Page 13 of Somewhere Only We Know
The guy didn’t seem to know who I was, which waspurrrrfect. I’d be able to hang out witha boylike a normal teenage girl. The idea energized me, even through the drowsy effect of the meds.
And there was something about this guy. Beyond his handsomeness level, which was off the charts. Even though I had been out of it on the bus, I remembered the inexplicable comfort I felt when I opened my eyes to see his worried face watching mine. The proximity of strangers usually made me recoil—put up a barrier. But the warmth in his eyes had put me at ease. There was concern, not curiosity, behind them.
He didn’t have to help me on that bus. Hold my arm so I wouldn’t eat it coming down those stairs. And he didn’t have to smile at everything I said, either, as if he found me endlessly entertaining.
Granted, he probably thought I was drunk.
“How old are you?”
The guy’s question came outta nowhere. I looked at him. “I’m twenty-one.”
He laughed, sharp and quick. “Okay, and I’m… Steve Jobs’s ghost.”
Sarcasm. I smiled, pleased, resisting bopping him on his very-well-shaped nose. “Nice to meet you, Steve Jobs’s ghost. You’re a lot more Korean in real life.”
Steve Jobs’s ghost ran a hand through his thick hair, fingers long and unexpectedly elegant. My eyes followed those fingers like a creep.
“Hey, how could you tell?” he asked.
“You spoke Korean earlier.” I remembered the rough “Ya” as he poked me. I thought I had been dreaming when I had heard it. “Also… your face.” I waved my hands in front of it to clarify.
The face made a face, but it was good-natured. “Well, your age doesn’t matter, I guess. Nobody cards here.”
Even in my woozy state, I could tell the guy was feeling conflicted about taking me along.
In what universe was a guy conflicted about hanging out withLucky?
Everything about tonight was so different. So fresh. I felt buoyed by it.
Steve Jobs’s ghost took a deep breath. “All right, follow me. Are you sure you want to drink, though? You’re already wasted.” He started walking and I sped up to follow him, right at his heels. The surface of the stone-paved streets hurt my feet through the thin soles of my slippers.
“I’m not wasted! Howdareyou,” I protested as I took in my surroundings. We were walking up a steep hill and the bars and restaurants had their windows and doors thrown open. People were sitting on low plastic stools slurping noodles, standing at bars swigging beers, huddled in the street smoking. There was so much to look at, hear, and smell. It was sensory overload but it wasn’t necessarily unpleasant.
I lagged behind in all my gawking and the guy waited for me on a steep set of stairs, his hands resting on his hips. “Okay, you’re not drunk. Wearing hotel slippers. In public.”
“Don’tjudgeme,” I sniffed. As I followed, I spotted a couple making out in a dark corner. Well! I averted my eyes. “What’s your real name, anyway?” As the words came out, I nearly tripped on my oversized slipper and Steve Jobs’s ghost reached out just in time before I fell on my face.
He was still grasping my arms when I looked up at him. There was that concern again in his eyes. It was undeniably attractive. “Jack,” he answered.
It wasn’t so bad being caught by a cute guy. I felt like it should have been in slow motion. I leaned into his hands, relishing the feeling for a second. “Your name is Jack?” My face was incredibly close to his.
His dark eyes grew wide. Then he blinked. “Yeah.”
“That is like, a fake name,” I said with a giggle. “Like some jaunty reporter in a Katharine Hepburn movie.”
Jack steadied me back into a standing position. “Huh. Are you American?”
“Why, yes I am!” I was totally tickled by him noticing. Sometimes my English felt rusty and this interaction with Jack was probably the most I’d spoken it in months. I used a mix of Korean and English with my managers. And then Korean with almost everyone else. “AreyouAmerican?”
Jack started walking up the steep hill again. I almost didn’t hear him when he answered. “Yeah, I’m from California.”
No way. I stopped in my tracks and gasped so loudly that a few people walking by stared at me. “I am also from California!” More people stopped and looked, some snickering. Even in my fuzzy brain state, it occurred to me that people staring wasn’t good. Years of celebrity were imprinted into me so deeply. I scampered over to Jack, lowering my hat and keeping my face close to his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
My name? It almost slipped out, but I stopped myself. The image of a Pomeranian’s nose on my phone screen flashed through my mind.
“Fern,” I blurted out.
