Wow, we are very different people. “Why did you come to Toronto, then?” I ask.
His face clouds. “They understood I needed some space away.”
I want to ask more because I can tell there’s a hell of a storybehind this epic breakup. I also know I won’t be able to respond with the sensitivity the circumstances, and Hana, would demand, so I back off with a wimpy, “Makes sense.”
Jihoon casts me a doubtful glance, as if waiting for prying questions, but he catches me mid-yawn. “It’s late,” he says. “You have work tomorrow.”
I do, and a fierce irritation overtakes me. I have work tomorrow and the next day and the next and every day until I die.
He sees my expression. “You don’t want to go to work?”
“Doesn’t matter if I do or not,” I say, turning the corner that will take us home.
“It does.”
I pull my hair over my shoulder. “I’m a lawyer. I have to work in an office. That’s how it is, so it doesn’t matter how I feel about it.”
“Law is what you do, Ari. It’s not who you are.”
He draws close to me while we walk, and our hands brush as I consider his words. It’s a nice sentiment out here, wrapped up in the dark with no one around, but Jihoon is wrong. In the morning, I will be the same old me, doing the same old thing because I work so much at my job that it’s become both what I do and who I am.
I guess that’s kind of sad.
But that’s how it is.
Seven
It’s clear Jihoon has successfully hurdled over both his lingering jet lag and any reservations about me.
I know he’s fully adjusted to eastern daylight time when I hear him singing as he gets up at six in the morning. It’s not “Paradise City,” and I’m certain he’s on key. Or on pitch. Whatever you call it.
I know he’s adjusted to me when he pops his head in my room and asks if I want breakfast at shortly after six in the morning.
I’m buried under my duvet, enjoying my usual seven minutes of snooze, but I jerk upright when I hear his voice at my door. Shoving my sleep mask on top of my head and knowing my hair must be wild despite its night braid, I stare at him in shock. Not even Hana, our friendship resting on a sound foundation of years of goodwill, would dare come into my room this early.
Jihoon stands there in a loose black shirt and fitted gray sweatpants—and those things are the devil’s garment leading people to sin—looking at me as if this is normal.
The alarm goes off, and I silence it with a vicious motion. “What?” I snap.
Though I sound crabby, he takes it in stride. “Breakfast. What would you like? I’m a good cook.”
“No. Nothing.” I rub my face. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
He frowns. “It’s the most important meal of the day.”
What, is he on hire from Canada’s Food Guide? “I’m fine.”
“Not even cereal?” He pauses. “We have lots.”
“God, no.” I’m not awake enough to be polite or to deal with the thought of eating whatever repulsive sugar bomb he’s into this morning. He must have bought out the cereal aisle judging from the number of brightly colored boxes in the kitchen.
“I’ll get you coffee, then.” He ducks out before I can reply.
It’s clear Hana fibbed. Despite his initial reticence, Choi Jihoon in his natural state is a Choi and, as such, not the type to keep quietly to himself once he’s comfortable.
He’s in the kitchen assessing his collection of cereals when I’m ready to leave for work. His smile gives him a funny, impish look, but his eyes are shadowed, and it fades almost as soon as it appears. He might be acting more natural, but it’s clear whatever he’s been through has taken a toll.
“We can watch a movie tonight,” he says. “If you have time.”
