XOXO

by Axie Oh

  It takes us about an hour from the academy to reach our destination, a small city outside the Seoul capital area, all of which is spent singing and talking. On roads where there’s less traffic, Jaewoo rests his right arm on the console between us so I can play with his fingers.

  It’s wild that we have to drive so far to watch a movie—when there’s a mall with a theater one subway stop from our school—but it makes sense too. Out here, it’s unlikely we’ll encounter paparazzi.

  “I already purchased the tickets for the movie,” Jaewoo says, “so we have a half hour to kill.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What do you want to do?”

  “It’s up to you,” he says. “We could go over to the theater and see what’s around there.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I say as he links his fingers through mine.

  Luckily, for a Saturday, the mall where the theater is located is not crowded, and most of the people are either older or with their families. No one pays us any attention. We naturally gravitate toward the small arcade outside the theater without either of us saying anything.

  We spend some time playing this zombie shooting game, reaching the fourth level only to be killed in a splatter of gore. Then, before leaving, Jaewoo tries his hand at winning a plushie for me from one of the claw machines. He spends about ₩10000 on ten attempts with no success.

  “It’s rigged!” he yells, after the plush doll drops right next to the chute.

  “It’s okay,” I say soothingly, holding back my laughter at how exasperated, and cute, he looks.

  As we step away from the machine, a little girl hops up and slips in ₩1000, maneuvering the sticks lightly and pressing the Go button. The claw descends, picks up the plushie, and deposits it into the chute. Reaching in, she grabs the stuffed animal, blinks up at us, and then runs away.

  “To be fair,” I say after a long pause, “I’m sure an eight year old would appreciate that plushie more than I would.”

  “Maybe I can buy it off her.”

  “Jaewoo!”

  He hooks an arm around me, and we walk side by side to the concessions stand.

  “Since you got the tickets and paid for the arcade games, I’ll get the food,” I announce.

  “It’s fine. I’ll get them.”

  “I insist.”

  “Jenny, I just signed an endorsement deal with Samsung.” He grins. “Let me spoil you with popcorn.”

  “Wow,” I say, “that’s—that’s amazing. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. It wasn’t just me. All the members signed the deal—it’s our biggest so far.”

  He approaches the counter for the concession stand, scrolling through the manual ordering system.

  I stand behind him, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

  He’s likely a millionaire at seventeen. He owns an expensive-looking car.

  I remind myself it’s not like we’re in this Cinderella relationship. I’m not destitute. Though my mom’s a single parent, she’s a lawyer, and I’ve never not been able to buy what I wanted, especially after getting my part-time job at Uncle Jay’s. But it’s hard to shake the feeling that our lives are dramatically different.

  “Should we get a combo?” Jaewoo asks. “Then we can try all the different flavors of popcorn.”

  “Okay,” I say, though I’m not really paying attention.

  The strange feeling doesn’t dissipate until we’ve taken our seats and the movie starts to play. At first, it’s weird seeing Korean subtitles at the bottom of a movie in English, but then I get absorbed in what’s happening on screen and I completely forget about the subtitles.

  By the time the movie’s over, I’m feeling my normal self again. So what if he’s rich and successful? I’m not comparing myself to him; it’s not like I think I’m unworthy of him.

  A glance at my phone shows it’s a little past six. The plan was to make it back to the dorms by ten, which means we only have a few more hours.

  “Want to grab dinner?” Jaewoo asks. “There are restaurants on the top floor.”

  “Okay,” I say, taking his hand.

  “Oppa,” a voice says, from close behind us. “I thought that was you. What are you doing here? And who is she?”

  Thirty-Two

  Behind us is a middle schooler, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with a cell phone in her hand. This was a mistake. I should have never let him take me out on this date. I knew it was too good to be true. Now we’ll be exposed and our relationship will end before it truly had the chance to begin.

  “Joori-yah,” Jaewoo says. “What are you doing at the mall so late?”

  I’m so in my head that it takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing her by name, which means he knows her.

  “Jenny, this is my yeodongsaeng,” Jaewoo says, placing a hand on her head, “Bae Joori.”

  His little sister. Now that I’m looking for a resemblance, I can see they have the same straight nose and narrow jawline. His handsome features look striking on her small face.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Nice to meet you!” she returns, then whips her head in Jaewoo’s direction, one hand on her hip. “Are you coming home? Is that why you’re in the neighborhood?”

  This is his neighborhood? No wonder he was confident bringing me here. He must know the area well. Though I thought he was from Busan. . . .

  I must look confused because he says, “My mom and Joori moved to the city a year ago. I meant to tell you.”

  I narrow my eyes and he rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. Joori shakes her head and clicks her tongue.

  “It must be nice to have them close,” I concede.

  He sighs in relief, then turns to his sister. “I don’t know, Joori-yah. Mom probably hasn’t prepared anything. . . .”

  “She can order delivery! Please say you’ll come.”

  When Jaewoo appears hesitant, Joori appeals to me. “Eonni.” She addresses me as she would an older sister. “Will you come have dinner at our house, please?”

  I smile, charmed. “I would love to.”

  We decide to walk the three blocks to Jaewoo’s family’s apartment, which is on the twenty-fifth floor of a residential apartment building, sprinting the last hundred feet when it starts to rain.

  Joori texted ahead to let their mother know we’re coming, and so when we arrive, the kitchen is already emitting delicious cooking smells—garlic, sesame oil, and soy sauce.

  Joori follows Jaewoo into the kitchen while I take off Sori’s boots. I pull down my skirt—I would have worn something more conservative if I’d known I was going to meet his mother today—and hurry to follow.

  “Eomma,” Jaewoo says, as a tall neat-looking woman in an apron embraces him. “You didn’t have to prepare a whole meal.” The small table in the kitchen is covered with side dishes, with only an empty spot in the middle.

  “Of course I did,” she says. “We have a guest.”

  Her eyes turn expectantly on me.

  “This is Go Jooyoung,” Jaewoo says, and I look at him in surprise that he remembered my Korean name. I’d only told him once, back in LA. “She goes by her English name, Jenny. She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Yeochin!” Joori shouts. “I knew it!”

  I stare at him, wide-eyed. I didn’t think he’d introduce me as his girlfriend, but as a classmate. We’d kept it a secret at school, besides our friends who’ve figured it out for themselves, and it’s surprising to be so open about it. Then again, this is his family, these are the people he loves and trusts.

  “You’re very welcome here Jooyoung-ah,” Jaewoo’s mother says, “ah, I mean, Jenny.” She smiles. “We’re just waiting on . . .” The doorbell rings. “There it is now!”

  She opens the door and bows to the deliveryman who hands over a wrapped package. Bringing it to the kitchen, she opens the package and takes out a whole roasted chicken. She shoos Jaewoo away when he moves to assist her. “Why don’t you show Jenny the apartment while I finish setting out
the meal?”

  The apartment is spacious, about twice the size of my grandmother’s.

  “This is my room!” Joori says, pushing open the door nearest the kitchen. It’s a medium-sized room with a full-size bed, a desk with in-progress homework, open books, and a computer. There are anime posters on the walls and a video console connected to a small TV.

  “My brother spoils me,” she says when she catches me looking. I’d noticed the massive flat screen in the living room earlier, and I wonder if he’d bought that for them too. Maybe even the entire apartment.

  We skip Jaewoo’s mother’s room and go straight to Jaewoo’s, next to the entranceway. As I enter the room, he closes the door behind us, and I realize Joori hadn’t followed us inside. I turn away from him, suddenly nervous.

  His is the smallest room in the apartment, which makes sense because he lives with the other XOXO members the majority of the time. It’s sparsely furnished with a dresser, a bookcase, and a twin bed. I look away from the bed, blushing, and instead focus on the bookcase. There’s mostly albums on the shelves, a few books, and two photographs. I pick up the first, a grainy photo of his family at the beach, his sister and mother standing on either side of him. Joori’s adorable with a gap-toothed smile, no older than six years old, which would make Jaewoo around ten or eleven. Unlike his mother and sister, he’s not smiling in the photo.

  “We just moved back to Busan that summer,” Jaewoo says. “After my parent’s divorce, we lived in the US for a couple of years, so that my mom could escape the gossip, but ended up moving back to Korea when we ran out of money. It wasn’t an easy time. I got in a lot of fights when I was a kid, nothing serious, just mad at the other kids saying stuff about my mom. You weren’t far off when you called me a gangster.” Though his last words are teasing, there’s a wariness to them.

  Lifting my hand, I trail my fingers across the photograph. On a closer look, I can see a bruise beneath Jaewoo’s eye. And his arm is crooked at a slightly awkward angle. I look up. “Is this . . . ?” Back in LA, in the photobooth, I’d asked him if it had hurt, breaking his arm, and he’d answered, not as much as the first time.

  He nods. “Soon after that photo was taken, I was scouted for Joah. At first, I refused. But they came back the following year and my mom forced me to go. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, moving to Seoul. I always loved music, but I didn’t want to leave my mom and Joori.”

  I place the photo back on the shelf. It must have been so hard for him, leaving behind his mother and sister when he’d spent so much of his childhood protecting them. Though I can see in his story how it was his mother who was protecting him by sending him away.

  Reaching out, I pick up the second photo on his shelf. It’s the boys of XOXO, though they all appear younger. Jaewoo and Nathaniel both scrappy fifteen-year-olds, Sun handsome and elegant even at seventeen, and Youngmin thirteen years old, flashing a peace sign. Unlike the photo on the beach, Jaewoo’s grinning from ear to ear, his arm thrown across the shoulders of Sun and Youngmin on one side and Nathaniel on the other.

  “It was actually Sun who convinced me to stay,” Jaewoo says, “when I thought about leaving. He told me that it was hard being an older brother, but with him around, I didn’t have to be the strong one anymore. Then when Nathaniel came around, I had a friend my own age, someone who challenged me to be better, and then finally Youngmin. . . . He makes me want to be a role model, a hyeong.”

  I place the photo back on the shelf. I’m overcome with feelings, sadness for his childhood, happiness that he’s found support and love with XOXO and the other members, and this ache inside me to protect him, to keep him safe.

  “Wow,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t seem to stop opening myself up to you. It’s been like this from the beginning. You do something to me. It feels similar to songwriting, but better.”

  “No, it’s the same for me.” I pause. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this.”

  He laughs. “What?”

  “The night we met, I had just gotten feedback from the judges of my latest cello competition. They told me I lacked spark. And so, when we first met in the karaoke room, I was annoyed about what they said, but also at you, ’cause you were annoying.”

  He laughs, shaking his head.

  “But then we met again, on the bus, and then we went to the festival, and even though it was only supposed to be for one night, the more time I spent with you, the more I didn’t want it to end.”

  “Are you saying . . .” Jaewoo says slowly, “that I was your spark?”

  “I’m saying there was a spark between us!” I move to punch him playfully and he catches my wrist.

  “And now?”

  “I don’t want it to end.”

  He lowers his head, his lips a breath apart from mine.

  “Oppa?” Joori knocks on the door. “Dinner time!”

  He moves upward and presses a kiss to my forehead instead, then grabs my hand and opens the door. In the kitchen, his mother is placing a large platter of the deboned pieces of chicken in the center of the spread.

  Joori looks up from where she’s already seated on the far side of the square table. “Eonni, come sit next to me.”

  I take the seat to her left and Jaewoo sits to my right, across from her, with their mother opposite me. The last time I sat down for a meal with my family was when I first arrived in Seoul. Being here with Jaewoo and the people who love him makes me miss the people who love me. Next time I see my mother, I’m going to ask if we can sit down for a meal with Halmeoni.

  Jaewoo’s mother is an incredible cook. Besides the chicken she ordered, which is apparently one of Jaewoo’s favorites, Jaewoo’s mother cooked every single dish of banchan.

  At one point I turn to Joori and ask, “Do you want to be an idol like your brother?”

  “Of course not!” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I want to be a video game designer.”

  Jaewoo winks at her.

  After dinner, Jaewoo’s mom cuts off slices of Korean melon, and we watch a BBC special on penguins on the TV as outside the rain comes down even harder.

  “You parked at the mall?” Jaewoo’s mother asks.

  “Yes. If it doesn’t stop in the next half hour, we’ll take an umbrella and walk over.”

  Jaewoo’s mother frowns. “I don’t know if you should be driving in this weather, especially with Jenny. I’d feel much better if you stayed the night. Jenny, would that be okay with you? You can borrow my pajamas and we have a spare toothbrush.”

  “Uh,” I say, for a lack of a better word. I never expected to be in a situation where my idol boyfriend’s mother asks me to stay the night after my first date with said boyfriend, and also after the first time meeting her. “Okay.”

  “Perfect! Call your mother?”

  “I live in the dorms. I’ll text my roommate.”

  I open my phone and message Sori. I’m staying at Jaewoo’s overnight. Can you cover for me? The resident assistant checks rooms at around ten o’clock, but Sori can pretend I’m already in bed.

  Sure, comes Sori’s immediate response. Then, GET IT GIRL!!!!!

  I quickly look up, but Jaewoo and his family have returned to watching the penguins fall over and get back up again on TV.

  His mother doesn’t want him driving in the rain, I quickly type out. Also, his family is so nice???

  I’m expecting details when you get back, Sori replies, and I send her a zipper mouth emoji.

  After the documentary, Jaewoo’s mom goes into her room and returns with one of those long, and in my opinion very unflattering but comfortable dresses that I’ve seen older Korean women wear, complete with a clashing painted flower design. I put it on and Joori giggles.

  Jaewoo deadpans, “Hot.”

  We spend the next hour before bedtime playing Mario Kart. By eleven o’clock, we separate to our rooms, Jaewoo to his, and Joori and me to hers.

  “Thank you for sharing your room with me,” I
say, as I slip into the bed after her. I had to displace some stuffed animals to fit.

  “I’m happy to. You’re like my future sister-in-law, right?” she giggles, then turns to the wall and immediately starts to snore.

  I envy her peaceful slumber.

  It takes me much longer to fall asleep, the events of the day buzzing in my head.

  While I finally manage to drift off, I wake with a start when thunder rumbles outside the window. The clock on Joori’s nightstand say it’s three in the morning. Careful not wake her, I slip out of bed. In the kitchen, I fill myself a glass of water and then walk over to the balcony off the living room. The door is unlocked, so I slide it back gently and step outside. Little potted plants rim the floor, as well as a drying rack, folded and placed against the wall. The balcony isn’t open to the elements, but behind a pane of glass, where the water patters against it, like music.

  “Can’t sleep?” Jaewoo steps onto the balcony, sliding the door closed behind him.

  “Yeah.” I turn from him to look back out the window. Through the rain, I can see the city. A few lights glow in the fog, sparks of life in the mist-blue darkness. And beyond all the many buildings, like a beautiful backdrop, a seemingly never-ending mountain range.

  “Korea is so pretty,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Jaewoo says softly.

  “I’m going to miss it.”

  “You’ll come back.”

  Unspoken words lie between us. That I will leave. That our time together is limited.

  “Jenny . . .” he begins.

  “Let’s go inside,” I interrupt. It’s a conversation we have to have eventually, but not tonight. “Before we wake your mom and sister.”

  He hesitates, as if he wants to say more, but relents. “Okay.”

  Inside the apartment, neither of us says a word, and yet we both make our way to Jaewoo’s room.

  I climb into his bed, and he wraps his arms around me.

  We don’t do anything, which is both a disappointment and a relief. I must drift off eventually, because only an hour or so later, he shakes me gently awake.