“It was Namsan, wasn’t it.” Soyou could be speaking French and I’d still understand this exchange. Her anger is writ large all over her body.
Bong glances down at Soyou’s fisted hands and nods slowly.
Soyou’s jaw works, as if she’s swallowing screams of frustration. Chaeyoung senses a pending eruption. “Let’s go to the bathroom,” she suggests quietly.
When Soyou doesn’t move, Chaeyoung grabs the other girl’s arm and drags her away. I know I’m supposed to sit here and wait for them to come out, but I’m tired of being left out. I’m tired of them gossiping about me. At least have the decency not to be so obvious.
I march after them and slam the door open. The two women jump about a foot in the air.
“Why hide in here to talk about me behind my back? Speak in Korean.”
“You understood us fine at the restaurant,” Soyou shoots back.
“Then you shouldn’t talk about me at all.”
“Or you’ll run to tell your mama, just like you told her about this stupid team-building idea?”
“That did not come from me.”
“Don’t lie.”
I can continue to deny it, but she’s never going to believe me. “Believe what you want.”
There’s a knock at the door. “We’re leaving. Are you ready?” It’s time for our hweshik. This sounds as fun as getting my wisdom teeth pulled. I wonder if I will get fired if I don’t go. That might be the best possible outcome.
None of us want to go, but Soyou, ever ambitious, swallows her anger and her pride and leads us out of the bathroom. Downstairs, a row of taxis awaits. They fill up one by one. When it’s my turn, I climb inside, sliding over to make room for the other two. Chaeyoung bends down but her phone rings. Soyou’s text alert pings as well. I check my phone but there’s nothing. Chaeyoung leans over. “We will meet you there.” She says something to the cabdriver and then slams the door shut. I blink in surprise as the car begins to move, leaving Soyou and Chaeyoung at the curb.
Ten minutes later, the driver drops me off in front of a barbecue place. I don’t see anyone familiar, but maybe it’s because I’m early. Since it’s a seat-yourself type of place, I plant myself at one of the long tables and wait. And wait and wait and wait. After thirty minutes, I pull out my phone and wonder whom I should text. It strikes me as odd that the name of the restaurant wasn’t sent to the group chat when all the others have been posted there.
ME: I must have gotten lost. Where is the dinner?
But there’s no response. Not in the first five minutes after and not in the next fifteen. Of course there’s no response, because there’s no texting during the hweshiks.
The server comes over and says something sharp in Korean, which I guess is “get out.” I put money on the table even though there’s no tipping in Korea because I’ve occupied this space for nearly an hour. If Soyou and Chaeyoung wanted me to feel humiliated, they have succeeded. I slink out of the restaurant and stand in the street. It’s dark now and it’s beginning to mist. The umbrella I bought at the Dior boutique is leaning against my desk at work.
The mist turns to a sprinkle, which turns into a downpour. As the water causes the silk fabric of my shirt to stick to my skin, I make up my mind. IF Group is not for me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The building I worked in back home in Iowa was four stories and had its own private garden, where the garden staff would grow various plants, set up photo shoots, host company events. The staff was small, in part because of increasing budget cuts, but also because it was once a family-owned company, which sold out to a national conglomerate a few years before I started working there. Yujun calls IF Group a family, and maybe it is—if the family is full of dysfunctional backbiters. It’s unfair of me to characterize the whole of the company because of one section of the marketing department, but I really don’t care. These are my feelings and they aren’t going away.
The seventh floor is empty when I step out of the elevator car. The chairs are all pushed in against the desks. My work space is full of binders and extra supplies. The clock on the screensaver of Chaeyoung’s computer bounces from one side of the monitor screen to the other. A low hum of noise from the air purifier mixes with the fans of the hard drives, but there aren’t any sounds of actual life. I won’t miss this place.
Footsteps and then a gasp startle me. I spin and nearly knock over the stack of binders. Soyou is at the door of the department, one hand clutching the frame and the other clapped over her mouth. Her hair is a mess and her shirt is only half tucked in. Even in the dim light, I can see the flush on her cheekbones. Another head appears behind her, and this time I’m too shocked to keep my own sharp inhale quiet.