Hello, I Love You (26 page)

“Grace,” he interrupts my monologue.

“Hmm?”

“I—I’m sorry.” Regret swallows his eyes, which punches my gut like a fist.

“What are you talking about? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I flee before he can say anything else. But when I escape into the hallway, I stop. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I lean my head back against the closed door. I can’t deny how I feel about Jason—how his smile makes my stomach flip-flop, how I celebrate a victory every time he trusts me with a new bit of his past, and how his presence helps me forget about everything I left back in Nashville.

But we will never work.

This thing between us—whatever it is—can never go past friendship. Even if he
is
interested in me, I need a guy who’s stable, who doesn’t remind me of my brother. I need someone I don’t always have to take care of, someone who can take care of me, too, and who is happy to have me beside him, even in the public eye. But when I try to picture the kind of boy I want, the kind I need, all I can envision is Jason.

Always Jason.

Chapter Twenty-one

I try spending less time with Jason, but my resolve lasts for maybe forty-eight hours before I realize hanging out with Sophie isn’t enough. But I tell myself that just because I’m spending time with Jason doesn’t mean I’m committing to any sort of relationship. We’re friends, that’s all.

After school one day, we wander out to the lawn behind the dining hall, where we sprawl underneath one of the trees.

“Shouldn’t we be studying for finals?” Jason picks random chords on his guitar.

“Probably,” I answer.

But neither of us gets up. No one pays attention to us, just two people amidst the throngs of students chatting with their friends or biking down the sidewalks. I think Jason likes the anonymity—because once he’s back in Seoul, he’ll have none of that.

“When are you going to actually start writing music again?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

I close my eyes and listen to him play the beginning of Cat Stevens’s “Peace Train.”

“Are you going to keep playing the same type of music?” I ask. “When you start whatever your next project will be?”

“You mean
if
—
if
I start a new project.”

I roll my eyes. “You’ll keep playing. It’s in your blood. You’ve just got to figure out how you want to do it.”

He hesitates, then says, “I’ve already talked to my agent.”

“Hah!” I cry. “I was right! I knew you couldn’t just quit.”

Jason chuckles, his fingers pausing over the strings. His smile fades. “I can’t go back to that same type of music.” His voice falls to a whisper. “I just got out of it with Eden’s breakup. I’m not letting myself get pulled back into it again. It’s soul-sucking. I like listening to pop music sometimes, but it’s not what I want to play.”

“So, do something different.”

He tosses his hands into the air. “Like what? We were already playing a type of music you don’t hear much in Korea in popular music. If I go any closer to rock, my label will drop me, because they don’t have those kinds of artists.”

Anxiety permeates his voice, and his expression clouds with uncertainty. He chews on his bottom lip.

“Have you ever thought about playing music in the States?”

He barks a brittle laugh. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t write songs in English.”

“It’s the same as writing in Korean.”

“No, it’s not.”

I prop myself up on my elbows. “What’s so different about it?”

“I can’t, okay?” He huffs. “The words just don’t come. I don’t know.”

“Have you ever really tried, and I mean seriously?”

He scowls. “It won’t work.”

I lie back again, hands behind my head. “Try.”

He sighs, then strums a chord. “I’m so happy.” Another chord. “Can’t you see?” Same chord again. “I love you totally, with er … broccoli.”

We catch each other’s eye and both burst out laughing at the same time.

“Okay, maybe you really shouldn’t sing in English,” I say through giggles. “Then try to change the music industry in Korea. Be a trendsetter.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “And how do you propose I do that?”

“Why not introduce them all to music you already love? Who are your favorite musicians?”

He takes a moment to think. “San Ul Lim. Jang Kina and the Faces. The Beatles. Bob Dylan. Eric Clapton. The Doors.”

“Then give South Korea the Doors.”

He shoots me a skeptical look. “The Doors?”

“Sure! Jim Morrison translates into any culture.”

He returns to his guitar, plucking out what sounds suspiciously like the Doors’ “Crawling King Snake.” Listening to him reminds me of sitting with Nathan, who refused to go anywhere without his guitar when we were growing up. He liked to play the old country and Southern rock we heard Dad listening to—Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, the Allman Brothers. It’s nice to be surrounded by music again.

“I don’t know how you could go from writing songs to just not,” I say. “I would do anything to have that sort of creativity.”

“Have you ever tried?” He throws my words back at me.

I laugh. “Unfortunately, yes. And I was terrible at it.”

“But you’re really good at helping with the songs, adding things, knowing how to edit. I think you have your dad’s gift. I’ve never met anyone with so little training who could do what you do with music. You should be a producer.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, now that’s just ridiculous.”

“Why? You’re obviously good at it. You just need some training. What are you planning on doing after graduation, anyway?”

I toss my hands into the air and let them fall back down. “No idea. Probably end up living off my trust fund for a while until I figure out what to do next. I could get an apartment in L.A., maybe. I like it there.”

“Well, I think you should go to music college,” he says innocently. “Just a thought.”

I shoot him a pointed look. “If you introduce South Korea’s pop music scene to the Doors, I will try to become a producer.”

He laughs. “Agreed.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon outside, but as the sun starts to dip below the horizon, we head back to our rooms. I can’t shake the memories of him in Seoul, how he basically ignored me, then said he liked me. And
that
Jason doesn’t match
this
Jason, the one walking beside me so close our hands almost brush. The Jason who tells me his secrets and jokes about Jim Morrison. I like this Jason. But which is the real one?

“What are your graduation plans?” Jason asks, cutting through my thoughts.

I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk, and Jason grabs my wrist to steady me. My pulse spikes, the memory of the email I received this morning flashing through my brain:
Pick up your graduation tickets at the front office … Parents are cordially invited to Parents’ Day, the Thursday before graduation day.

I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, staring at the pavement. “I’m not sure.”

“Is your family coming to visit?”

It’s impossible to miss the curiosity in his voice. Sophie’s asked me a few things about my family, but when I shut down the conversation, she knew enough not to bring up the subject again. And Jason doesn’t pry, waits instead for me to talk if I want to. But I’m sure the twins—and Yoon Jae—have wondered about the mysterious Wilde family.

“I don’t know if my dad will have to work or not,” I hedge.

“Of course.” He pauses, then adds in a soft voice, “My dad won’t be there, either.”

We walk in silence until we reach the front of my building. I turn to face him, but he’s staring down at his shoes, which are highlighter yellow today and totally don’t match his purple T-shirt.

“Thanks for—for hanging out with me,” he mumbles, scratching his bangs across his forehead but only succeeding in brushing them even more into his eyes.

I wave off his comment. “Please. We hang out all the time.”

His cheeks color, and frustration slips into his voice. “No, I mean … thanks for not ditching me after … you know. It … means a lot.”

My stomach flip-flops, but I manage to keep my voice light. “No worries. We’re friends.”

“Friends. Right.” He finally looks up, his gaze meeting mine, and a faint smile curls his lips. “I’ll see you later, Grace.”

I watch him head down the sidewalk toward his dorm, my mind playing back through our conversation. Neither of us said anything all that monumental, but I can’t help wondering if something’s changed between us. If maybe we regained a little of the connection we had before we lost it in Seoul.

*   *   *

In the middle of Korean class, my phone buzzes. I glance up at my teacher, who rattles on in Korean so quickly I have no idea what he’s saying, then at my phone. I’ve got another email from Momma. I swallow a groan as I open it.

Grace,

I booked our flights today. Jane and I will be arriving on the Wednesday before graduation. Our plane comes in at 6:30 in the evening. I’ll have to cancel my yoga classes and get Jane out of school that week. I’ll let you book the hotel room for us.

Mom

I roll my eyes. She
would
make me book the hotel reservations. Not like I’m in school or anything.

I scroll through hotel listings online for the rest of class, and when we get out of school for the day, Sophie helps me find the right hotel in Incheon—close enough to school that they can get to campus easily via taxi, but far enough away that it’s sort of inconvenient. I’m not really keen on any impromptu visits.

Weeks blur together as everyone prepares for final exams. And maybe I should pay more attention to my teachers and homework—and the fact that I’m graduating from freaking high school—but all I can think about is seeing Momma again. She’s sent me a few more emails, mostly filled with questions like:
How hot will it be? Can you hire us a translator? Do I need to bring my own bottled water?
I consider writing back and telling her that, yes, she should bring her own French mineral water and she’ll need another suitcase to pack it all. But then I realize she might actually do it, and change my mind.

Jason helps me study for my Korean final, but I still panic and almost throw up all over my test the second Mr. Seo hands them out. The entire week of final exams goes much faster than I would have thought, and I study a lot less than I probably should. But when faced with either burying my nose in a physics book or watching hours of dramas with Sophie, curled up with ice cream on our bunk bed, I always choose the latter.

And as I melt my brain reading subtitles and watching melodramatic romances play out on the screen, I have to consciously package up all my emotions and throw them into the back storage rooms of my brain. All the fear of seeing Momma, all the pain she makes me remember—I can’t handle it right now.

My phone buzzes, and Sophie hisses at the interruption. With a growl, she pauses the TV, and I answer a number I don’t recognize.

“Is this Grace Wilde?” an American voice asks.

“Yes?” Could be the hotel where Momma and Jane are staying, calling to confirm their reservation.

“Hi, Grace, this is Kevin Nichols from
Album
magazine, and I’d really like to talk to you about—”

“Do
not
call me,” I bark into the phone, interrupting Kevin’s soon-to-be monologue. “I don’t want to talk to any reporters, okay?”

“My apologies, Miss Wilde,” he says smoothly. “But my editor is quite interested in your story. I’d love to talk to you, but if you’d rather not, perhaps I’ll just see you around Ganghwa Island.”

And he hangs up.

I stare down at my phone, mouth gaping. I thought Korea would be my escape, the place my past couldn’t find me. But I was wrong.

I have no more places to run.

Chapter Twenty-two

The day Momma and Jane are supposed to arrive, I see an email Jane sent me a few hours ago, her choice of all capitals making me wonder if either the caps lock on her phone is broken or Momma let her drink Mountain Dew again.

GRACIE,

WE’RE AT THE AIRPORT IN TOKYO! WE’RE SO CLOSE, AND I’M SO EXCITED! BRING THE HOT KOREAN WITH YOU TO PICK US UP. I WANT TO SEE HIM!

also, Mom’s being annoying. as usual. she complained the entire flight about the food—apparently, they should be serving better stuff in first class—and about the baby a couple rows behind us, who only cried for like, thirty minutes.

i can’t believe i’m about to see you! WE’RE GOING TO BE IN ASIA TOGETHER!!! there will be chopsticks. and dumplings. And CUTE ASIAN BOYS!

bring it.

from narita international airport, HUGS,

jane

I spend the entire day in a cleaning frenzy. Every time I think of Momma arriving on that plane, walking across campus, and coming into my dorm, a shock of terror jolts through me. I glance at the package of half-eaten Oreos and the dust bunnies I haven’t swept since before Christmas. She’s going to have a heart attack if she sees this place.

Sophie’s at a party the school’s hosting for graduating seniors—carnival games, giveaways, free food. So I plug my iPod into a set of speakers and blast my latest KPOP obsession, Shinee, while I throw dirty clothes into a hamper and make my bed, straighten my desk, sweep the floor, and throw Sophie’s gossip magazines under her comforter.

I keep glancing at my phone, checking the time. If I focus on making sure I’m at the airport on time, I can’t think about who I’m picking up.

After a quick shower, I stand in the middle of the room and take deep breaths to calm my frenzied heart rate. I’ve spent more than ten months trying to escape my family and all the memories their presence dredges up. All those fears, those regrets—and the guilt—that I thought would cripple me, now they’re resurfacing, and I can’t breathe.

My gaze flicks to my phone again, and I realize it’s already past five o’clock. Adrenaline pours into my veins, and I snatch up my purse with trembling hands and head out. Jason is letting me use his driver for the day, and thankfully, none of the photographers outside the school notice a Western girl leaving campus.