Seoulmates (Seoul 2)

It’s their bond that draws me, but they’re closed off, always standing to the side, sitting apart from me. Soyou often uses her taller frame as a shield for the smaller Chaeyoung, as if my laying eyes on Chaeyoung is inappropriate. Even now, Soyou is positioned between us discussing their weekend plans. Then her voice drops and I hear myself being referenced—or at least they’re referencing Choi Wansu’s daughter. I’m the only daughter she has.

When will they stop fawning over Choi Wansu’s daughter?

I don’t know.

Her US college isn’t a good one. Not Harvard or Stanford or Yale.

She’s a nakhasan. Chaeyoung shrugs as if that one word—that word meaning a product of nepotism—explains it all.

I swallow a deep sigh and lean against the wall of the elevator. She’s right. It does explain it all. I stare at the back of Soyou’s worn black heels, where the scuffed spots are colored in with marker, and shift uncomfortably in the three-inch designer heels Choi Wansu bought for me. If I were in Soyou’s knockoff pumps, I’d be mad at me, too.

The doors open and Soyou marches out, her long strides making Chaeyoung have to practically jog to keep up. The taller woman doesn’t stop to hail a taxi but makes straight for the convenience store across the street. The two of them will buy a prepackaged salad and a beverage. Soyou prefers iced Americano and Chaeyoung gets the Chilsung Cider lemon-lime flavor. They’ll talk in fast Korean that I can’t quite understand while eating the dry salads on a bench in the nearby Yongsan Park with the stay-at-home moms, day-care workers, and nannies.

My stomach rumbles. I don’t want to eat lettuce and I don’t want to sit like an outcast with two coworkers who will spend the next thirty minutes icing me out as they’ve done for the past six weeks. I grab my phone and shoot a text to my group chat.

ME: I’m eating at the fried pork ball food truck. Meet me if you’re hungry.

“I’m going to a food truck to get fried pork balls,” I call out to the two women. Chaeyoung halts at the side of the road, and for a half second, I think she might respond. “There’s a CU next to it. They sell the salads you like there,” I add because I’m foolish and want to be liked. Chaeyoung half turns, but Soyou grabs the woman’s arm. The crosswalk light turns green and they’re off without either of them looking back.

Embarrassment flames through me and I’m back in second grade listening to the schoolyard taunts of some dumb boy asking why my face is flat and if it’s hard to see through my squinty eyes. I press the red silk cord of the necklace I wear at all times and tell myself I am not that kid anymore and my feelings are not hurt.

The phone in my hand buzzes. It’s Bomi.

BOMI: I’ll meet you there. Jules is with me.

See, I have friends. I reread the message and frown. What is Jules, my former roommate, doing in Yongsan-gu? She doesn’t live anywhere near here, nor does she work here. Jules is a flight attendant for a private flight service and lives a fairly exotic life, jetting off to Hong Kong and Singapore and Tokyo nearly every other day. She claims it’s super boring and spends many in-air hours crafting fantasies about how she would murder her clients—most of whom are rich old men, or chaebols, as they are known in South Korea.

Why couldn’t I have clients like your Yujun? she lamented once. All the chaebols I’ve ever served have been old and wrinkly. You walk out of the airport and into the arms of the only young, decent chaebol in this entire country. I should hate you. She then scowled and shoved a beer into my hand. We’re best friends now and we’re going to have lunch together. I pocket my phone and make my way toward them and the food. Ten minutes later, I spot Jules and Bomi huddled together on the corner. They break apart as I approach.

“You look like they’re beating you up at IF Group,” Jules observes.

The private flight attendant is dressed in a pair of high-waisted flared jeans and a midriff long-sleeve top. Her blond hair is split into two braids that dangle over her shoulders. Big hoops complete the look. A little more makeup and maybe a few streaks of color and she might be mistaken for a K-pop idol. Next to her, Bomi, clad in a navy pantsuit and a white shirt, peers at me with concern, her brow wrinkling under her straight bangs.

I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe.”

Jules steps close and presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “Are you sick? What kind of response is ‘maybe’? You’re supposed to say something mean back. That’s how our relationship works.”