Page 48 of The Dandelion Princess

Joaen. Like. The Sondish translation is unsatisfying. We ‘like’ the color of a new car or the taste of Pankedruss. We would say “I like that girl” in the moments before we make our move, and be speaking of an emotion as thin as tea.

In Seong,Joaenisn’t a settled emotion. It’s not love, but it leads there. It’s craving. Worship, almost.

The line of bicycles begins up a long rise, and my chest constricts with the effort it takes to admit the truth. My eyes fasten on Ella and I accept that there’s no ‘maybe’ about this.

“Naui ta joaen,” I say. I like her.

I feel a sudden boost of power as Jang Mi begins to pedal, putting all her effort into the mechanism. She laughs as we begin to pass the others, flying down the hill on the other side, and when we coast to a stop near a quiet village pub her eyes are sparkling.

She dismounts and slips into my arms for a fierce hug.

“What’s this?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “You have given me a treasure, Marcus-shi. This little piece of your true heart.” She slips an arm through mine and looks up. “I’m ready to talk about the concert.”

16

That Good

ELLA

I smile at Mikkel because, when I do, my head is in the correct position to overhear the conversation between Marc and a beloved Seongan pop idol.

Did it have to be Lee Jang Mi? Did it have to be the woman whose solo hit, “Heart (Suffocating in a Rice Chest),” became my anthem when I decided to beat this one-sided love once and for all? For months I did a whole morning cardio routine to it.

Flamenhell.

Mikkel is midway through a story about the harms of seed oils when I train my ears on the riders behind me. You would think I would be nearly fluent in Seongan, considering the number of hours I’ve spent reading subtitles, but I only know an assortment of words.Hello. I’m okay. Are you insane?But then I hear Jang Mi say ‘joaen’.

“It’s more than liking,” Marc once explained. “It’s more like an emotional crash out. There’s an element of submission.”

Marc repeats it back and my hands go hot and cold, my heart thundering in my chest. Did it have to be her? Did it have to be now? Did I expect Marc to live as a monk, forever devoting himself to the sacred texts of software code? No. Marc is a profoundly eligible, landedadeland tech mogul. Jang Mi is part of the unstoppable pop juggernaut currently smashing global records. The headlines write themselves. In Seong, they’re already written.

Vede.

“Maybe you’ve got a seed oil allergy, too,” Mikkel says, jerking me out of my thoughts.

It hurts to breathe, but I force words from my throat. “What makes you think so?”

His finger, hovering in the air, sketches out a path across my face. “Your eyes are red and there’s a little…” He brushes his jawline, “puffiness, around here. I had my suspicions about breakfast so I kept to the fruit. One should never to consume a sausage of unknown provenance.”

When we arrive at the pub, Alix races across the forecourt, holding my handlebars as I dismount.

“Mikkel is being attentive,” she whispers, speaking English for Tom’s benefit.

“He thinks I have an allergic condition. Honestly, he’s not my style.”

She makes an irritated sound but her mood shifts like a dust mote catching the sunlight. “Oh well. Did you see where Jang Mi went?”

I focus on my kickstand. “Marc led her off to inspect the millworks or ‘inspect at the millworks’.”

Alix laughs. “I’ve been manifesting my future as an aunt to little BLUSH babies for hours.”

“Babe,” Tom says, sliding an arm around Alix’s waist. He spares me a glance. “You can’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

“Is that one of your Amish phrases?” she asks, following him into the pub, swinging their hands together.

Meanwhile, I glower at the trailhead where Marc disappeared. As a matter of dispassionate ethical inquiry, I wonder if a man who has just wholeheartedly kissed someone should have to undergo a period of suspended privileges before he can start kissing someone else. A make-out moratorium, if you will.