Hello, I Love You (11 page)

“Hey,” I cry. “Hey!”

He disappears beneath the staircase, and I keep close on his heels. When he turns abruptly, I almost slam into him.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t talk about my private life in the middle of the hallway,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Because you’re
so
interesting.” I roll my eyes. “No one cares.” A lie, but I’d argue with anything he said right now.

He cocks his head to the side. “Coming from the girl with the famous family.”

My heart jolts into overdrive, sweat moistening my palms, until I realize he’s talking about Dad. He doesn’t know about Nathan. He would have said something if he’d realized it.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” he says, yanking my thoughts back to the present with his tone, which reeks of forced patience.

“Sophie freaked the other night when you got totally trashed. I want to know why.” I blow out a slow breath, exhaling the sharpness in my voice. “If there’s something going on, you can tell me.”

His gaze remains even. “I don’t know what you mean, so I guess there’s nothing to talk about.”

I huff. “Don’t give me that.”

“Maybe you should ask her, since she’s the one you said was upset.”

“She won’t tell me.”

He shrugs one shoulder, obnoxiously calm. And that’s his answer. Or lack thereof.

I step closer to him, further into the shadows. The bustle of students behind me dims, probably a result of everyone rushing to the dining hall. I suck in a slow breath, mustering as much courage as I have in my five-foot-six self.

Ignoring the way my face heats at being close enough to touch him, I point an accusing finger at his chest. “I get that you’re going for the arrogant tool thing, and that’s fine. But you’re not intimidating me with all your sarcasm and aloofness. Because that’s all you are—a jerk—and you don’t scare me.”

A smirk twists his lips. “Maybe I should try harder.”

“I’m serious. Whatever happened, it freaked Sophie out. And she’s probably the nicest person I’ve ever met, so I’m not going to let you hurt her, even if she is your sister.”

His confident smile fades, and the coldness in his eyes melts to reveal a normal guy underneath, not the conceited prick of a few seconds ago. His gaze drops to his shoes, his bangs shrouding his eyes from my view.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he says, voice flat. “She’s fine. We’re both fine.”

“You sure about that?” I ask skeptically. “She practically hyperventilated at the club when we couldn’t find you. Doesn’t sound fine to me. Maybe you should check into just how
fine
she is.”

Frustration souring my stomach, I turn, ready to head to lunch. I’ll probably make it just before the bell if I leave now. But before I can take a single step, a hand clamps around my wrist and whirls me around.

“I’m serious,” he says.

And I pause, because his tone is dangerously close to honest. He glances down at his fingers curled around my arm, then meets my gaze. A silent plea flashes in his eyes, and I falter. But before either of us can speak, the bell shrills overhead, and classroom doors slam shut as the last students leave them.

Jason’s hand releases its grip, and I take a step back. I consider throwing him another warning, but the words die in my throat. I think back to sitting in the limo, his head resting against my shoulder and the pain that hid in his eyes. And all the fight inside me dissipates.

I escape to the dining hall, my thoughts spinning. Even when I hop in the lunch line and search the cafeteria for Yoon Jae, I’m still thinking about Jason.

And what could have created the grief I see inside him.

*   *   *

At dinner, Sophie’s quiet. She absently pushes the rice around in her bowl, and I realize this is the longest I’ve seen her go without talking. When she drizzles fish sauce onto her apple, I can’t stay silent any longer.

“Sophie, is something wrong?”

She looks up. “Huh?”

I point to her fruit, and she blinks the glazed look out of her eyes. She laughs, laying her chopsticks across the top of her bowl.

“Guess I’m done,” she says.

“Are you still thinking about what happened on Saturday?” I venture. Maybe I’ll finally get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.

She shifts uncomfortably on the bench. “No.”

I wait for her to continue.

“I talked to Jason earlier. He told me about the conversation you two had. After Korean class. I let it go the first time, when you guys argued after the concert. So I guess it just sorta bothered me that you did it again.” She picks at her napkin, ripping off pieces. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of him. He’s not a bad guy. Really.”

I fight the urge to snort. Could have fooled me.

“He just … has some problems, you know? He’s been really stressed since Eden debuted, and their label puts a lot of pressure on them. I mean, he’s always been a perfectionist, but he’s gotten more so since the album released.” She chews on her bottom lip. “He’s my brother, so sometimes I get upset with him. But I don’t want you to think that he’s … you know … a bad person.”

A blush blooms in my cheeks from what feels dangerously like shame.

Sophie straightens her spine and levels an even gaze at me, her eyes hardening behind her giant glasses. “I would really appreciate it if you would try to be nicer to him. And umm … Jason and I can take care of our own issues.”

My embarrassment soars, now twisting in my stomach and threatening to bring my supper back up. I push my bowl farther away from me, the smell close to triggering my gag reflex.

I’m ready to hold up a white flag, but she keeps going: “Yoon Jae told me about your dad, about you growing up with someone famous for a parent. I’m sure you had to deal with a lot of people being nice to you just because of him, and I know that gets old.” She hesitates, her speech slowing like she’s walking on dangerous ground. “Maybe you’re not used to people being rude sometimes, but that’s life, you know? Nobody’s perfect. And I think it’s sort of refreshing not to have people placating you all the time.”

My eyes widen. She thinks I’m spoiled, that I’ve never had anybody stand up to me before. Although half of me wonders if she may be right, it doesn’t lessen the sting.

“And honestly, you’re going through culture shock right now. I recognize the signs. You’ve been sorta harsh about … everything. I know it’s hard to adjust to Korea right now, but just realize that you’re in transition.” She winces, leaning back from the table, almost cowering. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” she whispers.

I struggle to unravel my conflicting thoughts, vigorously shaking my head. “No! Definitely not.”

I force a smile, and she sighs in relief, her entire body relaxing.

“Okay, good.” She grins. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

“Sophie, you’re my only friend. I’m pretty sure I would be screwed without you.”

“Right.” She giggles. “I guess that gives me the power, huh?”

I guess it does. And after growing up as the one everyone wanted to hang out with, as the girl with the cool family who called the shots, I’m not sure how I feel about the role reversal.

Chapter Nine

Sophie doesn’t bring up the come-to-Jesus moment again, and neither do I, even though it’s all I can think about when I see Jason in class on Tuesday. He ignores me like always, but that night, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize that reads:
This is Jason. Meet me in the library tomorrow night at 6 o’clock to study for the Korean test.

Three thoughts rush through my head simultaneously—one, that he somehow dug up my number; two, that he must not be mad at me anymore; and three, that he is one of those annoying people who text with correct grammar and punctuation.

Wednesday evening, I scarf down an early dinner, then make the long trek across campus to the library. As I enter the gigantic, glass-faced building, I pull out my phone and send him a message:
Where are you?

My phone buzzes a minute later.
Third floor. Walk all the way to the back left.

I climb the stairs, cursing him with each step my already weary legs have to trudge up, then follow his directions. Although I find a number of empty tables around the book-filled stacks, he occupies one in the back corner that feels completely isolated from the rest of the library.

My conversation with Sophie plays back through my head. Maybe she was right—maybe I’m being a diva about Jason not liking me. I squelch any negative feelings, channeling only Zen thoughts in hopes of being at least civil with him.

Friendships are so messy. Too bad they’re not as easy to figure out as a math problem or balancing a chemical equation. If they were, maybe I wouldn’t have such a hard time dealing with Jason.

Still huffing from the walk over here and the climb up the stairs, I slump into the chair opposite him and dump my book bag onto the floor with a thud. He glances up with raised eyebrows.

“You just had to camp out on the third floor, huh?” I ask, pulling out my Korean textbook and notebook and inwardly cringing at my snippiness—can’t I be at least a little nice?

I force a smile and add, “I’m really glad you texted me. I’m freaking out about this test. I don’t feel like I understand anything.”

It’s then that I see what’s open on the table in front of him—not our textbook but a notebook of paper with musical bars printed on them and his penciled-in notes dotting the lines.

“Have you worked more on the song?” I ask, relieved to find something we can at least talk about without blowing up.

He nods. “I fixed something in the chorus, and I finished all the verses.”

“Wow! Can I see?”

He slaps the cover of the notebook closed, and I startle. “Studying first,” he says.

I straighten my back and salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”

His eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead and he studies me a second before shaking his head and pulling out his textbook. Judging by his lack of response to my sarcasm, I’d bet Sophie had a talk with him, too. And for some reason, this puts me in a much better mood.

We delve into the composition of Korean grammar and how to string sentences together, and I follow along pretty well. I even manage to write the few characters we need to have memorized, which includes our names, written phonetically. A grin stretches across my face at seeing my name drawn out in
Hangul,
the Korean writing system.

“You know, this kind of writing is a lot more artistic than English writing,” I say. “It looks more like a picture than a word.”

“They’re just different,” Jason answers. “The symbols represent the pronunciation of one syllable, symbols built from multiple
Hangul
characters in the alphabet, so they’re sort of compounding on each other.” He brushes bangs out of his eyes. “Different kinds of writing systems.”

I stare down at the characters on my paper again, comparing the ones I wrote to his examples. Although he has messy boy handwriting, his lines are clearer, the spaces between them more distinct. I focus on making mine look more like his.

“You know, you sound a little bit like a smarty-pants when you talk about language,” I say, keeping my gaze focused on my paper.

He snorts, his voice thick with sarcasm, when he says, “Anyone would sound smart to you. You don’t know anything about languages besides English.”

I shoot him a glare. “Look, I get it, I should have studied harder in my foreign language classes. But I didn’t know I was going to move to the other side of the world. And I’m pretty sure my
Espa
ñ
ol
is still a lot better than yours, so why don’t we cut the attitude?”

He holds my sharp gaze with his reserved one for a few moments before asking, “Are you done yelling now?”

“If you’re done insulting me.” I huff. “Can we take a break? Let me see the song.”

Hesitantly, he pulls the notebook out of his backpack and hands it to me. As it transitions from his palm to mine, our fingers brush for the briefest moment, and my mind catapults back to Saturday night and his hands resting on my hips. Heat builds in my chest and threatens to spread, so I tilt my face down and try to hide it with my hair as I study the sheet music.

“I recorded the guitar part on my computer.” He pauses. “Do you want to hear it?”

I yank my attention from the papers. “Of course!”

He hands me his iPod, and I place the gigantic headphones over my ears and press
PLAY
. Jason’s guitar floods my thoughts, and I shut my eyes to better concentrate on each chord and how they all fit together, my head nodding to the steady beat. He
has
improved the chorus, though I can’t help thinking it lacks personality. But it flows well with the verses, and the bridge at the end shows a lot of promise.

Admiration sparks in me. I look up and see him watching me, waiting for my response. Okay, I admit it—he’s a lot more talented than I gave him credit for originally. Even if he does have an attitude problem.

I give him my assessment.

“I was inspired by Shin Joong Hyun, one of Korea’s most famous rock stars. But you think I should make it more like your American music?” he asks.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He levels a skeptical gaze at me, which speaks more than his words could. And I’m struck with the realization that he has the most expressive eyes of anyone I’ve ever met. No wonder he doesn’t talk much—he doesn’t need to.

“Look, just hear me out.” I flip through my notebook for an empty sheet of paper. “I’m sure these are some amazing Korean rockers; I just don’t know them. You can get inspired by them, too, but I’m going to give you some songs to listen to. Take notes. Maybe you’ll actually learn something.”

He looks at me like I’m inflicting physical pain, but he takes the paper anyway. What we do for the sake of our art.

“If you’re making me listen to your music, then you can listen to mine.” He makes up a list of his own and gives it to me.

I stare at the scribbles. “Umm … you realize that I can’t read almost every word on here, right? My Korean isn’t that good yet.”