Page 64 of Teach Me K-Pop

“I’m in love with him,” I tap out and hit send before I can talk myself out of it again.

Kija’s response comes quickly. “I know. What are you going to do about it?”

Hell if I know.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JASE

“This is dumb,” I tell Noel as she growls and yanks at what used to be a butterfly—but now looks more like a very traumatized dragonfly—that I’m holding onto by one frayed antenna. She drops the toy, and I swear she looks offended. “Not you. Or tug-o-war. Obviously.”

Kija’s question had bounced around in my head for 30-plus hours, ricocheting like a pinball. WhatwasI going to do about it? I was torn between thinking I needed to put up a fight and thinking I should stay away because that was what he wanted.

Noel grabs her victim again and trots off, presumably to gnaw its other eye out in peace somewhere, leaving me to slump against the ottoman. For the sake of my own sanity, I had to make a decision. The real problem was both a lack of time, resources, and ideas. I only had one, and I wasn’t sure it was all that good.

Four days from now, RYSING will begin their last three-day tour stop in the States. In a moment of insomnia-induced weakness in the wee hours of this morning, I’d looked up tickets for the concerts, thinking maybe I’d go to the show and just hope for the best once I got there. Maybe I could reach out and see if he’d respond. After seeing that the only available seats were resale and cost more than double my mortgage, I ruled out the idea of seeing them live again. Maybe just being in the same city would be enough?

The looming uncertainty made me feel a whole different kind of crazy, like it would make me some kind of sasaeng—just a stalker lurking about in hopes of catching a glimpse of my favorite idol.

I realize there is maybe one other option, but I don’t like it for several reasons. I know I could call Kija. I probablyshouldcall Kija. He’s my best friend, so I should keep him informed of the sad state of my life currently. But something about contacting him to exploit the connections he has makes me feel bad. I certainly have never done it before, as my understanding of what he actually does for Task Force is still fuzzy at best, but I know he has access to the information and people that I need right now. Aside from essentially using him, I also know I would be signing up for a lifetime’s worth of teasing for the level of desperation I’ve reached.

Glancing at the clock, I quickly determine that it’s about 6 a.m. tomorrow in Seoul. While I would normally consider that too early to be on the phone, it’s basically his fault I’ve been in a snit about this instead of just continuing to wallow, so a wake-up call it is.

I find his contact and poke at the screen harder than necessary, like I’ve decided to shift all my frustration onto him and make this his fault. As soon as I hear Kija pick up, I greet him with, “You asshole.”

“Hello to you, too, Jase.” He chuckles, sounding remarkably awake, which is suspicious.

“What are you doing up so early?” I ask, frowning because this somehow disappoints me.

“Waiting for you. Took you longer than I expected, though. I’ve already been out to get an iced americano,” he tells me, shaking the apparently now-empty cup for me to hear.

I huff indignantly. How dare he be so intuitive. “You knew I was going to call.”

“Of course I did,” he says casually. “How many times do I have to remind you that I know you really, really well?”

“At least one more, apparently,” I grumble, then get up because now I want coffee, too. “Okay, so here I am. You’ve lured me in. Now what?”

Kija snorts. “You tell me. You’re the one who finally caught up and figured out you’re in love. Why aren’t you hiding in his hotel room right now while they’re out filming FLY?”

I had no idea they were filming FLY here in the States. Not that there was a reason—or had been a chance—for me to know. I wonder where they are and what they’re shooting. Being in America should make for an interesting episode. But that’s not the point.

“Several reasons. One, I don’t even know where he is. Two, I wasn’t invited to city hop with them,” I pause, exhaling slowly and then taking a deep breath because I hate what I’m about to say. “And three, I haven’t talked to him in almost two weeks. I guess we… aren’t together?”

There’s a clatter, and it sounds like Kija must have squeezed the plastic coffee cup too hard and sent ice cubes flying or something. “Wait, what? I thought he flew you out to see him a couple of weeks ago? What the hell happened?”

“I wish I knew. I went, and it was amazing for a while. I thought everything was pretty perfect and then suddenly it just… wasn’t. He literally said, ‘Thanks for everything,’ and then followed it with, ‘We’re done here.’” Saying it out loud is not any easier than thinking it. And it doesn’t make me feel any better to have shared it with someone else.

Kija’s silence also does not help.

I wait as long as I can stand. “Kija, say something.”

“Fuck.”

“Not what I was hoping for,” I tell him. “But yeah.”

“Just like that? Out of nowhere?” Kija prods, as though I left out some key plot points in the story.

Popping the top to an iced coffee in a can I found in the fridge, I shrug, as if he can see me. “We had a date night in our hotel room. I got flowers and dessert, and it was all kinds of cute and romantic. Everything was great when we went to bed. We woke up, took a shower together, and by the time I was done drying my hair it was like I was with a different person. He wouldn’t look at me, didn’t want to talk, and then when it was time for me to leave, he told me it was too hard and I needed to go. So I did.”

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