Finding Love In Korea

Chapter 15

Sophie doesn't protest Jason's announcement, though she shoots him a bemused look, then shifts her gaze to me and back to him. My heart skitters, but I keep a straight face instead of squealing like I want to. Which totally freaks me out. Since when do I get excited about hanging out with Jason?

I mean, he can be fun sometimes, and he's insanely hot-

Okay.

Maybe I have a tiny crush on him.

But it's not like I'm in love with the guy or anything.

Sophie and I climb into the backseat of the car Young Jo drove to pick us up from the airport, and Jason gets into the driver's seat. Sophie leans forward and turns on the radio, cranking the volume to an eardrum-shattering decibel. But I'm not complaining.

As Jason drives us down the narrow streets and Sophie belts KPOP at the top of her lungs, I'm swallowed by a surreal feeling, like I'm dreaming. I peer out the window, watching the blur of lights and people. I'm probably overthinking the situation, but I can't help feeling grateful-for Sophie, for Jason, for them welcoming me into their home. I know Momma would never allow me to bring a friend home, and Dad would tell jokes behind Sophie's and Jason's backs about Asian people. Because that's the kind of guy he is.

Sophie bumps my shoulder with hers. "Sing with me!"

I realize then that American pop music filters through the speakers. Laughing, I join her, throwing as much dramatic emotion into the lyrics as possible. By the time the song ends, we're gasping for breath and Jason has parked the car.

We all file out, and Jason pays the parking fee. He pulls his scarf up higher so all I can see are his eyes, and he pulls on a slouchy knit hat that covers his ears and most of his hair.

"You look like you're getting ready to shoot up the place or something," I say.

He narrows his eyes but says nothing, then falls into step beside me, close enough that our elbows bump every few steps.

This part of town is busier, the streets crowded with couples and groups of friends. Street vendors hawk food to those who pass by, and cars rumble down the street, beeping their horns at pedestrians who don't mind the crosswalks.

We turn off into a building with a foggy plastic or glass roof that, from the outside, reminds me of a train station. But when we enter, I realize it's some kind of bazaar. Open shops are built into the walls lining the long hall, and they show gorgeous displays of traditional Korean costumes and expensive fabrics. A musty smell hangs in the air, and voices echo off the metal walls. I linger in front of one of the stalls, running my fingers across a blue silk.

Jason comes to a stop beside me. "Do you like it?"

"It's gorgeous," I breathe. "All of them are."

"This market is famous for its textiles. Mostly silk."

The vendor, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and a thick black coat wrapped around her plump middle, approaches us with a polite smile. She inclines her head and says, "Ahn nyeong ha se yo."

"Hi." I bow my head in response.

The woman holds up the fabric to me, and I shake my head. "No, thank you," I offer, then take in her uncomprehending expression. "Aniyo uhh ... kwenchanayo."

Jason takes over for me, saying something to the woman in Korean, and she nods. They launch into a conversation, with me listening to the flow of words rushing between them. She smiles at me again, then reaches under her makeshift counter, which is covered in a myriad of fabrics. She pulls out about half a yard of yellow silk embroidered with white flowers and holds it out to me.