Lifetime

Boundaries

We ordered burgers and fries, Namjoon clearing his throat in an anxious anticipation once we were alone again. "Why do you seem nervous? You're the one who brought it up from the beginning." I asked, noticing the slight bob in his throat and the way he busied himself, spreading his utensils out rather than looking at me.

"I've known I would marry Dallia for most of my life." He shrugged. "Our parents are good friends. We started to date in high school but I left for the US, to study after I graduated early. She came overseas with me as soon as she finished school."

His explanation wasn't providing much clarity and when our food came he paused, taking a minute to shove a pinch of fries into his mouth.

"So it's what, like an arranged marriage?" I pondered. It felt like there was something he was holding back still.

He looked up from his burger, wiping away the sauce at the corner of his mouth before answering. "I wouldn't call it that. No one's ever forced us to be together, but it always felt like another part of my life that was already figured out. It's important to both of our families that we end up with someone who they see as a good partner, and we are that for each other, good partners."

It felt weird to eat while talking about something so vulnerable, but somehow it made it easier, as if we were just having a casual conversation. "Do you love her?" I wondered, regretting the question as soon as the words left my lips.

"I love her." He replied quickly, the answer like a prick to my heart. "She's my family, and I know she'll be an amazing wife."

He was so confident and sure about his response that I only nodded, refocusing on my food.

"I'm not in love with her." He added. I could see a small amount of shame behind the confession as he sighed.

We finished our food in silence, an awkward clanking of utensils and gulps of drinks. He paid, handing me the keys to his car to drive the rest of the way to Memphis, two hours with my hands gripping the wheel and my mind flooded with a stream of more questions that I was unsure I wanted the answers to.

He insisted on carrying my bag into the hotel, checking us into our rooms and handing me the set of keys. On the elevator ride to the twentieth floor he started to speak a few times, cutting himself off before he could get out a word.

Our rooms were across the hall from one other and when we stopped at our doors he handed me my bag. We turned our backs on each other to unlock the doors, but I peered over my shoulder before going inside with a request that was more of a need than want.

"I think we should focus on the art, I can't get personal with you."

In the seclusion of my room I washed off the day with a long shower, climbing into the fluffy white comforter with the TV as background noise to lull me to sleep.

I woke early enough to catch the continental breakfast downstairs before checkout, grabbing a muffin and coffee while I waited for Mr. Kim. He stepped off the elevator, tousling a hand through his hair and looking as if he hadn't slept, taking the seat across from me.

"I'm sorry that I made you uncomfortable yesterday." He sighed with the apology.

I glanced up from my drink but he kept his gaze on the table. It felt like we were avoiding each other, eye contact even too much to bear. "You didn't make me uncomfortable, if anything you make me feel too comfortable. It'll be better if we keep some boundaries between us."

He nodded, waiting for me to finish my breakfast before we packed up the car, using the navigation to get to the Memphis Brooks Museum of Art.

We opted for a self-guided tour, making our way through exhibits of sculptures that made it hard to believe were started with just a block of clay and vibrant paintings that looked so real I was tempted to reach out to touch.

We lost track of each other, his attention being caught by the intricacy of a piece made from traditional eastern carpets and mine by a section of pieces formed using repurposed plastic as the medium. I was in the middle of reading about a textured work made from the wedding dress of the artist after her divorce when I heard my name being called.

"Seline," I turned, Namjoon's head peeking from around the corner a second later, his eyes wide as he searched for me, "I want to get your thoughts on this drawing."

I followed him as he weaved into a space tucked into the corner by a display of drawings, stopping in front of one framed against the wall. It didn't particularly stand out, a headshot of a woman sketched at the center of a background of letters. I took a step forward to read the small print, a description of the piece typed out on a small card next to the frame, titled Old Letters.

The woman was the artist's mother, the letters that made up the backdrop those from her multiple suitors. I stared at the piece, waiting for some sort of understanding, but eventually turned to Namjoon, my brow furrowed in question.

"Why did you want me to see this?" I asked, looking back into the eyes of the woman as if they held the answers.

For the first time he struggled with an answer, stumbling over his words like they were hard to get out. "I just thought you'd identify with it since she had a lot of suitors." He concluded.

My thoughts were a whirlwind and so was I as I turned on my heel, my shoes clacking against the floor loudly as I walked toward the exit of the museum.

He wore a puzzled expression, watching me leave and swimming in his own confusion before trailing behind me. "Seline, what did I say wrong?" He asked, the cold air cutting through me as I moved through the parking lot.

"I don't understand why you're doing any of this. Why are you so invested in getting me answers about the prophecy? Why show me that stupid drawing? Are you just studying me for your research because it's not research for me? It's my actual life and I don't think you get that." I faced him, yelling through the gust of wind that created a whistling sound around us. When he didn't say anything I was only more annoyed. He always had something to say. I groaned, going to his car and pulling at the door handle with frustration until it clicked open for me to climb inside.

We still had a six hour drive ahead of us before our next stop at a hotel in Dallas for the night. It was the same as the ride from the restaurant, except we had many more miles to cover. The radio played, untouched in the background even when "Animals," a song Namjoon confessed he hated, rotated through the station's playlist for the third time. In the few moments I stole a glance at him, his fist was pressed against his chin in thought, his sight centered on the road ahead.

Though I was alive and knew otherwise, it felt like I held my breath for the full six hours, even after inhaling the fast food we stopped for halfway through. He didn't persist on taking my bag when we finally pulled into the hotel parking lot that night, but stopped, fiddling with his key when we found our rooms.

"I—" He started, stalling while I rushed, scanning my card as fast as I could over the lock.

"I need a minute alone Namjoon." I slipped inside, closing the door and letting out an exasperated exhale as my bag dropped to the floor.

If I had counted the seconds it would have proved that he hardly let a minute pass before knocking.

I slung the heavy door open with all the force I could, Namjoon leaning into the doorway. "I'm Charley Cloar." He professed, as if his statement provided all the clarity I needed. When he picked up on my rising irritability he explained. "From the drawing. The artist's father is the one who wrote most of the letters. He'd given up on real love, but then he met Eva, the woman in the drawing."

"And?" I was exhausted with having to question him, more coming after every answer he gave.

"Do you think Valentina could end the prophecy?"