, I keep one eye down to scan the message again while the other swivels up to the guy. She forgot to mention it. Forgot to mention I’d be coming home to a strange man in my living room.
If I live through this, she’s dead.
I drag both eyes up from the phone. The guy hasn’t moved.
“What’d you say your name is?” I demand.
“Jihoon.” It comes out as an almost imploring whisper. “Choi Jihoon.”
“You’re Hana’s cousin.”
