I don’t know who moves first or why we both jump to the same conclusion, but we make a run for it.
Neither of us looks back as we sprint back the way we came, past the food carts, making a sharp right into an office building and down a flight of stairs.
Here we stop to catch our breaths. The basement level appears to be a shopping center. Most of the businesses are closed—a nail salon, several retail stores, and a lunch box shop—but a few are still open, including a twenty-four-hour spa and an arcade.
“There!” I point to a freestanding photo booth, one of those sticker booths where for a couple dollars you can take photos with cute backgrounds that are then printed on the spot.
Jaewoo pulls me inside and I close the curtain behind us. In the darkness, our faces illuminated by the neon fluorescent light given off by the touch screen, we stare at each other.
“Why did we run?” he asks.
“I—I don’t know.”
He blinks. I blink. Then we both start to laugh. Why did we run? There really was no reason to. It’s not as if those college kids would have actually beaten us up—we were in a public space, with adults. Still, it was exciting. My heart is still racing from the adrenaline. Or maybe because, shoved into this small space, I’m practically in his lap.
Were photo booths always this tiny? He’s pressed all the way up against the far wall, on the bench with his long legs diagonal across the entirety of the booth. One of my legs is propped beneath me, the other draped over his. I have one hand gripping the edge of the seat and the other pressed flat against the back wall.
“How tall are you?” I blurt out.
“One hundred eighty-two centimeters.”
Right. I forgot nearly all other countries besides the US use the metric system.
His brow furrows. “I think that’s five foot eleven?”
“You just calculated that in your head?”
He shrugs. “How tall are you?”
“Five six. I don’t know what that is in centimeters.”
He nods slightly. On the touchscreen, the ad for the photo booth plays on repeat, showing smiling faces of groups of people in twos and threes, and a few alone.
He adjusts the sling of his cast, tightening the strap.
“How did you break your arm?” I ask.
“An accident.”
“Had you ever broken a bone before?”
“Once, when I was a kid.” He stops fiddling with his sling and looks up. “Have you?”
“No.” It doesn’t escape me that, as a cellist, a broken arm would have felt like the end of the world. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as the first time.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from asking more questions. He hasn’t been exactly forthcoming about the details of his life. Still, I want to know—why? Why does it hurt less this time than the time before? Because it’s a different bone? Because he knew what to expect as he’d been hurt before?
I want to know more. What kind of accident was he in? Is that the reason he was running away?
Unlike in the karaoke room and at the festival, we’re close enough that I can see the details of his face. His skin that’s almost too flawless—is he wearing makeup?—his beautifully shaped eyes accentuated by dark shadow, his red, red lips.
Either that’s lip tint or he kissed someone who was wearing it, and I don’t know which I’d prefer.
That’s a lie, I don’t want him to have kissed anyone else.
I move closer, my fingers gripping his shoulder. He shifts to accommodate me, his good hand sliding against my back. His face is so close to mine, his breath on my lips.
There’s a loud bang as someone knocks on the outside of the photo booth.
“Hello-o! Are you done in there? We want to take a photo.”
I practically leap across the booth, which isn’t that impressive of a feat, considering it’s so tiny.
“Middle schoolers,” I say, breathless. Their voices are too high to belong to the college students. I reach for the curtain.
“Wait . . .”
I turn back.
Jaewoo’s looking at the touchscreen. “Should we take a photo?”
I slowly sit back down. “Sure.” I can’t really think clearly so I click on a few buttons and soon four snapshots go off in quick succession. For the first two I must look like a deer in the headlights, but I manage a smile for the last two. Afterward, there are options to add borders and designs to the photos, but I just click print.
Outside the booth, we’re met with the judgmental stares of a posse of sixth graders.
“You broke the machine,” one informs me, and when I check the printer, I see that she’s not wrong. Printing Error appears on the little readout display. It did print at least one of the two copies though.
The middle schoolers head toward the arcade and I bring my prize over to Jaewoo. “It only printed one.”
“I’ll take a photo of it,” he says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a phone.
As it turns on it immediately starts to ping and vibrate with messages.
He looks troubled, his lips thinning slightly. Then he flips his phone over and the front-facing camera is smashed. “I forgot about this. It must have happened earlier, when I broke my arm.”
“Why don’t I take a photo of it and send it to you?” I offer.
“Yeah, maybe that’s better.” He pockets his phone and accepts mine from my hand, plugging in his number.
When I take it back, I see that he’s added +82 for the country calling code to South Korea.
We head up the escalator and out onto the main street.
He pats the pocket of his jacket where his phone is still vibrating. “They’ll be here soon, now that they can track my phone. They’re probably circling the area, waiting for me.”
That sounds . . . ominous. “Can’t you turn your phone off again?”
“I think it’s time I go back.”
“Are you really okay?” I ask.
He smiles, a sweet smile. “I am now.”
My heart stutters.
“What about you?” He peers down the street. It’s mostly deserted, the festival having ended. “It’s past midnight.”
“My uncle just texted,” I lie. “He’s coming to pick me up.” I can walk the few blocks back to the karaoke bar, which doesn’t close until three, or I can call a rideshare.
Down the street, a van with blackout windows approaches. Gripping my wrist gently, Jaewoo leads me to a shadowed area beneath the awning of a building. “Wait here. I don’t want them to see you.”
“Jaewoo, I’m worried.”
My voice catches and he looks at me. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’ll text you as soon as I can.” Then he adds, with a smile I don’t think I’ll ever forget, “Thanks, Jenny. I had a great time with you tonight.”
Pivoting, he walks from beneath the shadows. The van, which had been slowly driving down the street speeds up, stopping right by the curb. The back door slides open, and I get a glimpse of another boy inside before it slams shut behind Jaewoo.
As the van pulls away from the curb, I step from the shadows. I watch until I can no longer make out the shape of it on the road, swallowed up by the lights of the city.
