But neither of us gets up. No one pays attention to us, just two people amidst the throngs of students chatting with their friends or biking down the sidewalks. I think Jason likes the anonymity—because once he’s back in Seoul, he’ll have none of that.
“When are you going to actually start writing music again?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I close my eyes and listen to him play the beginning of Cat Stevens’s “Peace Train.”
“Are you going to keep playing the same type of music?” I ask. “When you start whatever your next project will be?”
“You mean if—if I start a new project.”
I roll my eyes. “You’ll keep playing. It’s in your blood. You’ve just got to figure out how you want to do it.”
He hesitates, then says, “I’ve already talked to my agent.”
“Hah!” I cry. “I was right! I knew you couldn’t just quit.”
Jason chuckles, his fingers pausing over the strings. His smile fades. “I can’t go back to that same type of music.” His voice falls to a whisper. “I just got out of it with Eden’s breakup. I’m not letting myself get pulled back into it again. It’s soul-sucking. I like listening to pop music sometimes, but it’s not what I want to play.”
“So, do something different.”
He tosses his hands into the air. “Like what? We were already playing a type of music you don’t hear much in Korea in popular music. If I go any closer to rock, my label will drop me, because they don’t have those kinds of artists.”
Anxiety permeates his voice, and his expression clouds with uncertainty. He chews on his bottom lip.
“Have you ever thought about playing music in the States?”
He barks a brittle laugh. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t write songs in English.”
“It’s the same as writing in Korean.”
“No, it’s not.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “What’s so different about it?”
“I can’t, okay?” He huffs. “The words just don’t come. I don’t know.”
“Have you ever really tried, and I mean seriously?”
He scowls. “It won’t work.”
I lie back again, hands behind my head. “Try.”
He sighs, then strums a chord. “I’m so happy.” Another chord. “Can’t you see?” Same chord again. “I love you totally, with er … broccoli.”
We catch each other’s eye and both burst out laughing at the same time.
“Okay, maybe you really shouldn’t sing in English,” I say through giggles. “Then try to change the music industry in Korea. Be a trendsetter.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “And how do you propose I do that?”
“Why not introduce them all to music you already love? Who are your favorite musicians?”
He takes a moment to think. “San Ul Lim. Jang Kina and the Faces. The Beatles. Bob Dylan. Eric Clapton. The Doors.”
“Then give South Korea the Doors.”
He shoots me a skeptical look. “The Doors?”
“Sure! Jim Morrison translates into any culture.”
He returns to his guitar, plucking out what sounds suspiciously like the Doors’ “Crawling King Snake.” Listening to him reminds me of sitting with Nathan, who refused to go anywhere without his guitar when we were growing up. He liked to play the old country and Southern rock we heard Dad listening to—Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, the Allman Brothers. It’s nice to be surrounded by music again.
“I don’t know how you could go from writing songs to just not,” I say. “I would do anything to have that sort of creativity.”
“Have you ever tried?” He throws my words back at me.
I laugh. “Unfortunately, yes. And I was terrible at it.”
“But you’re really good at helping with the songs, adding things, knowing how to edit. I think you have your dad’s gift. I’ve never met anyone with so little training who could do what you do with music. You should be a producer.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, now that’s just ridiculous.”
“Why? You’re obviously good at it. You just need some training. What are you planning on doing after graduation, anyway?”
I toss my hands into the air and let them fall back down. “No idea. Probably end up living off my trust fund for a while until I figure out what to do next. I could get an apartment in L.A., maybe. I like it there.”
“Well, I think you should go to music college,” he says innocently. “Just a thought.”
I shoot him a pointed look. “If you introduce South Korea’s pop music scene to the Doors, I will try to become a producer.”
He laughs. “Agreed.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon outside, but as the sun starts to dip below the horizon, we head back to our rooms. I can’t shake the memories of him in Seoul, how he basically ignored me, then said he liked me. And that Jason doesn’t match this Jason, the one walking beside me so close our hands almost brush. The Jason who tells me his secrets and jokes about Jim Morrison. I like this Jason. But which is the real one?
“What are your graduation plans?” Jason asks, cutting through my thoughts.
I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk, and Jason grabs my wrist to steady me. My pulse spikes, the memory of the email I received this morning flashing through my brain: Pick up your graduation tickets at the front office … Parents are cordially invited to Parents’ Day, the Thursday before graduation day.
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, staring at the pavement. “I’m not sure.”
“Is your family coming to visit?”
It’s impossible to miss the curiosity in his voice. Sophie’s asked me a few things about my family, but when I shut down the conversation, she knew enough not to bring up the subject again. And Jason doesn’t pry, waits instead for me to talk if I want to. But I’m sure the twins—and Yoon Jae—have wondered about the mysterious Wilde family.
“I don’t know if my dad will have to work or not,” I hedge.
“Of course.” He pauses, then adds in a soft voice, “My dad won’t be there, either.”