XOXO (An XOXO Novel)

In the foyer, I find Bomi pulling a UCLA sweatshirt over her head. “Hey, Jenny,” she says, catching sight of me. “Are you going home?” She stuffs her sweatshirt and the rest of her belongings behind the bar. “Avoid Olympic and Normandie on your way out. There’s some sort of Korean festival going on and the streets are blocked.”

Uncle Jay sweeps back the curtain to the kitchens, holding a tray with a plate of kimchi fried rice topped with an egg.

Bomi doesn’t look up from where she’s exchanging her bag for mine. “Boss . . .” she begins, handing me mine across the counter, “can I get off early on Sunday? I have to study for an Econ final.”

“Sure, sure. I am nothing if not accommodating.” He glances at me. “Don’t forget to take your leftovers from the fridge.”

“It’s banchan, not leftovers,” I correct.

“Man,” Bomi laments, “I wish someone would give me side dishes. Instead I’m stuck with making ramen out of a rice cooker.”

Uncle Jay and I both stare at her. “Why don’t you use a stove?” I ask.

Bomi shrugs. “I’d rather not leave my room if I can help it.”

Uncle Jay hands her the tray. “So glad you could honor us with coming to work.”

I shake my head with a smile and lean down to retrieve Mrs. Kim’s banchan from the fridge. Standing, I hold the plastic bag of Tupperware to my chest. This is probably the best time to make my exit, but I linger behind the bar. Bomi switches the monitor to an indie rock playlist—her favorite genre of K-pop—before heading off down the hall to deliver the kimchi fried rice. At one of the tables in the foyer, four college-aged students hit their shot glasses together, celebrating the weekend.

I feel a tightness in my chest. Maybe Uncle Jay and Bomi need some help. I don’t have to leave. I need to wake up early for my cello lesson tomorrow, but maybe I could stay.

“Jenny, you’re still here?” Uncle Jay appears beside me, this time carrying a watermelon on a tray, halved and hollowed and filled with a mixture of watermelon, soju, and lime-soda. “You’ll miss the bus if you don’t head out soon.” He walks from behind the counter, calling over his shoulder. “Text me when you get home!”

I’ve been dismissed. Sighing, I adjust the strap of my tote higher on my shoulder and head toward the front door, pushing it open. Cool air washes over my face.

It’s almost ten o’clock and yet it’s as bright as day with all the neon lights issuing from the signboards of most businesses on the block. Sookie’s Hair Emporium is closed, but in the Boba Land 2, a pigtailed shopgirl chews bubblegum as she scrolls through the messages on her phone. On the corner, the Korean BBQ restaurant is hopping, groups of college students and business types chatting while they cook meat over charcoal grills.

I notice the bus parked at the curb, letting on passengers, and I hurry to the end of the line. After paying, I shuffle down the aisle, adjusting Mrs. Kim’s banchan as I reach up to take the handrail. I brace myself as the bus jerks forward and my bag hits the person sitting in one of the single passenger seats.

“Sorry!” I wince. The guy looks up.

It’s him. The boy from the karaoke bar.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. Though the answer is pretty obvious; he’s riding a bus. “I mean, I thought you said you didn’t have any money.”

He holds up a single-ride bus ticket. “What about you? Did you get off work?” He pauses, and then a small smirk forms on his perfect lips. “Or did you follow me here?”

I sputter. “I didn’t—”

“Are you going to take that seat?” A woman taps my shoulder, pointing to the seat behind him.

“Oh, no.” I move back so she can sit down, and now I’m just hovering here awkwardly over both of them. Turning around, I move to the other side of the bus, cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

The bus slows as it nears West 8th Street, letting on a bunch of college students and an elderly Korean grandmother, easily identifiable with her short gray hair in a perm. The students must have just come from a bar because their voices are loud and they smell like chicken and beer. Without a place to sit, they block up most of the aisle, chatting in groups as they hang onto the railings. They’re so preoccupied with one another, they don’t notice the grandmother trying to squeeze past them.

The bus pulls away from the curb. A look of fear flits across the grandmother’s face as she tries once more to get past the students. She looks up, but the handrail is too high for her to reach. The wheels hit a pothole and she stumbles.

“Watch out—” I lurch forward.

The boy from the karaoke bar catches her by the arm. “Halmeoni,” he addresses her in Korean. Her lips tremble at the sight of him. “Are you all right?” She nods that she’s okay. He leads her to the seat by the window, the one he’d previously occupied. “Please sit,” he says, indicating for her to take it. As she settles, she pats his arm, praising him in Korean.

I tear my gaze away. My heart is racing. She could have fallen. If he hadn’t noticed her and already made the choice to give her his seat, if he hadn’t had the quick reflexes to catch her, she would have.

The handrail to my right creaks as someone grabs hold of it.

I stare forward out the window as the bus takes a detour around a coned-off street lined with market stalls.

Beside me, the boy from the karaoke room leans forward, peering out the window. “What’s going on?”

I’m feeling generous toward him after that whole saving the halmeoni thing. “LA’s annual Korean festival. Apparently they blocked off some of the roads.” A crease forms between his brows and I realize that if he’s not from around here, he might not know the streets. “Where are you trying to go?”

“I’m not sure.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I’m in the middle of running away.”

I wait for him to crack a smile, but his face is serious and a little sad.

“From gangsters?” I deadpan.

I feel a sense of satisfaction when he smiles.

“From . . .” His smile fades marginally. “Chaegim-kam. What’s the word in English?”

“Responsibility.” A word that could mean so many things, at least in the Korean community, from taking out the trash to behaving in a way that won’t bring shame to your family. Studying his reflection in the window, I wonder what responsibility he’s referring to.

I think back to earlier tonight, when I first entered the room in the karaoke bar. At that point, he’d been alone in there for an hour, maybe two. And now he’s on a bus without a destination in mind. A part of me—a large part—is curious about what he’s running away from, about why he felt like had to. But the other part remembers what it’s like, when the only way to escape the enormous feelings inside you is . . . to run.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think it’s important to take time for yourself, even with responsibilities. You can’t be there for other people if you’re not first there for yourself.”

It feels weird giving advice to someone my age, but these are words I need to hear too. Luckily he doesn’t seem put off, mulling them over; his mouth has a contemplative edge to it. His eyes search mine and there’s an intensity to his gaze that does strange things to my heart.

“It’s not easy for me to believe something like that,” he says. Standing this close to each other I can see the color of his eyes, a rich, warm brown. “But I want to.”

Someone bumps into him from behind and he winces, letting out a soft curse. Moving slightly closer to me, he adjusts his cast. The guy who bumped into him—one of the university students—is joking around with his friends.

“Hey,” I say, annoyed at both this incident and earlier with the grandmother, “Can’t you see his arm is broken? Give him more space.”

Outside, the bus approaches the Olympic stop. The doors open behind us and a few passengers exit. The university student, clearly inebriated, looks confused why I’ve spoken to him. Then he sneers. “It’s a free country.”

“That’s right,” I shoot back. “You’re free to be a considerate human being or you’re free to be an asshole.”

Shocked silence follows this statement. The university student’s face starts to turn a peculiar shade of red. Oh, shit.

The boy and I make eye contact. He reaches for my hand. I don’t have to think twice. I grab it, and together we jump through the closing doors.