I’m still trying not to melt into a puddle at the feel of his warm fingers laced through mine when we pass the security guard and ride the elevator down to the basement parking garage. He leads me to a car I’ve never seen, and I can’t help feeling like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality. I wait for him to say something, maybe whip out his guitar and sing a few bars. Anything. I just rushed all the way here from Ganghwa Island, and he’s not even going to kiss me?
He takes my bag and puts it in the trunk of the black sports car, and I sink into the leather passenger seat in a sort of daze. This is his car, I guess. I’m riding in Jason’s car.
He pulls out of the parking space and reaches for my hand. My breathing accelerates, and he shoots me a smile, like he can feel the way my heart can’t stop banging against the inside of my chest.
Maybe he turns on the radio. Maybe he talks to me. I don’t know. I just watch Seoul pass by us out the window, my chest constricting more with each passing minute. I’m crazy. Certifiable. I just threw away all my plans. For a boy. And a musician with a bazillion problems at that. I’m probably going to regret this later, but all I can think about is how much I want him.
I steal a glance at Jason, who drives with one hand, the other holding deftly on to mine. Like it belongs there. I’ve waited so long for it to belong.
Jason pulls into a tiny parking lot at the top of a hill just as the sun’s dipping below the horizon. He shifts into PARK and gets out. I hesitate, not sure if my legs are even capable of holding my weight at the moment.
Jason pokes his head back into the car. “Grace, are you coming?” Hesitancy lingers in his voice—the added push gets me out of my seat.
I peer up at a needlelike tower that stretches into the darkening sky, its lights brighter than any of the stars. I recognize it from the research I did before visiting Seoul in December. This is N Seoul Tower, a popular tourist spot.
“Come on. I want to show you something,” Jason says.
He presses his hand into the small of my back and pulls me along with him into a sky bucket like the ones at amusement parks. We’re the only ones inside, and he keeps smiling at me, then glancing out the window, more excited than a kid on his birthday.
We step out of the lift, climb up an endless number of stairs, and finally reach an observation area. Only a few other people mingle around the fences that overlook the city. Lamps illuminate giant treelike sculptures covered in ornaments. The warm wind whipping my hair into my face, I approach one of the sculptures, which looks like it’s decked out in trash.
But, when I get close, I realize they’re locks—locks of all shapes and sizes, with print scribbled in Sharpie or smeared with ink pen. They hang so close together, it looks like they’re all connected, one giant clump of locks.
Jason steps up beside me, his elbow brushing against mine and raising goose bumps down my arm. “They’re called the lover’s locks. You’re supposed to write your names on them, lock it to the railing or one of these, then throw the key off the edge.”
Biting his lip, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a plain silver lock with a three-number combination, the kind you would use on a suitcase. I swallow hard, my mind whirling.
“I couldn’t find one with a key,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “But I figured this would work.”
He slips out a Sharpie from the same pocket and writes some Korean symbols on the front of the lock’s shiny face. Then he spells out my name in English, each stroke of the marker making my heart race faster. He pushes back a couple locks until he finds a free space, then hooks ours onto the metal and clicks it shut, spinning the numbers so it’s secure.
I stare at our lock, which almost disappears among the myriad of others.
Jason clears his throat. “I just wanted to show you that I’m serious about this. About us.”
I catch his eye, and he peers down at me expectantly. But I can’t speak, my brain still unable to form coherent language. When did I become a mute?
His expression darkens, disappointment shrouding his face. He looks away. “I guess this was sort of dumb.”
I grab his hand, and hope alights in his eyes.
“It’s not dumb,” I murmur.
His lips curl into a soft smile, and the weight pressing down on my chest loosens a little, and my brain clears.
“I listened to what you said about the music thing, and you’re right,” he says. “I already talked to my manager and some of the record execs. They agreed to let me branch into rock music instead of pop. My album is going to be the music I like.” His smile widens. “We can work on more songs that I actually want to play.”
“You can work on the songs,” I correct.
He shakes his head. “I want you to help me. Grace, you’re a great composer, a great producer. The song I wrote for the drama is the best I’ve ever done, and it’s all because of you.”
“I can’t help you. You’re going to be here in Seoul, and I’m…” I throw my hands into the air. “Well, I don’t know where I’m going to be.”
“You can stay with me. Live with Sophie.” He steps closer. “Grace, you can’t go back to America.”
“Why? Because you need a collaborator for your songs?”
“No. Because—because I love you,” he blurts.
My face flames, but I hold on to control of my voice. “It sounds even better than I thought it would.”
His eyes soften. “So, does this mean you love me, too?”
Swallowing the sob that catches in my throat, I wrap my arms around his waist and nod my face against the soft fabric of his sweater. “I’ve basically been in love with you since that stupid music video shoot. But I guess I didn’t admit it to myself until later. I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say it to me, though.”
A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Well, I’m pretty sure my big gesture just blew your declaration out of the water. I mean, hello, I love you.”
I join in his laughter, but my chest still tightens. My voice falls to a whisper. “I’ve had a lot of people in my life who’ve lied to me, who’ve manipulated me. Who left me. Please don’t add your name to that list.”