I pick at the lint on his comforter. “She asked about graduation. You know, since that’s coming up.”
“Right.” He pauses in the middle of his song. “Are your parents coming for the ceremony?”
I shrug, suddenly desperate to change the topic. I reach for the first question that comes to mind, which, unfortunately, happens to be, “So, are you ever going to tell me what inspired your epic downward spiral?”
I cringe at my lack both of transition skills and sensitivity. Though I do sort of want to know.
I expect him to make a snide comeback, but he says, “I don’t know. I guess … it felt like everybody was against me, when I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You ruined Tae Hwa’s and Yoon Jae’s careers. I’m pretty sure that counts as wrong.”
“But it wasn’t just me. Yeah, I officially put an end to the band, but Yoon Jae suggested it first.”
Okay, news flash. I guess the rumors about Yoon Jae hoping to go solo were true.
“Besides,” he continues, “I’m pretty sure my career’s ruined, too.”
Jason plays a tune I recognize.
“Hey, that’s ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’” I cry.
“I thought you’d like to reconnect with your roots.”
“I’m from Tennessee, not Alabama, you idiot.” I slap his shoulder, and he flinches away with a laugh.
“Play something else,” I order. “Play something new.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you trying to force my creativity?”
“Yes. Go.”
He breathes out a dramatic sigh, takes a moment to think, then begins picking a few lazy chords. A few moments later, he sings a languid melody in soft tones. His voice wraps around me better than any hug and brings a smile I can’t shake.
“Do I get a translation?” I ask, still caught up in the notes and how the foreign words spill from his lips.
He stops singing but repeats the song on the guitar. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s about you.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I gape at him, but all he does is smile down at the instrument in his hands, watching his fingers move across the strings. He’s singing a song about me.
Me.
Grace Wilde.
I’ve become a muse. Like Pattie Boyd, who inspired Eric Clapton’s “Layla” and “Wonderful Tonight.”
Though I’m sure my song isn’t as cool as those. It’s probably about how my feet smell or how I don’t always chew with my mouth closed. But still. I have a song.
He picks the lyrics back up again, and I try to memorize the sounds of the words so I can repeat them to Sophie so we can figure out what they mean. But then I realize she probably wouldn’t translate them for me anyway—another week has passed and she’s still angry with Jason.
I pull out my phone and type out phonetically what I hear him sing. He pauses to look over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Trying to write down the words so I can translate them later.”
He spits out a laugh, pointing to the phrase I just typed. “That’s not even close to the right word. How did you ever pass your Korean midterm?”
“Then tell me what the right word is.”
“Not a chance.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon joking about his music and singing Backstreet Boys and Girls’ Generation—the KPOP band I haven’t been able to stop listening to since Sophie suggested them—at the top of our lungs until someone in the room next door bangs on the wall and yells for us to stop. And I wish we could share moments like this outside his room, outside school, and outside Ganghwa Island. I want them where everyone can see us so I can know that Jason doesn’t want to hide me, that he’s proud to have me beside him. Because I’m worth something.
My throat tightens, and my eyes sting with unshed tears. Annoyance flares at the knot of emotions growing inside my stomach, and I clear my throat, glancing down at my watch.
“It’s already six o’clock,” I say, forcing the dark feelings to the back of my brain. “Do you want to go grab dinner?”
Jason reaches around me to set the guitar in its stand, and his hair dusts against my face. I suck in a sharp breath but mask it with a cough, trying to hide my flaming cheeks from his view by pretending to be absorbed in my phone.
“I’m not really that hungry,” he says.
“But it’s Friday night. We should go do something fun.”
“You said I’m not allowed to do anything fun anymore.”
“When did I say that?”
“You said no more bar hopping.”
I roll my eyes. “Just because you can’t drink yourself into a stupor doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m plenty fun.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, I guess you are.”
“I’m not a distraction anymore?” My breath stills as I wait for an answer that shouldn’t mean as much as it does.
He cuts his eyes to me, a sly smile curling his lips. “Oh no, you’re definitely still a distraction.” When I frown, he adds, “But the best possible kind.”
My palms moisten, and a tingly sensation stretches up from the pit of my stomach to the tips of my fingers. I try to look at his eyes and not let my gaze slip lower, but it does anyway. I glance at his mouth, visually tracing the lines, drawing them inside my head.
He must catch me staring, because his smile fades into a smirk. If heat wasn’t licking up my neck, I would smack him.
“What if we go pick up something to eat and come back to watch a movie?” he asks.
But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He hops down from the bed and grabs my wrist, pulling me with him. I groan, hanging back just to annoy him. He practically shoves me into my shoes and out the door, but I’m laughing the entire way.