“A song that might be about watches. Or something else.” His frown deepens to cover his forehead in lines. “It’s not going well.”
I shimmy around to see him better. “How do you even write a song?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been asking myself the exact same question.”
I toss a pillow at him. “Seriously. Do you start with the words?”
“Sometimes. Usually a melody. Occasionally an idea or a feeling.”
“What do you have so far?”
He sits up and smiles at me. “Would you like to write a song, Ari?”
That makes me laugh as I stretch my legs. “I’m not creative.”
“We’re all creative,” he says. “Every single person is, but some have been discouraged. Give it a try. Help a poor, lost songwriter.”
Why not? “What are you stuck on?”
Jihoon tosses the notebook aside to pace the room. “There was another mural in that alley, beside one of a flower. It was a clock painted in a cage. And I think of this.”
He hums a part of a song to me, and even without words, I have a sense of longing and desire. “That sounds like the singer wants something.”
“They do.” Jihoon looks pleased before he taps the side of his nose with his pen. “The question is what they want.”
I point at the watch. “They want time.”
He gazes at his watch. “Time,” he muses.
“Watches break time up,” I say, thinking of my billable hours. “The act of measuring makes us think differently about it.”
Jihoon’s head is bent over his notebook as he writes. “Keep talking. Please.”
So I do, about not much and everything. And Jihoon listens and writes, and again I have that sense of being not only listened to but heard.
“Do I get a songwriting credit?” I ask when I take a sip of water.
Jihoon looks at me with wide and shining eyes, his smile huge. “I’ll give you anything you want, Ari.”
Anythingcould be interesting. I restrain myself from looking down to where his shirt has ridden up to show the edges of that tiger tattoo and instead wish him a good night and leave him on the couch writing away.
As I go to bed, I wonder what the song will sound like and if I’ll ever hear it.
Thirteen
Jihoon texts me short thoughts and photos of what he’s doing. He’s a stream-of-consciousness kind of guy, so I get random snippets of what he overhears on the street and his observations watching people try to fix a broken gate in the park. They’re the bright spots of my day, and slowly I start doing the same. We end up in long, free-flowing asynchronous conversations that serve as a satisfying digital reminder that other people exist and there’s life outside the hallowed, dark wood-paneled halls of Yesterly and Havings.
Because work seems a bit off.
A lot off.
At first, I thought it was me. My head used to be about 90 percent dedicated to work and 8 percent thinking about Hana and my family. The remaining 2 percent went to grooming and other human tasks. Jihoon and my dad and Phoebe have barged in to claim more than their allotted share. Work has lost out.
I glance at the time. I’m due for a meeting with Richard. Formal meetings with Richard are usually good news, and this must finally be about Beaconsmith. Iknowit. It has to be. I’ve worked hard, harder than anyone else at my level. Definitely harder than Brittany. Being added to a big name like Beaconsmith is a declaration of how much the firm values you. I’m ready.
I arrive at Richard’s office at the exact meeting time, and his assistant nods me in without looking up from her screen. Richard is finishing a phone call, and he points me to one of the leather seats in front of his desk. I smooth my skirt over my knees, notebook balanced on my lap as I cross my ankles. I never go into a meeting without something to write on.
Richard hangs up and smiles at me. “How are you, Ariadne?”
