I close my eyes, leaning my head back. I want to turn around and see if he’s looking at me right now. It feels like he is. I just need one beat of eye contact to know that my memory isn’t shit. But I can’t look, not without feeling weird or making it weird. It was one night.
So I just type, Yeah, hit send, and then turn off my phone.
Alec bought me the ticket so I’d sleep, and it seems like the best way to thank him is to at least try. As soon as I close my eyes, I feel immediately woozy. It’s the same feeling I’ve had the few times I’ve been drunk enough to be sick. The seat spins beneath me; blackness seems to bleed in from the edges of my lids.
But also, I think I’m still drunk on Alexander Kim.
I try to remember what it was like visiting Sunny’s house as a kid. While my thoughts spin down into deeper and deeper drowsiness, I imagine her porch, her living room, the scent of her kitchen, the dark stairway. I tumble into a dream about it, and when the wheels of the plane touch down, my eyes jolt open and I have the sense of just having been there. I can taste the bright tang of Mrs. Kim’s spicy tteokbokki on the very tip of my tongue, can feel the gentle spray of the lawn sprinkler on the soles of my feet; I can hear Alec yelling down the street to his friend.
The Kim family was very close, but not overt in their expressions of affection. Whatever life Alec lived after I knew him taught him to communicate with the emotional intuition he had in the hotel, and after the trip I had, it means something.
I didn’t want you getting on a plane with nothing underneath.
How many have you had?
You haven’t slept, he’d said. Even before last night you were exhausted.
In my experience, an asshole doesn’t usually say these things. I would know. Or at least I hope I would. I’ve had so many terrible interviews in the past two weeks. Interviews about men I now believe drugged women, raped them, and recorded the act on video to share with friends. I talked to the friends who’d viewed the videos without thinking anything of it. I’ve met with club bouncers, employees, and guests who saw it all happen and never thought to say anything at all.
I squeeze my eyes closed. I thought I’d built up my professional detachment, but it didn’t survive the horrors I uncovered in London. And the sour kick of Spence’s lies was a constant film at the back of my throat during my entire trip. Shitty men are everywhere.
I need one more minute with Alec. He was real with me. I thanked him for the ticket and wine and sex but never for that. I never said, You’re a good man, and for some reason, calling it out when it happens feels important now.
The wheels touch down and I turn my phone on, texting Eden about my angst, needing to diffuse it somehow.
I think I’m being a weirdo.
How?
I want to tell him that what he did last night was great but what he did this morning was better.
The seat belt light goes off, and we all stand, stretching in the aisle. I bend, reading her reply.
Oooof, girl. What did he do this morning?
I’ll explain later, I type. He was just a good guy. He took care of me.
Are you still drunk?
I pull my bag from the overhead bin and turn around to look at him. He’s still in his seat, showing no signs of hurrying to exit the plane. Our eyes meet for only a second before someone steps between us, blocking my view. It isn’t long enough for me to get any sense at all what he’s thinking. No, I reply. I’m tired. And emotional. Maybe I should just get in a cab.
Get in a cab versus what other option?
Wait for him, I text.
Don’t wait for him. This way lies madness.
Eden is right. If I even lean in the direction of hoping for more contact, I’m destined for disappointment. We both made it clear that last night was a onetime thing, and Alec has done more than enough for me. Up front in row one and already standing, I have no choice but to exit when the plane door opens. If he wanted to he could, with his long legs, catch up with me once we’re both off the plane. But a glance over my shoulder reveals he isn’t in the cluster of passengers making their way up the Jetway, and he isn’t in the mass of people behind me as we make our way through the terminal. It’s possible I lost track of him, but the terminal we flew into isn’t very crowded, and it wouldn’t be very easy to lose track of a man who looks like Alec Kim anyway.
Which might explain why, when I emerge out into the arrivals lobby, there are at least two hundred people—mostly women—standing with signs, banners, and clothing all bearing his name.
Five
Welcome to CA Alexander Kim!
SARANGHAE ALEXANDER KIM!
MARRY ME, DR. SONG