"From a business standpoint, that’s all it is. Shushu’s exhibition will be a good springboard, and if we launch the branch while staging Seo Ihyeon’s debut in a bold way, there’s no better publicity. —That’s all. I made the decision, and then I changed course accordingly and moved decisively."
If that were the answer I’d get from him when I asked the same question my sister had, I doubted I could be fully convinced.
His complicated feelings about his parents, and the skepticism he’d felt moving among people who linked his every move to his background—those hadn’t stopped at some vague, dark dissatisfaction with life. They seemed to have become part of the beliefs or identity that formed his core.
Not disclosing his background, not pulling it into the business to use it—those could never have been actions without meaning. That was the impression I’d received from the stories he’d told me about his family. And to borrow what my sister and hyung said to me in Hong Kong, their thoughts weren’t very different.
Soon the hotel loomed distinctly into view even through the fog. My sister rubbed her bare arm and spoke.
"After Hong Kong, when you started commuting from the UN Village villa... you were already pushing ahead with the New York branch from there, weren’t you?"
Her voice sounded very tired now. She didn’t seem inclined to press him further for answers. At least not here.
"Turns out Juhan was right. Who knew you were really plotting there."
Remembering the joke hyung made that day in high summer when the four of us ate burgers on his rooftop, my sister gave a belated, deflating laugh.
The car stopped at the hotel’s front entrance. In the dry rasp of silence, my sister got out first.
As we walked toward the elevator hall, I glanced at his face. He didn’t seem especially shaken by my sister’s visible confusion. He looked as if he were already caught up in some other issue—whatever it was, something larger.
At two in the morning, the elevator held only the three of us.
My sister, who would be getting off on twelve before us, stood by the doors and fiddled with her clutch.
"You’re the owner of Phantom, and I know you don’t owe us on-the-spot explanations for every decision about Phantom. And needless to say, you don’t owe us anything about your private life or family. Even so... finding out like this... I guess there’s no helping feeling hurt. I’m sorry. No matter how grown-up I try to act, I’m still just a kid."
Leaning with me against the wall opposite the doors, he watched her back and couldn’t bring himself to speak. He only ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. The elevator had just left seven and was heading for eight.
My sister turned halfway and looked at me.
"Did you... know?"
Her gaze held half a certainty that I had. Which meant she was half-uncertain.
"Ah... well...."
"The New York branch—Seo Ihyeon only heard about that this afternoon."
While I hesitated over what answer would be wisest, he answered for me. Depending on how you heard it, it could look like he was covering for me.
"Then are you saying he already knew you were Nick Lau and Suki Kim’s son?"
A sharp question. That doesn’t mean it was laced with malice, like plunging a knife into an exposed gap just waiting for it.
"......."
He didn’t deny it, and my sister let out a sigh. Then she reached out and dropped a hand on my shoulder with a light thump.
"I didn’t ask so I could say, ‘Why did you tell him and hide it from us?’ I was really just curious, so don’t make that face."
With a calm announcement for the twelfth floor, the doors opened. My sister gave me a cheerless, forced smile, squeezed my shoulder once, then turned a drained look toward him.
"You worked hard tonight. I’ll see you in the lobby at ten tomorrow."
The doors closed before he could finish telling her she’d worked hard too.
From twelve to sixteen—less than a minute—yet the silence squeezed the breath out of the air like something sucking it away.
"Sunday... looks like we won’t be spending it together. What do we do?"
Maybe it was an attempt to shift the mood. As we stepped out of the elevator, he slid an arm over my shoulder and raised a completely different topic. When he pulled my neck in and kissed my temple, I could feel the weight of his fatigue.
By the end of the party, he’d been invited to a Sunday lunch with several key figures, including Chloe Kent. It sounded like his conversation with Kent was moving in a positive direction. Because of that, we had to cancel our lunch plans.
Those weren’t the things I wanted to ask and hear from him right now, but it didn’t feel like the right timing.
"We can still spend the evening together...."
Mumbling that as I looped an awkward arm around his waist while he opened the room door with the keycard. Click. Pushing inward the right-hand leaf of the double doors designed to open wide, he gave a short smile, as if to say thank you for understanding.
In the small foyer where the path split toward his master bedroom, the living room, and my room, he didn’t let me go—he pulled me straight toward his bedroom by the hand.
"Um...."
When I hesitated and drew my arm back, he stopped and looked around.
"Should we... sleep separately tonight?"
"......."
"It’s pretty late... and tomorrow’s the official opening, so you’ll have to go out in the morning."
For a second his eyes looked like a phone screen scraped loud and long as it skidded across asphalt.
He let go of my hand and ran his fingertips meaninglessly along the edge of a console where a vase of flowers, a lamp, and a phone sat. As if he were checking whether the cleaning had been done properly.
"Are you really worried about me? Or was that a roundabout way to say you want to sleep apart?"
"......."
I knew even before he finished that he regretted saying it. He pressed his lips tight, blew a heavy breath through his nose, and scrubbed a hand over his face like he was smearing it out.
"Sorry. That was just a stupid fit of pique. I’m sorry.... It’s been... too much in one day, and I think I’m on edge. Let’s do what you said and sleep separately tonight."
Like my sister, he forced a smile. He thanked me for getting through what must have been a hard day. Sleep well. He gave me a careful goodnight kiss, but I couldn’t sleep well. He probably couldn’t either. If I’d known it would be like this, we should’ve just slept together, tracing bare skin and shared warmth to soothe the fatigue and anxiety. I tossed for a long time and regretted it.
■ ■ ■
When we’d checked ahead from Seoul, it said Chicago in September gets rain about once every four days. We hit rain on the morning of day two.
The low, dove-gray clouds and fog nested among Chicago’s grand buildings, each with its own character, made a scene that made you want to sling an umbrella over your shoulder and wander the streets all day—but it inevitably disrupted the event.
The photo wall set up at the gallery entrance became useless, and the schedule was changed to do a quick shoot during the artist Q&A in the back instead.
Herding a not-small number of people indoors turned the gallery in and out into a battlefield for a while.
Today, the official opening day of the exhibition, press from across Chicago, the operators of SNS and blogs that cover art, and ordinary visitors all jammed in, so not only the gallery interior but the surrounding area bustled.
I took a canned drink provided by the gallery and, swept along by the crowd, let myself be carried up to the second floor, where I found a relatively open spot by the railing not far from the stairs.
Shushu stood behind the desk set up in the center of the temporary exhibition hall, and I easily found him and my sister waiting a step behind, as if supporting Shushu. Shushu and my sister kept flickering in and out of view behind people, but even here, where the average height seemed a bit taller than in Seoul, his face rose at least a hand above the crowd.
Interest in the beautiful golden Omega photographer from an Asian city—who took photos both delicate and intense—was huge in Chicago too. Plenty of teens and twenty-somethings asked Shushu for selfies or signatures.
Since this was Shushu’s first solo show in the States, it felt only proper to come congratulate in person, so I arrived at opening time; but seeing Shushu sweating and wearing an awkward smile in the crush, it felt like the best help I could give was to be one less person he had to greet.
He’d left for the gallery about an hour before me and, half-teasing, said I’d see him with Shushu and, if jealousy sent me running into his arms and showering him with kisses, the gallery would turn to chaos—was I sure I’d be okay? But... as much as I’d thrown a fit about sending him to Shushu barely three weeks ago, now I felt nothing. I hadn’t been jealous then because I didn’t trust him, anyway....
I’d worried that parting like we did last night would leave things awkward, but when I saw him in the living room this morning, he seemed to have recovered his condition.
He’d even prepared flowers—strictly «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» speaking, a flower basket—saying that even if unofficial, today was the day my work was first shown to the world. It was lush and beautiful, so big it blocked your view if you lifted it in both arms. Gorgeous and indulgent enough to be called a little garden by itself.
Already nearly ready to go out when I came into the living room, he brought up last night and apologized again. And he said he’d booked a lovely place for dinner; we figured we could both be back at the hotel around five, so we set to meet in the room then.
"Baek Yuni has to come too, so it won’t be a romantic date."
Pretending to complain even though he’d never planned to leave my sister out, I kissed his cheek first. Of course, it turned into something deeper.
Thinking of that morning kiss we’d shared standing in the living room, wrapped in the scent of flowers, I paused—feeling as if my eyes had just met his in reality. Maybe I imagined it, but he scrunched his face playfully and made an expression like he was dying here. His gaze was definitely on me.
I chuckled and pointed down with my index finger to say I’d wait on the first floor; he nodded and flashed me an OK sign.
Even the stairs were crowded with incoming visitors. Still, the down line was better than the up. Amid the line going up, a group of what looked like teenagers chattered excitedly about Shushu’s looks.
Someone mentioned the tall man standing at Shushu’s side—the rare combination of black hair and eyes like blue diamonds. Someone else named a famous British Hollywood actor and said he looked like him. "What? Are you kidding? That guy is way better-looking!" The chic girl who’d compared his eyes to blue diamonds folded her arms and shot that down flat.
I understand the fuss. Today’s star is Shushu, but he is someone who, no matter what, can’t dissolve into the background to hide his presence. If you let yourself react to each bit of curiosity, favor, and excitement people show just looking at his face, your nerves wouldn’t hold.
By the time I finally made it down the stairs slowly, shepherded by gallery staff, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Inu hyung. I peeled out of the flow that headed mostly for the gallery exit and cut into the first-floor hall as I picked up.
"Hi, hyung."
[...Hm. What’s this? Did you always greet me this warmly?]
After a small pause, his voice carried a sincerity that made me laugh sheepishly. It was true—the sound of a friend from home felt more welcome than usual overseas.
[Calling to say congrats on the first exhibition. Are you busy?]
"No. I’m by myself right now."
[How does it feel, the first show opening?]
"I was upstairs and just came down to see it now. Maybe because I haven’t seen anything on the walls yet... it still doesn’t feel real."
[From how you’re talking, sounds like you haven’t gotten my flowers yet.]
"Sorry?"
[I asked the hotel to have them delivered before you went out. Guess the timing didn’t work.]
Hearing the effort in his voice as he tried to hide his disappointment made me feel sorry instead. I perched on a bench beside a big areca palm and thanked him for the thought. He laughed and said how could I be thankful for something I hadn’t even received yet.
[Yesterday was the VIP opening, right? Did any of your pieces sell?]
"Ah... no. The director said this time he’s just going to gauge the reaction...."
[So no sales?]
"Right. Not this time."
I toyed with the can while listening to him mutter to himself about whether there was any plan to sell later. A couple who looked in their early twenties walked past the bench into the inner gallery. The direction where my pieces were hanging. My heart jumped for no reason.
[How’s your body? Any trouble eating?]
"I’m much better. My appetite’s almost back, and maybe thanks to the supplements you recommended, I’m feeling okay."
[Hmm... sounds like he still hasn’t bragged.]
"Sorry?"
I could feel the corners of his mouth pull into a smile over the line.
[I was just being smug—about who did the checkup. Of course it worked.]
We ended the call with his mock-serious bit that Chicago didn’t really have any signature souvenirs, so cliché as it is, a Starbucks city tumbler makes a good travel gift.
I felt some of the tension ease. With him, I could relax—different from time with him where I still want to look good and can’t let go of awareness of eyes on me. The tension he gives me is a pleasant tightening, nothing like discomfort, but sometimes you still need a loose moment.
Feeling my expression lighten even to myself, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and rose from the bench.
