Season's Greetings : Christmas Box Set

“No, this is America. They don’t phrase things that way. We must respect our culture but adapt to our new surroundings.”

“Yes.” My stomach twists and growls. I can’t look ignorant in front of others. It’ll upset Sang-Hoon and the company. We’re here to make a good impression.

“Try again,” Sang-Hoon insists.

I clear my throat. “What I’ve seen of it has been beautiful, and you’ve all been very welcoming. Thank you.”

“Good.” He grunts. “Do you have a significant other?”

“No, my work keeps me very busy. Currently, my main focus is on making the best show I can for my fans.”

The manager gives me a thumbs-up. “Excellent. What do you look for in a woman?”

I fight the urge to flinch. It’s such an invasive question. Hollywood here seems to have an obsession without the romantic relationships of stars.

“I enjoy a woman with a sweet spirit who likes music and reading.”

“Very nice. Continue to keep it vague, so anyone out there can picture themselves as the one who gains your attention.”

The pilot gives the fifteen-minute warning ’til landing, and blessed silence falls as Sang-Hoon begins to gather his things.

The plane lands. Flight attendants in peacock blue dresses and pointed hats begin to unbuckle their flight seats. We come to a stop. They’re immediately on their feet, flashing blinding white smiles as they stow their seats. Black heels accentuate their shapely legs, and the dresses highlight their slender frames. Their beauty does nothing for me. Working in a world built around an image, I’m trapped by expectations and craving someone real.

A dark-haired attendant with olive-toned skin and a round face sends me a suggestive look and winks. I avert my eyes, ignoring her subtle invitation. I won’t find a sincere connection hooking up with a stranger I’ll never see again. I’d be a feather in her cap she can brag to her friends and coworkers about. I’ve seen lives ruined by bad press and rumors. My career means more to me than that. I refuse to put myself in another comprising position again. My stomach sours as I think about her.

I always had strong emotions buried deep inside of me. First music, and later drama allowed me to express them acceptably. After six years as an idol in a K-Pop group, where I was told when to wake, how much I could eat, and the proper way to act, I wasn’t sure who I was.

The door lowers, and people scramble for their things, hurrying to the aisle way, where they line up to deboard. I tense, bouncing my leg as I lean forward in my seat. Traveling through public places makes me nervous. Wide-open spaces make it easy for crowds to get out of hand.

Our stylist, Cho, clucks her tongue from the seat across from me.

“Neither of you can be seen like this. Let me give you a quick touch up.” Spritzing water onto my costar, Jiwoo Park’s hair, Cho begins to work through it with a wide paddle brush. “We must always look our best in public.”

“It seems to me that you are right, Cho,” Jiwoo agrees.

“We owe them a great debt. Their love for you makes this possible,” Sang says.

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As if I needed a reminder.

“Yoon. Wipe your face with a calming cleanser wipe to prepare it for hydration and concealer,” Cho commands.

I take the green packet of wipes from her and wipe off the travel grime and remnants of make-up. I place the used wipe into the airsick bag and use a hydrating spray. Men aren’t exempt from the impossibly high standards of beauty. If I want to keep my contract with the skincare line, I can’t look ragged. I glance over to see Jiwoo’s transformation. She’s gone from looking run down to resembling a living porcelain doll. Fluttering her false lashes, she smiles coyly.

“Ahh. You’re ready.” Cho nods her approval.

Cho slips from her seat beside Jiwoo and comes over to me. She tilts my head roughly to the left. “Make sure you’re drinking enough water. Close your eyes.” Her cold fingers dab heavily under my eyes. I flinch as she does a quick cover job. “Purse your lips. That’s it.” The nude gloss rolls on smoothly, and she pats my shoulders. “Now, you are ready to be seen.”

Smoke and mirrors.

Finally, we line up to exit the plane. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, feeling like a zombie with my heavy limbs and lids.

“Remember, there may be fans who’ve waited to see you. We want to give them the best impression we can, so remember to smile and spread happiness.”

Fans. Everything we do is for them, and still, they love us with a stifling intensity. I fix a believable smile onto my face as I blink to bring back moisture to my eyes. It’s a little past five in the morning. The sun is starting to peak up on the horizon as we exit. Already, heat rises up from the concrete—sweat beads on the back of my neck and on my forehead. I take in the barren area, unimpressed. I thought I would see rolling green hills. Everything is supposed to be bigger in Texas, but the airport itself isn’t huge. A security team of eight guards clad in all black greets us.

“We have over fifty fans who’ve camped out overnight to see them. It’s more than the airport anticipated. We’ve done our best to create a clear path from here to the white van waiting to take you to your hotel. We held you back on the plane to allow time to load your suitcases.”