Hello, I Love You (25 page)

“Because my friends won’t talk to me,” he snaps.

“Obviously, one of them still talks to you.”

He scoffs, but I can see the fight seeping out of him. He gazes out the big window that faces the street, a wistful look in his eyes.

“Sophie’s never been mad at me,” he says. “Not like this.” His voice falls to a whisper. “I can’t lose her, Grace.”

I nod, my chest tightening. I would kill to hear Nathan say that about me.

“You’re hurting,” I say, fighting the urge to take Jason’s hand, which rests on top of the table. “Whatever you’re going through, I want to help. Just let me.”

“Why do you care?” he asks, not a challenge—genuine curiosity. “I thought you were mad at me.”

I bark a laugh. “I still am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore a friend who’s in trouble.”

This silences him. His eyes soften, and it takes all my self-control not to tell him that I forgive everything and to beg him to tell me he likes me. That maybe I could deal with his issues if he would kiss me again.

I clear my throat to get rid of the words that threaten to spill from my mouth. “You may not be ready to talk to me about whatever’s going on, and that’s okay. Maybe you’ll never be ready. But I’m not leaving you alone until I’ve decided that you’re better, okay?”

He nods, forcing his face into a look of mock seriousness. “Yes, ma’am,” he says with an egregious fake Southern accent.

I wrinkle my nose. “That offends not only me but also every Southerner who’s ever lived.”

He laughs, flashing me a grin that sends a jolt of longing through my chest.

I shoot out my hand. “Let’s shake on it—from now on, you’re on the happy road to recovery.”

He takes my hand and holds it a second too long. He stares at me with an unreadable expression that brings a hot blush to my cheeks, which I attempt to hide behind my coffee mug. I chug down the rest while my face resumes its normal coloring.

I drop Jason off at his dorm a couple hours later, and I find Sophie in our room. She’s eerily quiet as I flip through my notebook looking for the page I wrote my homework on.

“You shouldn’t be hanging out with him, you know,” she says, breaking the tense silence.

“Who?”

“Jason. Obviously.”

“Sophie.” I search for the right words, to keep myself from sounding judgmental, but not letting her off the hook, either. “Give him a break. He’s taking it a lot harder than you think.”

She scoffs, but I can see the uneasiness in her eyes. “Whatever. But you’re the one who’s having to pay for being the Good Samaritan.”

“What do you mean, I’m paying for it?”

She holds up her phone, which has a Web browser pulled up. “Have you not seen this?”

I take her phone and see my face splattered across the screen. In a Korean tabloid. I can’t read the article, but I would guess it has something to do with paparazzi spotting me and Jason together last night. Thankfully, in the photo, you can’t tell he’s trashed. It just looks like we’re canoodling on the bus.

I cringe. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“It doesn’t matter what actually happened, just what everyone sees.” She clears her throat uneasily. “Do you … do you
like
him?”

My eyes widen. “What? Sophie, I—”

She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Forget it. Silly question. But, Grace.” She shoots me a pitying look. “If you’re going to hang around him right now, you’re going to get pulled into the press. You need to decide whether or not he’s worth it.”

I look down at the picture again, wondering how long it will take for reporters to dig around enough to discover who I really am and who my family is. It wouldn’t be hard to put it together, that Nathan’s my brother.

My first instinct is to shy away from this type of exposure. But I stare at the image, at Jason, at the guy who’s a lot more talented, a lot sweeter than he lets most people see. And I realize: He’s worth it.

He’s worth everything.

*   *   *

“When was the last time you actually wrote a song?” I ask.

Plucking at the strings on his guitar, Jason shrugs. “Probably not since we wrote the song for the drama.”

“Well, no wonder you’re depressed,” I say, sarcasm thick in my voice. “Your creativity is all bottled up. You’ve got to let it out.”

He chuckles, shifting on top of the bed closer to me. With both of our backs against the wall and our legs close enough to almost touch, I have to focus on our conversation and keeping my breathing level.

“So, my mother emailed me last night,” I say, surprise shooting through me that I would bring up the topic.

“Yeah? What did she say?”

I pick at the lint on his comforter. “She asked about graduation. You know, since that’s coming up.”

“Right.” He pauses in the middle of his song. “Are your parents coming for the ceremony?”

I shrug, suddenly desperate to change the topic. I reach for the first question that comes to mind, which, unfortunately, happens to be, “So, are you ever going to tell me what inspired your epic downward spiral?”

I cringe at my lack both of transition skills and sensitivity. Though I do sort of want to know.

I expect him to make a snide comeback, but he says, “I don’t know. I guess … it felt like everybody was against me, when I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You ruined Tae Hwa’s and Yoon Jae’s careers. I’m pretty sure that counts as wrong.”

“But it wasn’t just me. Yeah, I officially put an end to the band, but Yoon Jae suggested it first.”

Okay, news flash. I guess the rumors about Yoon Jae hoping to go solo were true.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m pretty sure my career’s ruined, too.”

Jason plays a tune I recognize.

“Hey, that’s ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’” I cry.

“I thought you’d like to reconnect with your roots.”

“I’m from Tennessee, not Alabama, you idiot.” I slap his shoulder, and he flinches away with a laugh.

“Play something else,” I order. “Play something new.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you trying to force my creativity?”

“Yes. Go.”

He breathes out a dramatic sigh, takes a moment to think, then begins picking a few lazy chords. A few moments later, he sings a languid melody in soft tones. His voice wraps around me better than any hug and brings a smile I can’t shake.

“Do I get a translation?” I ask, still caught up in the notes and how the foreign words spill from his lips.

He stops singing but repeats the song on the guitar. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s about you.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks and I gape at him, but all he does is smile down at the instrument in his hands, watching his fingers move across the strings. He’s singing a song about me.

Me.

Grace Wilde.

I’ve become a muse. Like Pattie Boyd, who inspired Eric Clapton’s “Layla” and “Wonderful Tonight.”

Though I’m sure my song isn’t as cool as those. It’s probably about how my feet smell or how I don’t always chew with my mouth closed. But still. I have a song.

He picks the lyrics back up again, and I try to memorize the sounds of the words so I can repeat them to Sophie so we can figure out what they mean. But then I realize she probably wouldn’t translate them for me anyway—another week has passed and she’s still angry with Jason.

I pull out my phone and type out phonetically what I hear him sing. He pauses to look over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Trying to write down the words so I can translate them later.”

He spits out a laugh, pointing to the phrase I just typed. “That’s not even close to the right word. How did you ever pass your Korean midterm?”

“Then tell me what the right word is.”

“Not a chance.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon joking about his music and singing Backstreet Boys and Girls’ Generation—the KPOP band I haven’t been able to stop listening to since Sophie suggested them—at the top of our lungs until someone in the room next door bangs on the wall and yells for us to stop. And I wish we could share moments like this outside his room, outside school, and outside Ganghwa Island. I want them where everyone can see us so I can know that Jason doesn’t want to hide me, that he’s proud to have me beside him. Because I’m worth something.

My throat tightens, and my eyes sting with unshed tears. Annoyance flares at the knot of emotions growing inside my stomach, and I clear my throat, glancing down at my watch.

“It’s already six o’clock,” I say, forcing the dark feelings to the back of my brain. “Do you want to go grab dinner?”

Jason reaches around me to set the guitar in its stand, and his hair dusts against my face. I suck in a sharp breath but mask it with a cough, trying to hide my flaming cheeks from his view by pretending to be absorbed in my phone.

“I’m not really that hungry,” he says.

“But it’s Friday night. We should go do something fun.”

“You said I’m not allowed to do anything fun anymore.”

“When did I say that?”

“You said no more bar hopping.”

I roll my eyes. “Just because you can’t drink yourself into a stupor doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m plenty fun.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, I guess you are.”

“I’m not a distraction anymore?” My breath stills as I wait for an answer that shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

He cuts his eyes to me, a sly smile curling his lips. “Oh no, you’re definitely still a distraction.” When I frown, he adds, “But the best possible kind.”

My palms moisten, and a tingly sensation stretches up from the pit of my stomach to the tips of my fingers. I try to look at his eyes and not let my gaze slip lower, but it does anyway. I glance at his mouth, visually tracing the lines, drawing them inside my head.

He must catch me staring, because his smile fades into a smirk. If heat wasn’t licking up my neck, I would smack him.

“What if we go pick up something to eat and come back to watch a movie?” he asks.

But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He hops down from the bed and grabs my wrist, pulling me with him. I groan, hanging back just to annoy him. He practically shoves me into my shoes and out the door, but I’m laughing the entire way.

We grab food from the dining hall because, after Jason’s drunken escapades, the press discovered where he’s going to school and are now camped out just off campus, waiting for their shot. I’d have thought this would’ve upset him, but whenever I mention the loss of his secret, he just shrugs.

When we return to his room fifteen minutes later, with our take-out fried food in hand, Jason’s happier than I’ve seen him in weeks. Maybe ever. There’s no hesitancy in his smiles, no sadness in his eyes. When he looks at me, I see no trace of the Jason I walked home from the Lotus Bar or the Jason who still grieves for the broken family his father split up. Just Jason, the boy with the colorful sneakers and dark eyes, the one I wish loved me back.

I dig under his comforter for the remote, then switch on the TV. Flipping through the channels, I spot a familiar face.

I drop the French fry in my hand. “Oh my gosh. That’s
you
!”

“What?” His face pales.

“You’re on TV!” I squeal, turning up the volume.

It’s the opening credits for a drama, and Jason’s face flashes on the screen. It shows him playing the guitar, holding hands with Na Na while she lies in a hospital bed, and running away from what looks like a mobster hit man.

“We have to watch this,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me it was already airing?”

As the show continues, I realize it’s the first episode. I press buttons on the remote until English subtitles pop up on the bottom of the picture, and I can’t take my eyes off the screen. The story mostly follows Na Na, but we get a few scenes with Jason, the starving artist who plays guitar on the street to raise money for food.

Jason groans as the camera cuts to him playing a mopey song in a dark room—very emo. “Turn it off,” he says. “We don’t need to watch this.”

“What are you talking about? This is golden.”

He narrows his eyes. “You just want to make fun of me.”

“Of course I do!”

But that’s a lie. I actually want to see him sing the song we wrote. Our song.

He stretches for the remote, but I hold it out of his reach. “Grace, seriously. I don’t want to watch myself.”

“Well, we’re watching it, so get over it.”

With a huff, he reaches over me, but I keep it away from his hands. He leans farther and steadies himself with a hand on my thigh. I cry out when all his weight presses down into my leg, and he lunges for the remote, only to fall on top of me. Laughing, we both fall back onto the mattress, his chest pressed against mine and my arm stretched above my head to keep the remote away from him.

But as we stare at each other, my laughter dies. I watch the smile fade from his face and his eyes darken. He glances down at my lips, and my chest tightens. My fingers relax, and the remote falls onto the floor with a clatter, but neither of us moves to snatch it up. His voice, playing through the TV’s speakers, echoes in the background, but I can’t take my eyes off the mouth so close to mine, all I would have to do is tilt my chin up to meet it.

“Grace…” He traces the line of my jaw with his index finger. “I told Na Na there was no way we were going to get together, and I only hung out with her to help publicize our drama.”

My heart pounds against the inside of my ribs, partly in elation at his words, but mostly from the adrenaline spiking my veins. All I want is for him to close the gap between us. But fear kicks in, and warning flags shoot up inside my head. You can’t trust a boy with a guitar. I may wish he loved me, but that’s just a fantasy.
He
is a fantasy.

Chewing the inside of my cheek and recalling the anger I felt in Seoul when he acted so embarrassed by me, I turn my head away and press both palms against his chest. I only have to exert a little pressure before he backs off, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes throw a dozen questions at me, none of which I can answer.

I hop off the bed, clearing my throat in hopes of shattering the awkwardness. “I should probably go back. It’s getting late. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can plan something to do. Sound good?” But I don’t wait for him to answer, just search the room for my things. “We can exercise. It’ll be good for you to do something active, get those endorphins pumping. Maybe I’ll even cart
you
around on the back of a bicycle.”