Page 42 of When Worlds Collide (Between Worlds #2)

“Oh, you know me, kiddo. Never met a snack I didn’t like. It’s why I married your mum.”

“Oh, hush, you!” My mum pushed him, almost off-balancing him on the kitchen stool while he just laughed.

While I spoke to my parents, Jihoon called his.

He sat across from me, and I looked up every now and then to see him grinning as he spoke to his halmeoni, who lived with his parents in Busan.

I enjoyed the way his cheeks pinked up, clearly enjoying whatever they were talking about.

My own parents were currently giving me a blow-by-blow of what various extended family members were getting up to – “did you hear Laura got married? You know Laura, she’s your dads’ cousin’s daughter–”.

This gave me the scope to covertly watch Jihoon across the counter.

He said something to his halmeoni that made her laugh, and while I barely heard it, I did see the way his eyes softened.

They flicked up to meet mine, briefly, and my own smile widened.

Then, I heard him say, “appa”. I wouldn’t have noticed the Korean word for ‘dad’, had it not stuck out to me because of the way he said it. His tone so noticeably different from when he’d been speaking to his grandma.

I re-focused on my own parents. My mum was cheerfully showing off all the different spices in a new spice rack my dad had put up for her.

But, it was hard to miss the cold tone of Jihoon, when I so rarely heard it from him.

I was just complimenting my mum on her new watch (a gift from herself, to herself), when I was distracted by Jihoon’s raised voice.

“Mum, I’ve gotta go, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Wha-”

I disconnected the call and put the phone on the counter, not even trying to pretend I wasn’t listening to Jihoon’s call.

His eyes met mine again, but they narrowed in some emotion I knew wasn’t for me.

From the phone, I heard a hurried string of words I didn’t have a hope–in-hell of understanding.

Jihoon responded, his accent a little less Seoul, less clipped.

He’d explained to me that he sometimes slipped into Busan saatori – essentially a regional dialect, which I completely understood, being from the North of England, which has a very distinct dialect when compared to London.

As a trainee, his saatori had been trained out of him through hours and hours of speech and media training, so he only slipped into it these days when he was either really tired, or really angry.

I didn’t think he was tired now.

I was just considering taking myself off somewhere, to give him privacy, when I heard my name.

It was very clearly inserted into whatever conversation he was having, and it didn’t seem to be well received, judging by the snort of clear derision from the other end, followed clearly by the words, “Oekuk saram.”

“Appa!” Jihoon near-shouted, and although I didn’t understand the context, I would guess they weren’t complimentary.

There was a scuffle on the phone, and then, “Eomma,” Jihoon’s tone softened, but he was breathing hard.

I got up. This was very much not my business. He was a grown man, and it was his family to deal with. He shot me a look, brows furrowed, mouth an unhappy line, and I blew him a kiss to show him I was fine. Hell, I didn’t even know what was going on.

I was slouched on the sofa, idly watching a Wallace and Gromit movie on BBC One by the time Jihoon was done with his family reunion call. He sighed and folded his body on the floor next to me, laying his head in my lap. I ran my hand through his hair.

“You okay, baby?” I asked, watching the way his shoulders rose with a deep inhale.

“Better now,” he grumbled, his voice muffled with his face pressed against my leg, and I laughed.

Silence lapsed as we watched the film, but I could tell neither of us was really paying attention. Finally, I gave in to the question that I had been trying not to ask.

“Joon?”

“Hmm?”

“What did your dad say?”

He turned his head to look up at me.

“You said my name,” I clarified, “and then he said something. I don’t know the words… oekuk, something? But it seemed to make you angry.”

Jihoon huffed, and looked away, and for a moment I didn’t think he was going to tell me, or would brush it off. But then-

“He was being an asshole.”

My mouth fell open.

Jihoon ran his hand through his hair, sighing, and then he got up to sit beside me on the sofa, pulling me back against him so I was lying on his chest, and where I couldn’t see his face.

“He called you a foreigner.”

Was that it? From his reaction, I had been expecting something a little… less accurate.

“I mean,” I started, “he’s not wrong. I am kind of foreign.”

Jihoon let out a little laugh, and ran his fingers up my arms. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

Oh.

“I take it that’s a bad thing?” I didn’t really know how to take it, but it was kind of hard to be insulted about something I didn’t understand the context of.

His arms tightened around me. “Not to me.”

The unspoken words, ‘But it is to them,’ felt like they were hanging in the air around us, like raindrops suspended in motion, waiting to fall.

I waited to see if he’d add anything to that, but he didn’t. So, I guess that was the end of that conversation.

Finally, we sat down to Christmas dinner.

Well, it was Christmas, and we ate dinner, so it was technically Christmas dinner. Pizza and beer, and we opted to watch a horror movie, just as a seasonal palette cleanser.

As I cuddled up to Jihoon, full of cheese and pepperoni, watching teenagers run around the woods away from a crazed axe murderer, I really thought this was the best Christmas I’d ever had.

But as I lay in bed later, Jihoon asleep beside me, the line from the conversation he’d had with his dad kept coming back to me.

I still didn’t really understand the context, or rather, I didn’t understand the significance of how me being a foreigner was a bad thing.

But I did understand that to Jihoon’s dad, it was.

The thought that came next was entirely unbidden, a spark of an idea so surprising that my eyes shot open as it ran through my head.

What if that had been the reaction my paternal grandparents had had? What if that was the reason my biological dad had rejected my mum, pregnant with me?

The thought dug at me, picking at me like an old bruise. It was some time before I was able to push it aside and fall asleep.

New Year’s Eve in Korea was definitely something I’d take with me all my life. Although, when I’d recounted the story to Becka the next day, it sounded far fancier than what had actually occurred.

“So let me get this straight,” Becka said, sitting down in the kitchen and propping the phone up to peer at me through the screen. “You went on a movie star’s yacht, down the Han River to watch the fireworks, while I sat in bed with the flu?” She wiped her nose again, as if to illustrate the point.

“You make it sound so extravagant,” I rolled my eyes.

“Bish, explain to me how that’s not extravagant!” She sneezed three times in a row, each time looking angrier about it. “Fuckin’ flu.”

I laughed, only forcing a more serious expression onto my face as she blew her very red nose for the umpteenth time since the start of our video call.

“To be fair,” I began, in a conciliatory tone, “we hardly interacted with any of the movie stars.”

“Plural? As in, more than one movie star?”

“Well,” I shrugged, “where there’s one…”

“Say less.” Becka coughed. “So, what did you actually do on this luxury liner populated with South Korea’s most fabulous?”

“Um. Would you believe me if I told you we hid on the top of the deck?”

Becka laughed, a loud, hacking, phlegmy laugh. “Normally, no, but because it’s you, yes.”

I grinned at the memory.

When Jihoon had told me we’d been invited to spend New Year’s Eve cruising up the Han River in the company of some of the biggest names in the movie industry, I’d about expired.

He barely knew the guy, apparently. They’d brushed shoulders at various events over the years, but hardly knew each other enough to hold a conversation.

But, his managers had implied it would be the kind of event he ought to go to, if he wanted to drum up some enthusiasm for his solo mixtape, which felt like a corporate way of saying, ‘this is a ‘you’ problem’.

I’d watched as a tic fluttered across his jaw as he’d said that.

ENT had barely lifted a finger to help with his solo project, which was why the production of it was dragging on for so long.

Aside from being sent to LA to record some tracks with American producers – namely resident slimeball, Trevor ‘grabby hands’ Kyle at Pisces – ENT had been frustratingly hands-off with it.

“So, what,” Becka continued, “you got on the boat, shook some hands, kissed some babies, and then hid?” She slurped loudly at her steaming mug of hot tea with honey and lemon.

“I mean, not exactly like that.”

We’d boarded the boat at the same time as everyone else.

It was a super exclusive event so we could be assured there were no press, but even so, we’d wanted to be as low-key as possible.

Jihoon had greeted the host – who even I had recognised as the actor of that horror movie we’d watched recently – while I stayed tucked behind the crowd, and honestly, no one had paid me the slightest bit of attention.

They were all a little bit preoccupied with each other, to be honest.

I’d gotten the impression that if they didn’t know you…

there was probably a good reason for it.

Weaving in amongst them, no masks, no proverbial box of cables in my hands…

I’d felt like an impostor. This was not my world.

Maybe that was why no one had noticed me: I didn’t belong, and it had showed.

“Jihoon said maybe ten words total to the guy before someone else elbowed him out the way to get to the big movie star,” I rolled my eyes. “After that, he grabbed a bottle of Champagne from the bar, waved at a few people, and then we ducked under one of those velvet ropes-”

“The kind meant to keep people out of VIP areas?” Becka grinned behind a sniffle.

“Exactly,” I winked back at her. “And it turned out to lead all the way to the top of the boat, and honestly if they hadn’t wanted anyone sitting up there, they should have taken the cushions away.”

Becka pointed at me through the screen. “Sound logic.”

“So, we sat down, drank Champagne out of the bottle, and watched the fireworks.”

I couldn’t help but smile, remembering the explosions of lights as they’d danced across the sky and blended with their reflections in the choppy water of the river.

I remember wanting to cry – I seemed to do a lot of that recently.

It had felt like the kind of dream normal people weren’t allowed to have.

“Why are you living in a drama, while I – the one actually living in LA – am dodging dick pics on social media? Why is my life the romantic disaster?”

I watched with mild alarm as Becka dropped her head onto the counter, the resounding ‘thunk’ making me wince.

“Ow.” Came the muffled, hoarse moan a second later.

“Oh, babes,” I said sympathetically. “What about… you know who?” Saying his name was like navigating a field of land mines. Depending on the day, it was either fine or it was liable to blow up in my face.

“Ben has agreed to give me space.” Becka lifted her head off the counter, a little red mark on her forehead. “But he came round on New Year’s Eve.”

I watched her eyes tighten as she said his name, a pinch forming between her brows.

“Oh?”

“He might have been expecting a kiss at midnight,” she said, looking off to the side and tapping a finger on her chin. “But he ended up feeding me hot soup and massaging my feet.”

“And how was ‘the soup’?” I wagged my eyebrows at her.

“Chicken noodle soup,” she said drolly, “and absolutely tasteless. This damn flu.” She blew her nose again.

“At least you don’t have to be back at work for another week.”

“Yeah, I get to spend my vacation sick, in bed, and not out in the bars, like any other sane single woman in her twenties.”

“Even single women in their twenties get the flu, babes.”

“Knowing my luck, it’s probably that new one everyone keeps talking about.” She wiped at her already bright red nose.

“Not likely,” I scoffed, “have you been to China recently?”

“Um, hello? Do you have any idea how many international visitors come to LA every year?”

I rolled my eyes. “No. Do you?”

“No, but it’s probably a metric fuck ton.” She coughed into her tissue.

“Is that the scientific measurement?”

“It should be.”

Just then, Jihoon came out of the bathroom, curls of steam wafting out behind him as he emerged wrapped in a towel that hung entirely too low, and not low enough on his narrow hips, his damp hair sticking to his face and neck.

I eyed him appreciatively as he leaned against the door frame, watching me right back.

“Becka, I gotta go,” I said, already reaching forward to close the laptop lid.

“Yeah, yeah,” she groused. “Happy fucking New Year to-”

Her voice cut off with the click of the closed lid, and I bit my lip as I watched Jihoon cross the room.