Page 62 of Hamartia

Ibarely hear Sung-Ho speak over the noise in my ears. Panic. Fear. Anger.Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. They all make the same noise in my head. It’s over. So soon? Except it’s not too soon. It’s too late. It’s already too late.Idiot.

“Straight to the store now, yes?” He checks.

“Yes, Sungho-ssi.”

He nods and pulls away from the drop-off area of the hotel and into the heavy New York traffic. I don’t know New York very well, but I think we are still on time for the store, though the last thing I want to do now is try on pretty clothes and stare at myself in the mirror. At all the parts of myself I don’t like. At all the parts of myself that are not enough for Raphael.

Sudden and loud, my cell phone rings and my heart trips in my chest. I hold a breath as I look down at the ID. Hope deflates. Kai-Hyung.

Ji-hoon hasn’t spoken to me for two days. Not a word since he told me, in front of Raphael that he didn’t know who I was anymore. That he hasn’t known me for a while. Which is ironic because he’d once told me the problem with us was that he knew metoo well. As a friend. A bandmate. A brother. It was why he couldn’t truly see us as anything else. He believed that to be true, and so I always let him think that I did too.

But of course, I knew the truth, I was not enough; I never have been. Not for him. Not for my parents. Not for Raphael.

“I am busy, Hyung,” I answer, entirely not in the mood to have this conversation now.

We would have to deal with our argument soon, the others would force the issue sooner. But I do not want to have it right this moment. Not when my head is this loud.

His tone is short when he asks, “With your American?”

I hate the sense of loss I get at the idea that he will never be my American.

“With Gucci.”

“You are shopping?”

Why does he sound so surprised? It’s the only thing I do when we’re in New York. I hadn’t had a chance to do it yet, with schedule and work, and Raphael, but he shouldn’t sound so shocked by the notion certainly.

“I am on my way there now.”

“Alone?” The implication is clear.

“Alone.”

“Then I’ll come. Where are you?”

I sigh. “Perhaps I wish to shop alone, Hyung. Just because you wish to speak to me now doesn’t mean I feel the same.”

He lets out a tired sounding sigh not unlike my own, but his voice is soft when he says: “Jaehyun-ah. We need to talk. Ji-u spoke to me last night. You know how he feels when we fight.”

“We are not fighting.” I decide to correct that statement. “I am not fighting.”

He sighs again and I relent.

“Fine. I will send you the location.”

I hang up without a goodbye. An uneasy weight sits on top of the already heavy feeling in my chest, because despite my protest, wearefighting. And I hate fighting with Ji-hoon. I hate fighting with anyone, but especially him. When we fight it always feels like a physical thing, like an ache or a pain somewhere deep inside my body that I can’t reach with stretching or mindfulness. It’s only that I’ve had a distraction these past two days. A surprisingly sweet, surprisingly nuanced distraction. A distraction that tastes of whiskey and want and who looks at me like I might be the only one he has truly desired.

I glance down at my cell as I worry my lip with my teeth and imagine all the things that might be happening between Raphael and his girlfriend. The woman he told me was to be his ex-girlfriend. I imagine tearful words and weighted apologies. I imagine being painted as a horrible mistake and moment of madness. I imagine tight hugs and fervent kisses.

The taste of him floods my tongue, hot whiskey-spiced kisses, and I reach for the bottle of water in the cupholder so I can wash it away. I should laugh at myself. I have been such an idiot. I was being careful, so careful. It was nothing. It had been only fun. Right up until last night, at least. When he’d looked at me over the softly popping bubbles in the bath, cheeks and mouth bright red, eyes a glittering Californian ocean I would have been happy to drown in and I’d felt something I cannot ever remember feeling before except on stage. I had felt enough. More than enough.

You’re incredible.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

I contemplate deleting our text conversations and blocking his number, but the pathetic part of me is not ready to give him up just yet.

They have several private rooms on the first floor of the building to which they lead me, Sung-Ho acting as driver and security today following me inside. He speaks very little English, so I act as interpreter for him when the personal shopper offers us both a drink. He refuses and takes a seat by the door, pulling out his phone to busy himself while he waits. I accept water and follow the petite woman to the three racks of clothes she has pre-selected for me.