Her eyes drop to the ground, and she says, “No, I’m not going to spend any more time with you, because it doesn’t sound like we’re on the same page.”
“Surely, there is something you need. Something I could buy for you…”
She cuts me off with another shake of her head. “No, Hayato, that one-night-stand was supposed to be a last hurrah. I planned to quit Santa’s workshop this year, train under Jae-Hyun as a manga artist for as long as I could and start looking for someone I could spend the rest of my life with and possibly start a family. Krista believes that’s you, but standing here, having to explain not wanting a one-night-stand, like, three ways to you…? I’m thinking it couldn’t possibly be.”
No, it couldn’t be me, I think, even as I desperately trying to guess her price. Everyone has one. I know this for a fact. But I come up with nothing.
I lower my eyes to the dark asphalt beneath our feet as well. I am not used to being told no. In Japan, it is considered rude to issue a direct no, and because of my status, even when I travel to other countries, my requests are rarely denied.
Yet here I am,
We stand there like that, both looking at the ground. At an impasse.
“Can we just go see Jae-Hyun?” she asks, her now somber voice, breaking the tense silence. “Seriously, this True Love misunderstanding doesn’t matter right now. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
Again, I have no idea who this Jae-Hyun is, but a new feeling rises inside of me, dark and thick because she seems obsessed with him. As obsessed with him, as I’ve been with her this past year.
“As I said, I have no knowledge of this Jae-Hyun, or any wish to go see him,” I answer flatly. “That is not why I came to San Francisco.”
Kristal, I discover then, is not like me. While I keep both my face and my tone dispassionate, so that she will not be able to glean my true emotions, her face falls into an expression of anger and disappointment. “Then you shouldn’t have come to San Francisco!”
A chill envelops me, killing the hot urgency I’d been feeling when I decided to get on that plane.
“That is correct. I shouldn’t have come here,” I reply. “On this, we both can agree.”
With those words, I give her a cold bow, which she does not return. Of course, she does not. She is not Japanese or a highly paid American escort well-trained in the art of dealing with businessmen clients from Japan.
“I am sorry to have bothered you. Good-bye,” I say to her before turning to go back to my car.
“But what about Jae-Hyun…” she calls after me.
I do not answer this time. I cannot answer. My throat is clogged with bitter disappointment.
I finally found her again. But she will not have me.
“We will go to the hotel now,” I tell Declan after settling into the back seat.
I do not look back to Kristal as Declan starts the car, and my mind is silent, without even a strain of “California Dreamin’” to be heard as we drive away.
Oh no, is this truly how the story ends?
Will Hayato and Kristal never see each other again?
Find out in the next installment of
TWELVE MONTHS OF KRISTAL
DON’T WORRY BABY
Episode 2
12
Don’t Worry Baby
KRISTAL
The second day of Christmas
“You’re staring, daughter.”
Darnit! Jae-Hyun caught me. I was keenly assessing his features, searching his face for any clues about how my humble Korean mentor could be connected to an international Japanese playboy billionaire.
“Sorry,” I mumble, quickly dropping my eyes down to my drawing pad to work on the tougher-than-tough assignment he gave me tonight. Three full manga—or as Jae-Hyun calls them manhwa pages with actual people doing realistic, non-fighty things. And they must all be interesting.
I return to sketching, my pencil moving in sync with “Fun, Fun, Fun” from The Beach Boys, Shut Down Vol. 2 album, spinning on the 60s era Bush portable record player I gifted him six December 26s ago after finding it in the workshop’s archive room.
I hate sketching people. If it were up to me, all my graphics would only involve non-humans or anthromorphs with animal heads. Usually, Jae-Hyun is cool with that. He’d encouraged me to develop my own point of view and style when he first started mentoring me.
But this morning, he’s in a strange mood. Demanding I draw real people, living real life. Not animal anthromorphs, but real people doing real things. Plus, it has to be interesting.
Maybe he knows he doesn’t have much time left?
I don’t realize my eyes have drifted from my notepad up to my mentor again until he coughs and sets down his pencil. He wears his usual daily uniform of a basket stitch cardigan with a dress shirt buttoned up to the top. But he’s aged heavily in the year since I saw him last. His hair is more white than black now, and his face has become extra craggy with a new set of wrinkles.