Things moved along quickly after Jaehee announced her marriage.
For the three months before the wedding, I got to witness how shitty it was for a man and a woman in Korean society to unite as one family, which made me cease resenting the fact that I couldn’t even dream of marriage. Not that I was confident it wasn’t jealousy.
Meanwhile, Jaehee had a whole lot of things she needed from me. Her promotion came with a murderous workload, and with her future husband being largely absent from the preparations, I was her standin groom. I accompanied her to the bridal shop, to the hanbok shop, to interior design firms, and so on, helping her pick things out. At first, I’d only look over her shoulder as she made the decisions, but soon I was the one touching all of the fabric samples and insisting she use the colors I liked. I didn’t mind it so much since it wasn’t so terrible, but I drew the line when she asked me to emcee the event. No matter how much I insisted I didn’t want to be involved in a straight wedding, she refused to back down.
—How could you not be a part of my wedding?
—How could I be a part of it? No. I refuse. I don’t even own a suit.
—I’ll buy you one. Armani.
—I’m an anti-marriage activist. One who’s beginning to turn militant, having seen what you’re going through.
—Cut the bullshit and just do it for me. You love attention!
That was a misunderstanding on her part—I was a very different man when I was drunk. But no matter how many times I declined, she kept insisting, and eventually I had to yield. Fine, I said, I’ll emcee the thing, but you have to come up with the script yourself. She agreed.
Not even a week had gone by when she came home one day with two boxes of Kyochon fried chicken. Obviously, she was feeling guilty about something. Jaehee offered up the chicken and mumbled:
—So apparently, it’s traditional for the groom’s best friend to emcee? Oppa has a friend who’s a television reporter, and he’s going to do it. I’m so sorry.
Had I asked her for the role in the first place? Not that I’d ever wanted to do such a thing like emcee a wedding, but the thought of not being able to do it because of some stupid tradition disgusted me. She must’ve had some words with the groom. Jaehee said there was an alternate spot for me in the wedding.
—The congratulatory song.
—Are you insane?
—Think of it as paying me back for using my story to debut as a writer.
—Then give me back the Chanel bag I got you.
—If you don’t do this for me, I’ll sue your publisher for defamation.
Public embarrassment seemed a better choice than a lawsuit, and with the successful negotiation of adding an Armani suit and shirt and a Gucci necktie to the bargain, I was all set to sing for her wedding.
The newlyweds were to live in an apartment in the Bangeui-dong neighborhood. Jaehee’s parents had apparently bought it years ago as an investment.
?
On our last day of living together, we bought ten of the largest-size boxes at the post office. We neatly packed them with Jaehee’s stuff, like her shift dresses and leather jacket. Jaehee said to me:
—Young-ah, do you think I’ll be able to keep myself from cheating on him?
—Well.
—I don’t really worry about oppa, but I worry about myself. That I might ruin a perfectly fine man.
—You know, Jaehee . . . I worry about that, too.
We laughed and finished packing up. There was less stuff than we expected, and we ended up using only five boxes. She told me she had already sent on her winter clothes and furniture to the apartment. There were five months left on the lease for our studio apartment, and Jaehee was letting me live out the rest of it alone. The jeonse deposit was a big chunk of money, but seeing as how she wasn’t in a rush to claim it, Jaehee’s family must’ve been well-off, perhaps even more so than her fiancé’s. I began to wonder if Jaehee really was the ordinary middle-class girl I had thought she was, someone just like everyone else. Maybe that’s why she could toss societal norms like used Kleenex . . .
After we were done, we spread out the bedding and lay down with facial masks on our faces, feeling like we were nineteen again. It was still surreal to me to think that the vagabond that Jaehee used to be was now all grown up and getting married.
—So do you think you can really take care of your in-laws and have babies and change their diapers and everything?
—I wrote up a whole contract with oppa. That we’re never going to have babies. As for the in-laws, well, I’m going to think of it as having two more birthdays to take care of. We’re going to keep on living like we’re dating.
—Then why not just keep on dating? Why get married?
—He suggested it, so I thought I might as well try it. And if it doesn’t work out, I can always leave.
—Yeah. If it gets to be too much, ditch him and come back here.
—Do you think I wouldn’t?
—You’ve come all this way because you know you wouldn’t.
That’s what I said, but there was no reply. Instead, a boisterous snoring. Jaehee’s careless catchphrase, “Or not,” was reverberating in my head; it used to drive me up the wall, but now it felt reassuring.
Jaehee was the one getting married, but I was the one who couldn’t fall asleep. And so, our last night together wore on.
5.
The emcee called my name, announcing me as the singer for the congratulatory song.
My whole university cohort turned their heads toward me. Some burst out in incredulous laughter. I got up from the immaculately set table and slowly moved toward the stage. My shoulders were stiff from nerves. Jaehee and her groom were smiling widely at me. Hundreds of wedding guests were staring. Intimidated by their glares, I gripped the microphone tight. The lyrics on the music stand in front of me were swimming before my eyes. Why did grabbing a microphone always have this effect on me? As a writer I had had to do some events speaking into a microphone, and I always ended up saying too much or suddenly bursting into tears at a random moment, startling the audience. My inner drama queen had surprised me on more than a few occasions.
I heard the intro. Melon Music had been offering the instrumental track for 1,000 won, which for some reason annoyed me so much that I purchased a different, 700-won version, but it sounded tinnier than a karaoke track. Tears threatened any moment—I concentrated all my power on my nose. Don’t do this. You’ve got to endure it. Press it down. I bit my trembling lower lip. At least three of the guests were men Jaehee had slept with, and there were even two in the audience who I’d slept with. (Putting an ironic spin on the “minority” in “sexual minorities.”) Jaehee and her groom, in their caked-on wedding makeup, gazed at me as they smiled their fake smiles.