I’m definitely not in Nashville anymore.
The boys already checked us in, so we follow them up the mountain that is the staircase. Yoon Jae takes the duffel from my hands and throws it over his shoulder, teetering under its weight.
Our room’s on the third floor. Yoon Jae fishes in the pocket of his too-tight jeans and pulls out a key, which he uses to open the door for us. I find two twin-size beds.
I drop my backpack onto the bed nearest the door, then push open the sliding glass door and step out onto the stone terrace, which grants a view of the ocean below. Gorgeous during the day, I’m sure.
The balcony’s larger than I would have expected. I then realize it’s shared with the room next door.
Jason steps up beside me and rests his elbows on the railing. The wind tosses his dark hair, and my stomach somersaults.
“I hope that’s y’all’s room.” I point to the other glass door.
He nods.
“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about some strange man breaking into our room and kidnapping us.” I infuse my voice with mock seriousness. “But those Koreans boys—I just don’t trust ’em. Maybe I should sleep with some pepper spray or something.”
He doesn’t respond to the jab, though I didn’t expect him to—this is Jason we’re talking about. My brain buzzes with sudden jitters, a dozen small-talk starters falling flat even in my head. With his shoulder only a few inches from mine, I can’t help but think back to the night of his birthday. I’m dying to know if he remembers, and if he does, what he thinks about it. I should have asked earlier, but I don’t want to upset Sophie again. Still, I need to know.
Sophie’s, Yoon Jae’s, and Tae Hwa’s voices drift to us through the open door, but they fade away and eventually cut off with a slam of the door. I glance over my shoulder and see that they’ve left me and Jason alone. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. The distance between our shoulders now seems much smaller.
He keeps silent, posture completely relaxed. Obviously, I’m the only one sweating bullets here, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the heat. I clear my throat.
“I need to ask you a question,” I start.
“Hmm?”
“It’s about your birthday.”
His shoulders tense. “What about it?”
“Do you … remember anything?”
He hesitates a long moment, staring down at his clasped hands on the balcony railing. “Why do you want to know?”
I clench my jaw. He’s going to make me work for this. “Because I just do.”
“I don’t see how it has anything to do with you.”
“You’re my friend. I’m pretty sure it’s my business whether or not you have any memory of being so wasted you passed out on my shoulder on the ride home from the bar.”
He pulls in a sharp breath, so quiet I can hardly hear it. But he responds with, “Who says we’re friends?”
I snort. “Don’t pull that. You can say whatever you want, but I think we’ve known each other long enough to be past the acquaintance stage. Plus, I’m helping you out with your song, remember? And you’re my Korean tutor. We’re friends. We’ve been over this already.”
He doesn’t argue, and that speaks louder than his former protest.
“So are you going to tell me or not?” My stomach twists. “Do you remember what happened?”
Turning his head, he gazes at me with those dark, somber eyes. I search them for any emotion, but it’s too dark to see more than the general outline of his irises. Still, my pulse kicks into high gear just being under his scrutiny.
“I—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t remember anything.”
I wait for the surge of relief, but it doesn’t come. I should be happy he doesn’t remember us dancing, our bodies rocking back and forth to the music, close enough that my mother would have raised her eyebrows at me. But, instead, I find myself a little disappointed.
“Oh,” I mumble.
“Is that good or bad?” he asks.
I shrug. “Neither. I was just curious.”
But I have to swallow the tightness in my throat.
“I wrote the words to the chorus of our song. Do you want to hear it?” He pushes away from the railing and doesn’t wait for my answer before he goes into his room.
I blink back the stinging in my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. He called it our song. And, you know, I guess that’s what it is.
* * *
We wake up at the crack of dawn the next morning. Sophie tells me to wear comfortable clothes, so I opt for a pair of jeans, an Indian-inspired shirt that’s beaded but lightweight, and tan saddle shoes I bought at a vintage shop in Nashville.
We meet the boys in front of the hotel. As soon as I step outside, I’m hit by a wave of salty air that churns my already queasy stomach. I went to bed with a stomachache and woke up to an even more unruly belly. I blame the seaweed chips.
The driver pulls up the van, and we all climb in. I slide in beside Jason, and Yoon Jae sits next to me, pushing me up close to Jason. Every time our knees bump each other, my heart hammers against the inside of my chest.
We zip through town, maneuvering around women carrying their vegetables to market on rickety bicycles and kids on their way to school on a Saturday, dressed in uniforms with backpacks sporting cartoon characters.
The driver takes us out of town and onto a bumpy dirt road that weaves its way through mountains that loom over the turquoise water. We pass long stretches of harbor housing rows and rows of boats, from modern ferries to one-person dinghies.