Seoulmates (Seoul 2)

Ellen watches game shows and reality television, and if the circumstances were reversed and Yujun was Ellen’s son, she would’ve had a party the second night and invited everyone within a fifty-mile radius. She goes to pottery parties, martini nights, knitting socials. She’s dragged me to dozens of these events, where I slink to the back, drink copious wine, and find my way home with a dubious craft that sits on a shelf collecting dust for months until I finally stow it away with the sweatshirts from college that I can’t seem to get rid of even though I never wear them.

Since I moved in, only Wansu and I have ever sat at the large walnut table that seats twelve, and every night after dinner, Wansu retires to this room and this man. And then there’s Yujun. We’ve never really discussed his father, which is my fault. I’ve been so focused on my own drama that I haven’t made time for him. I need to do better.

Outside the bedroom, Yujun is seated on a bench that wasn’t there before. “My legs were tired,” he says by way of explanation.

“Did you wait here the entire time?”

“I said I would. I didn’t want to break my promise again.” He stands and tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, leading me toward the stairs.

The last time he told me he’d be waiting was right after I discovered Choi Wansu was my biological mother. I went to her office to confront her and ran into Yujun. He’d said he would wait for me while I confronted Wansu, but when that first disastrous meeting had concluded, he was gone. He had been called away to see his father.

My apology is long overdue. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you before I was spending time with your dad.”

At the first step down, he stops and turns. We’re almost eye to eye. “Why would you need to apologize for that?”

“Because it feels like something you should’ve known, and I wasn’t trying to hide it, but it felt awkward to bring it up.” Because your dad’s unconscious and can’t give his consent to me, the interloper, being in his room.

“It’s fine. It really is, and I’m not merely saying that.” He tugs me down for a quick kiss. “Eomma is on her way home. This will have to last until tonight.” He wipes his finger across my wet lips. The touch is fleeting but I feel it everywhere. “Come and keep me company while I unpack.”

I let it go. Yujun believes this is my home now as well. It’s not. His rooms are on the opposite side of the house, far away from mine. It’s different over here—warmer and more inviting. When Wansu gave me the tour, she opened the door to his room for all of a half second. I caught a glimpse of wood and carpet before I was hustled back into the living room.

The floors are mahogany and the walls are painted a dark blue. A large king-size platform bed rests on a raised floor. On the level below is a large-screen television, a black velvet sectional, and a desk. Around the corner is a small eat-in kitchenette with a sink, microwave, and hot plate and doors leading to his en suite bathroom and a dressing room full of sneakers, hats, and enough jackets for every day of the month. A large suitcase rests open on a bench.

“What story are you on?” he asks as he begins to unpack.

“?‘Sim Cheong.’?”

“?‘Sim Cheong’?” He hoots. “Going for the traditionals. Let me sum them all up for you. Be selfless, put your family first, and you will be rewarded. Have you read the goblin one?”

“As in the great and lonely god?” There’s a dreamy K-drama based on the story of a goblin god.

“No. The one about the two brothers. I won’t spoil it for you since you haven’t reached it.”

“I’ll get there eventually. I found the book in the English section at Kyobo in Gwanghwamun.” Above his desk is a shelf lined with trophies. I don’t know what they’re for, but he has a lot of them. “Bomi says that there is a Korean version, but I didn’t want to torture your father with my terrible pronunciation. I did buy some children’s books. Maybe when I finish with the Korean folktales, I’ll move on to one of those.”

“I’ve read Where’s Halmoni? to my cousins a dozen times. You should try that one.” His voice fades in and out as he moves around in his dressing room.

“I will.” Some of the trophies appear to be academic ones since there are books or pens etched into the crystal and metal.

“Don’t look.” A large hand covers my eyes. “This is an eomeo-nim’s shelf.”

A mother’s shelf? That makes sense. I pull his hand down to rest on my shoulder—a comforting weight. “I love it. Tell me what each one is for.”