“Decline all zero. We’ll have a Who Is Jihoon Day while you’re in Toronto.”
He lifts his perfect eyebrows. “That sounds like the worst name for a national holiday.”
“Well, we have Canada Day. Not very creative.”
“We have Hangul Day, when we celebrate the creation of our alphabet.”
I pause. “That’s pretty cool, to be honest. Are you in?”
“I’m not sure how I can resist.”
It’s not until I’m almost asleep that a text comes in. It’s an itinerary for next year’s Camino walk from Jihoon, with all the details we discussed, complete with flight availabilities to Paris from Toronto and Seoul.It’s in my calendar, his message ends, with a link to a meeting request for today next year.
He’s called it Jihoon and Ari’s Super Awesome Getaway. I accept the request.Mine too, I type.
Then I lie in bed and look at the screen. We can have a fun day exploring while he’s here, but obviously this big trip will never happen. Jihoon’s only here for a few weeks, which is no doubt why I feel so free with him. He’s safe because nothing can happen. Our Super Awesome Getaway is safe as well, a dream I can plan for and anticipate without worrying about taking time off work or getting sunburn or blisters. It will be always unrealized and perfect.
I click the map link he’s included and trace my finger from Salamanca to Merida. Perhaps one day I’ll do that walk, and if I do, I wonder if I’ll remember Jihoon. Or if he’ll remember me.
It would have been fun to do together, though.
Nine
Instead of preparing for Who Is Jihoon Day, I sit on the balcony staring at the tops of trees, selfishly wondering what I would plan for a Who Is Ari Day. Hiking? Scavenger hunt? The beach? I pause. Have I ever liked swimming or only thought I should? In fact, most of my thoughts end up boomeranging back to one question: whether I like the things I thought I did.
Such as my job.
I grab my travel notebook and flip through the pages. In Istanbul, I could haggle for saffron in the spice bazaar. In Belize, go cave tubing through a Mayan archaeological site. Visit Tanzania and climb Kilimanjaro. The world offers so many options, and yet I only write them down as I sit here in Toronto with stress and a job I worked years to get in an office that makes me feel like half the person I could be.
Who the rest of that person I’m missing is, I don’t know.
Movement from inside the apartment catches my eye. Jihoon sees me, waves, and comes out to say hello.
“You’ll be late for work,” he says as he leans over the balcony, nose buried in his arms and unrivaled ass curved out as he stretches his hamstrings. He’s in shorts and smells like the synthetic coconut of his sunscreen, which means he’s about to go for his usual eighty-kilometer or whatever run as the healthy person he is.
I check the time. Jihoon’s right; I will be late for work. I haul myself out of my seat. “Duty calls,” I say. “What are you doing today?”
He doesn’t answer, so I don’t press him. I’ve seen the open notebooks around the house, filled with crossed-out lines and doodles and suspect he’s suffering from writer’s block, if that’s something music producers get.
Hmm, artistic block. An idea sparks for what we can do.
When Saturday morning finally comes around, I first call my parents. Dad’s home, and both Phoebe and I have made separate trips to the house. Mom made it clear I wouldn’t be welcome this weekend because she had enough on her plate trying to get him to relax instead of doing his usual weekend tasks.
No surprise, Phoebe hasn’t bothered calling me.
“Are you ready to go?” I call to Jihoon. I’ve sublimated my discomfort at skipping my normal Saturday things into organizing an outing with the precision of a military campaign. “Today we help you find yourself.”
“As long as I can spend the day with you, Ari. That’s all I need.” He glances up as I fix my hair. “Will you leave it down?”
I peer at him, both my arms back and behind my head. “Why?”
“It swings when you move. It’s pretty.”
I hide my flushing face behind my elbow because I like the idea of looking pretty, and that makes me feel like some sort of anti-feminist throwback. “I usually have it tied back for work.”
He gives me a sweet smile. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
I tuck a tie in my pocket just in case but shake my hair so it tumbles to my waist. I instantly feel more like myself with the comforting weight of it distributed rather than always tugging at one spot on the back of my neck.