Bias Wrecked

THREE

THREE

I’m disappointed, sure, but I shouldn’t have expected anything more, really.

Like, yes, I reunited with Min Jaeyong after all these years, saw him as the man he’s supposed to be, and not the boy he was, superimposing the two so that they’re one person now and forever.

That’s all I was expecting when I went to the fansign, that’s it, honest.

It’s my own problem if I expected anything more, ran a whole bunch of scenarios in which I could get my old friend back, make my first friend in Seoul, too, in one fell swoop.

God, it feels like it’s impossible to make friends as an adult, Jesus.

The elementary school I teach at has a bunch of adorable little kids, a lot of them sharing the same last name (the three most common surnames in Korea are Lee, Kim and Park), dressed in casual clothes (even though middle and high school students are supposed to wear uniforms) and a sassy attitude that has me snickering more than anything else.

It’s the common classroom warfare—who stole whose pencil, desks and chairs constantly scraping along the floor because some kids are more energetic than others. There’s murmuring and excited gasps when snacks are brought out to be admired collectively by the group, and of course, the murmurings are centered around me, the newcomer, whispering under their breaths about the clothing I’m wearing, my hair colour, my glasses—whatever.

Common kid stuff thinking they’re safe behind a language barrier.

“Teacher!” Park Sehee says in English, shooting her hand in the air, waving it around and demanding my attention. Her little hand waves from side to side, her entire body stretching up and out of the seat like she’s reaching for the ceiling, straining to touch it while she’s as close to the ground as can be instead of actually sitting down.

“Yes?”

Park Sehee grins at me, one of her front teeth half-grown in, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

“Do you like youcha?”

I don’t know how long I can keep up this façade, keeping it from the kids about how much I know of Korean. “You asked that correctly, Sehee, good job! No, I don’t know what youcha is. Please tell me more about it.”

Her face falls, mouth twisting up in a little kid sneer, dropping her hand so it thwacks against the desk. “You don’t know youcha?”

I clap my hands, trying to wrangle their attention back on me and the lesson plan, trying to get them to focus when it’s the last class of the day, and they’re in that excited lull where it’s literally twenty minutes from school ending and going back home.

I mean, I’m looking forward to it, too, after my meeting with the rest of the staff, on the goals we need to accomplish for the term now that the first week of school is officially over and we can get our bearings on how we think it’s going to go.

The day passes without incident and after my first real week of work is officially done and over with, I indulge myself in a post-work workout at a gym I recently joined close to my apartment..

I pass by the closest convenience store after I’m done, marvelling all over again at the cheaper prices of what comes out to better-than dépanneur eats, the kind of eats that would be way more expensive back home. A bottle of water isn’t going to cost you three dollars over here, that’s for sure.

I head back to my apartment, still in my gym clothes, hauling my gym bag, adjusting the shoulder strap of my bag cutting across my body with all the s**t I’m carrying. I’ve got my convenience store eats, my special training shoes, hip circle, work clothes stuffed in there, sweaty towel, a giant bottle of water, and my wallet that I have yet to completely empty of Canadian cash and change, after doing the dumb thing and buying a s**t ton of maple syrup at the duty-free before getting to Seoul.

I had to. Nothing else compares.

I punch in my pass code on my apartment door, loving the idea of never having to fish for house keys again in whatever bag or purse I’m carrying. I wipe down the surface of the touchpad after my door unlocks, ad step inside.

I toe off my sneakers, pulling the door closed behind me, adding the security chain, looking at my empty apartment, the way it moves and breathes on its own, even while I’m not there, wondering if my grand adventure is going to get more interesting anytime soon.

Not that I expected Seoul to change me per se, but I just expected more of myself here—like I was finally going to stop being an incredible introvert and go on solo travel adventures since everything is so close here—a three-hour train ride on the KTX will get me across the entire country, to the port city of Busan.

But I’m still doing the same routine I did back home, in Montreal.

I walk into my apartment and put my snacks on the kitchen counter, then go to my bedroom, chucking off my dirty clothes and get into the shower. I’m still lamenting over the fact that my apartment doesn’t have a bathtub, just like it doesn’t have a dishwasher (unless I wanted to spend more money for that), which has given me more nightmares than I can count as of late.

Doing your own dishes is the definition of hell for me. I’d honestly volunteer to go to the dentist for other people if it meant I didn’t have to wash dishes all the damn time.

And this is what my life is now, bitching about washing the dishes I left in the sink this morning, getting pissed off at Past Raleigh, who’s an asshole for leaving those there after I had breakfast, booking it to the bus stop and making it to school on time.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve been fully moved in, and twelve days since I gave Jaeyong my phone number.

A lot of things could have happened in that time, a lot of things.

Jaeyong could have been kidn*pped by aliens, but I’m pretty sure there would have been some sort of news report to that effect—there would be a police inquiry and all that, I’m sure of it. The fandom would riot or have a meltdown.

Jaeyong could have lost the manga I gave back to him, or one of the staff members could have misplaced it, or God, thrown it out. Honestly with the amount of presents the guys received at that fansign, I can’t imagine where the staff puts all those gifts, if they even are able to keep all of them, every single time.

One of the group members could have stolen the manga before Jaeyong was able to put my number in his phone, and they are currently negotiating terms, or moving forward with blackmail strategies before giving up the good stuff. I haven’t received any weird texts or phone calls since I gave Jaeyong my phone number, so obviously, that’s probably not the case.

And lastly, which of course is the most likely scenario, is that Jaeyong was playing me for a fool at the fansign, lying straight to my damn face, pretending like he was happy to see me.

As the days have passed, have kept passing me by, it’s looking like he’s that kind of person, and I wonder what the hell happened to him in the years we were apart for him to change that much.

Maybe I was too presumptuous, thinking that he would want to reconnect with me, too. And Jesus, why the hell would he want to do that?

Why would he do that when he has everything he ever wants right now, taking time out of his precious schedule to meet with me?

I put on a fresh pair of jeans after I shower off all the sweat, wrapping my wet hair on top of my head into a messy, wet bun, putting on some different jewelry for the piercings in my ears, big hoops on the first piercing of my lobe, and going smaller and smaller until I hit the ones in my helix. I make a mental note to find a piercing shop to change out some of my jewelry. Maybe I’ll end up changing the rest of my piercings out, too—who knows? Not me.

I wear a t-shirt that says I Survived Infinity War, tucking the loose fabric around my waist into the jeans, putting on a fresh pair of socks, tidying up my room as much as I can.

I run some bronzer into the crease of my eyelid as eyeshadow, then dust some over my cheeks, add two coats of mascara to make my eyes stand out more, and put gloss onto my lips, ready to go on my kind of solo adventure to explore my neighbourhood.

I grab one of my smaller cross-body bags, adding my phone and wallet to it, and some lip balm (because who am I if I don’t have lip balm in close proximity?), and head out the door.

I head down the street, just aimlessly walking around, becoming one with the crowd of people, some of them coming off work or school, heading out to drink and eat before hitting the clubs or whatever it is that the younger kids do.

Even in this crowd, I feel like I’m walking alone, waiting for the streetlight to turn so that we can all start walking across, my legs pumping just in case I’m greeted with an overzealous driver that wouldn’t mind nicking my legs ’cause I was taking too long to cross.

I head towards the Han River, wishing I brought a blanket with me, wishing I bought a coffee to sip as I walk along the path that follows the river, watching some of the bridges start to light up for the evening, the sun starting to set.

It’s quiet in the way trickling water always is, but it just serves to highlight how alone I am—people in couples or groups dotting the grassy portions near the river, sitting on picnic blankets, sharing meals or alcohol, laughing to each other, at each other.

It looks nice.

I’m so caught up in looking around, trying to find another lone person—reading a book, listening to music, someone—when my phone starts ringing, the low hum of it startling me out of my hawk-like perusal of all the people around me. I hastily pull my phone up to my ear, not checking the number.

“Yeoboseyo?” I start with Korean, since this is now my Korean phone number and only the people who are in Seoul know it: my boss and the rest of the school staff in case of emergencies, Jaeyong (if that ever happens), and my mom, back in Montreal. Except there’s a thirteen-hour time difference between Montreal and Seoul so it’s too early for her to be up yet and calling me, not that I’m really expecting a phone call from her.

It could be a proof of life kinda call, but Mom never really cared too much about me when I was in Montreal so why would that change when I move half a planet away?

“Raleigh? Is that you?” Jaeyong asks in Korean, and it feels like I’ve gotten a sledgehammer to the temple, hearing him speak it for the first time in years, understanding it, too. It makes me feel oddly closer to him somehow, as if I’ve scaled a wall and now we’re both able to stand on the same side of it, only a few feet apart.

I swallow hard, glancing around me as if I’m being watched. “Uh, yeah. Hi. Yup. It’s me. How are you?”

“It’s Jaeyong.”

I snort, trying to disguise it as a cough behind a hand. “Of course, I know it’s you. You’re like the only person my age here who has my Korean phone number.” Oh, look at me being super honest right off the bat. Yikes. I shut up, not knowing how to proceed now that we’re talking on the phone with each other.

Maybe that quick little reunion was all we had in us, all the conversation we were ever going to have, making false promises and fake plans to see each other one day in the future that would never come to fruition.

Then why is he calling you, ya big dork?

“The only person? I doubt that. I still can’t believe you’re in Seoul.”

You and me both, buddy. “Me too.”

“And that you showed up at my fansign. Not in a million years would I expect Raleigh Montgomery to show up. And Hoseung-hyung told me you were speaking Korean? And now you’re speaking Korean to me, this is wild, totally wild. I feel like I’m hallucinating.”

Well, at least he talks the same way he used to, flitting from subject to subject, circling around and coming right back around again. Maybe he didn’t change all that much?

Oh, Jesus, who am I kidding?

My heart gives a kick at the memory of us being in eighth grade math class, doing algebra or something, I don’t know, it’s all a blur, and Lucas (then) trying to listen to me explain how to find X, but having none of it. He went off on a Dragon Ball tangent about Goku not needing to find X until the teacher had to separate us while everyone else was trying to finish the worksheet.

It was mortifying at the time, me the goody-two-shoes, and Lucas being loud, not in an obnoxious way, but in a this is unfair kinda way. We had shot glances at each other, three rows of seats apart, Lucas making it feel like we were separated by a whole land mass instead of in the same classroom.

He always made me feel like I could count on him, from projects to assignments, to weekend hang outs when our parents would let us, to going to our local bookstore and coveting the manga that we couldn’t afford yet—he always made me believe I was important.

And now he’s important to the whole fandom, too, and everyone gets to see how wonderful of a person he was—is. I’m not sure how I feel about that, having to share a friend with the rest of the world.

“So, funny story…”

It’s never a funny story.

“My parents have been up to visit me from back home, where my mom’s from, and I told them that you’re here. Well, not right here here, but in Seoul, and they lost their s**t. So you’re invited to dinner at my place, but only if you have no other plans ’cause I know this is last-minute—”

“Will there be your dad’s japchae?”

“I knew it. You’re in it for the food. My poor parents.”

I snort again, making a horrible honking sound that somehow sets him off on his own peals of laughter, and it’s good to hear his voice again, to hear that laugh, the deepness of his voice that I never got to experience before puberty hit him hard. “Sure. You sure it’s okay?”

“My mom’s calling it fate, destiny. So yeah. Please come and have dinner. It’d be nice to catch up like we said we would.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Of course. I’m just by the river now,” I say, not that it is any indication since the Han River splits Seoul in two and goes on for kilometers and kilometers. “So I’ll need some time to figure out a bus.” I’m already getting up and moving, trying to spot a place, a bakery, something, where I can go in and buy something delicious to bring over.

“Just text me your location and I’ll send a car for you. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” I ask. “Will it be safe?” I whisper, not allowing myself to really think about who he is, what he is.

Jaeyong’s quiet for a second, enough to make me look down at my phone and see if we got disconnected somehow, but nope. “Don’t worry about it. Send me your location, and I’ll get a car to you.”

“I can take a taxi.”

Jaeyong sighs, grunts an affirmative sound. “Whatever makes you feel more comfortable. The food’s gonna be ready in an hour.”

Maybe he doesn’t want me to have his address. Wait, what?

“An hour? You give me an hour to work with? It’s always last-minute with you,” I groan, moving at a bit of a jog now to get to the street, dodging tourists and people who live here alike.

“’Kay, I’m going now. I’ll send you my location and that way I won’t have your address, just the driver. Bye!” I hang up, waiting for the light to tell me that yes, I can walk across the street now, and cross, opening up my Maps app to find a nearby bakery. When I get to the nearest one, I frown when there’s a line in front of the cashier, trying to peer around people to see what’s available.

Fuck it, I’m gonna wing it on the fly, trying to run through the memory data banks in my brain to recall if either Mr. or Mrs. Min have allergies, but coming up blank.

I send Jaeyong my location, along with the pertinent question in a text, then watch as an immediate text bubble appears, a little pissed off emoji in its place.

MJY: Don’t bring anything. Please. For once in your life.

Me: I have to. Deal with it. But also let me know.

MJY: No, no allergies. Bring me some chapssaltteok then. Please?

ME: You got it. See you.

The line goes quicker than expected, and I place my order after confirming it on the board over the cash register, ordering enough for four people, and then doubling it, worried about Korean portion sizes.

I take the bag, thanking the kid behind the register, and hustle outside, finding a car double-parked in front of the bakery, calling out to the driver through the turned down windows, smoke escaping his lips.

After we both confirm that the car is for me, the drive to Jaeyong’s place takes another twenty-five minutes with Seoul traffic, traffic I haven’t completely figured out yet, rush hour feeling like rush hours instead.

Hell, it feels just like home.