Jackson is definitely not a troll.

He's not quite as stunning as Yoongi—ugh, stop it, self—but he's obviously attractive. He'd fit into a K-actor or model for sure. Tall, lithe, with perfect skin and a somewhat mischievous smile that I can't help but reciprocate. Emma, my best friend, would swoon over him.

I take a step forward to give the gorgeous man in front of me a—oh goodness, a hug or a handshake? His palm lingers on my lower back as he reaches out and pulls me into an embrace, resolving my little problem and concealing my social ineptness.

I'm blushing a little by the time we split up. That wasn't a normal 'Nice to meet you' hug.

Or was it?

Have I been out of the game that long?

Jackson must have sensed my slight unease, because he gives me a sheepish grin and says, "Sorry if that was too much. I'm just so excited to finally meet you in person."

Of course.

For him, we are not complete strangers. We've been chatting for weeks. The poor sucker. I can't believe my mom catfished someone into dating me.

Okay, focus. I manage a smile. "Um, me too."

"You are even more beautiful in person," he says, and reaches across the table to take my hands.

Uhhh.

My smile freezes into a Chrissy Teigen–esque grimace-smile, but he doesn't appear to notice.

"Bring us a bottle of your best champagne," he says to the waiter.

Is there a polite way of pulling my hands back?

My mind is short-circuiting, trying to work its way through the mess. Okay, so obviously things have gotten deep for this guy. Deeper than Ma led me to believe.

Damn it, why didn't I try harder to see the chat messages? If I pulled my hands away, would he feel hurt? Betrayed? Oh god, even worse, what if he realizes it wasn't me he's been talking to but my mother?

He'll probably lose his mind, and then will he try to fire us? At the absolute least, make fun of us in front of the bride and groom? What if he sues us, Jesus?

Is that even possible?

"Are you all right?" he inquires.

I focused on him after blinking. I take a big breath and exhale slowly. "Sorry, yeah, I'm fine."

"Something on your mind?"

You suing me and my family for fraud. "Um, nothing. Just... Work, I guess?"

He nods. "Like I've told you before, your work is amazing."

Heat rises up my neck. "You've seen my work?" I almost said. However, I was able to stop myself in time. He's obviously seen my work. It would've been one of Ma's first disclosures to him. If I must say so myself, our website is quite fantastic, with thousands of pictures of happy couples.

"You portray all those feelings so beautifully," he continues. "To be honest, there are occasions when I think to myself, 'Damn, Jo—Jackson, how did you get this lucky?'"

I laugh weakly. Poor man, he's in deep. I'll try to be nice. I have to give it my all, if only for his sake.

"And what do you do?" I almost reply foolishly. When I remember that I am aware of what he does. "You're far too kind. So, how did you end up in the hotel business?"

Jackson shrugs. "I was working in finance right out of college. Worked on Wall Street for a while, and then I thought, 'Well, I've made a fortune—a couple of fortunes, really...'" He laughs. I'm not sure what's amusing, but I laugh regardless, and then I feel like a complete moron. "I experimented with a few concepts before deciding to build a resort where my family and friends could come and enjoy themselves. I mean, why not? It's a perk of being filthy rich."

I'm spared having to answer when the waiter returns with our champagne. It's difficult to fathom how this person managed to convince my mother to—oh, who am I kidding? I'm as good as a spinster at twenty-seven. Ma would have given me to any man with a pulse if he with a pulse.

I take a sip of champagne before Jackson says, "Cheers."

"Right, sorry. Cheers." I clink my glass against his and down it.

If I'm going to get through tonight, I'm going to need a lot of champagne. Maybe it's the champagne, or maybe it's the fact that the food at the restaurant is excellent; whatever it is, halfway through dinner I realize that I'm actually having an okay time.

Jackson has a way of dropping little obnoxious hints about how rich he is—'so rich that when I sweat, I drip diamonds'—but aside from that, he's actually got a good sense of humor, and he does seem to be genuinely interested in me, which is a pleasant surprise.

Men aren't usually interested in what I do; in fact, most men seem to think that just because I work in the wedding industry, I'm in a rush to get married myself. The fact is, working in the wedding industry makes me want to avoid getting married.

I tell Jackson as much, and he laughs. "Maybe it's just that you haven't met the right guy," he says.

My heart gives a squeeze, and my smile wanes.

I want to tell him that it's not because I haven't met the right guy. It's because I've met him and know there's no one else like him. But I'm not stupid enough to say something like that.

In addition, it's been five years since Yoongi and I broke up, and I need to forget about him. Being hung up on an ex for five years must be regarded, if not sad, at the very least creepy.

"You must meet so many bridezillas," Jackson says.

"Actually, with a couple of exceptions, the brides have been fine. Surprisingly, the grooms have proven to be harder to manage."

"Really? I find that hard to believe. Don't you often get brides asking you to Photoshop them to look thinner, or whatever?"

I shrug, taking another sip of champagne. "Sure, sometimes. But thinning down's easy. Know what's really tricky? When grooms ask me to make them taller. I can make them look more swole, but height is a real pain to edit." Uh-oh, I'm getting dangerously close to ranting about one of my favourite topics: groomzillas. There are so many of them, yet brides seem to receive a bad reputation for some reason. "What about you? You must deal with difficult customers a lot of the time."

"Nah, I've got people to deal with them for me. That's why we've got a whole customer service team, you know?" He laughs again.

It's starting to grate on me. I drink more champagne. I'm so tipsy by the time we've finished the meal that I'm not sure I should drive home.

"I'm going to call a Lyft," I say, pulling out my phone and noting, to my dismay, that the battery is at 4%.

"What? No. Allow me to drive you. Please hand over your keys to me."

"It's not a big deal. I'll take a Lyft and return in the morning to get my car."

"The parking garage opens at eight a.m. Didn't you say you need to be at the harbor by eight-thirty tomorrow? You won't make it in time."

I curse under my breath. He is right. I'll need my car first thing in the morning tomorrow. Damn it, self! Why did you feel the need to get so tipsy?

"But what about you? Don't you need your car in the morning? I don't want everything to come screeching to a halt because I've made you late."

"I have other cars I can drive, and the hotel should be running smoothly enough by now not to fall apart just because I'm a couple of hours late. In fact, you probably won't see much of me tomorrow. I'll be mostly working behind the scenes," he answers easily, holding out his hand.

I don't see how I can get out of this. If I keep declining his offer, he'll become upset, and our big wedding weekend will be ruined. I mean, you'd think he'd be professional enough to not let a terrible date get in the way of business, but can I really jeopardise my family's most important wedding of the year? And anyway, it's just a drive home. It's really not a big deal. I live with Ma, so if he tries to weasel his way inside, I can always use her as an excuse.

My palm brushes against the hefty Taser that I carry everywhere while I struggle for my car keys. I really should quit carrying it around with me; it's heavy, unwieldy, and makes me look like a neurotic nut. Yet anyway, when I hand over the keys to my Mini Cooper, I can't help but be grateful for my Taser.

Of course, I then feel silly for being relieved.

As we walk across the parking lot, Jackson places his hand on my lower back, which seems inappropriate, but I'm not comfortable enough to tell him to stop. When we get in the car and close the doors, all I can think about is the silence. Every sound we produce, including our inhale and exhale, as well as my own heartbeat, is audible to me.

Then Jackson turns on the engine and Maroon 5 spills out of the speakers. I relax a little. He gives me a reassuring smile as he adjusts the mirrors. I smile back.

This is okay.

I'll be home soon, and when we see one another tomorrow, we'll be friendly, pleasant, and completely professional.

Everything is fantastic.

As he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the darkened street, he adds, "So, that was fun, huh?"

It's late, and despite the fact that we're on a main road, there aren't many cars on the road. I nod as he casts a peek at me.

"Yeah, super-fun." Super-fun? What am I, fifteen? "I had a good time," I add. That's stretching it a little, but I guess I didn't have a bad time, so.

"Me too. You're a great gal, Tily." He gives me a wink, and then—oh dear god—he reaches over and rests his hand on my knee.

I shift away, but his hand lingers on my thigh, its warmth spreading up my leg.

Come on, dude, that's the universal sign for 'take your goddamn hand off my leg'!

Okay, I can't. I cannot do this.

Even if the family business isn't safe, please accept my apologies, Ma and uncles.

With my heart beating, I gently push his hand away from my leg, as if I were handling a hamster. He smiles as he looks at me.

"So you wanna play it like that, huh?"

A sick feeling bubbles up in my stomach.

"Um." Think fast, Atilia. "I think I'm feeling okay now. You can just stop right here and I'll drive the rest of the way back by myself."

He pouts at me. "And leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere?"

"Uh. I'll call you a Lyft, and wait here with you until it arrives. I really don't want to trouble you, and tomorrow's going to be such a long day for the both of us—"

He laughs. "God, you're sweet." It doesn't sound like a compliment the way he says it. It sounds filthy, as if he's describing an overripe peach that he can't wait to eat.

We've left the city of Los Angeles behind as he turns onto a small street. Everything is gloomy down here, even the trees appear to be menacing, and there isn't a single car or person to be seen.

"Stop the car," I say, my voice coming out tight with fear. "Stop right now!"

Instead, he accelerates. I hurry for the door, but it's locked, and even in my distress, I realise we're moving too fast for me to jump.

At the very least, I'd break an arm. In the worst-case scenario, I'd die.

Oh god.

The realisation hits me like a tonne of bricks. It's possible that I'll die tonight. My throat is choked with bile. I'm not sure how long I've been sitting there, immobilised, while we drive away from civilization. The surroundings are no longer familiar to me. There are just what appear to be abandoned industries outside.

There is no one to save me.

"Calm down, Tils. Hey, c'mon, we're just having fun, right?" He gives me a smile as he looks at me. "Don't be so snobby; I know you're not shy. I know you're a filthy girl deep down because of those texts you sent me. So I'll let you know how it goes. We're going to pick a good place and make ourselves at home—"

The Taser darts shoot and strike him in the neck. Jackson jerks like a doll. The car does a U-turn to the side.

I open my mouth to scream.

Darkness.

Junior Year, Seven Years Ago

"This is unreal," I breathe out as I gaze out the airplane window.

"Yeah."

I look down at my hand, nestled in Yoongi's. It looks so tiny in his paw. He gives it a squeeze, and we smile at each other. Holy shit, I'm actually doing this. In about ten hours, we'll be landing at Incheon airport, where we'll be greeted by his parents.

Oh my god. I cannot.

"Stop freaking out."

"I'm not."

"Okay, tell your face to stop freaking out."

I force a smile, which comes out as a grimace.

"That is officially the weirdest smile in the history of smiles," he says, leaning over to kiss me. "Mmm, I love it when I kiss your teeth."

That gets a laugh out of me, which makes me feel a tiny bit better. But not much.

Because holy SHITBALLS, man! 

I'm on a plane with Yoongi! On the way to meet his family! For Chuseok! In South Korea! 

What is this life?

"Hey, how come you don't have a northern gyeongsangdo dialect?" I never thought of it, but now that we're actually on our way to Seoul, it strikes me that Yoongi sounds about as American as it gets.

"It's because my parents moved around a lot when I was little, so I was always put into international schools. Even back in Korea, they put me in an international school. Easier to transfer my grades that way. Do you want me to sound korean? I can speak in satoori too, luv."

"Oh god. Okay, you can't carry it off." I shudder, and he laughs.

"By the way, I got Emms those AirPods she's been lusting after for her birthday. Signed it from you and me."

I gape at him. "Really? That's so generous." I'd given her an assortment of moisturizers from Bath and Body Works.

"Well, yeah, none of this would've been possible without her help."

"True."

When Yoongi invited me to his home for Chuseok, Emma surprised me with the greatest present anyone could think of. She'd informed Ma she wanted to take me back to Northern California for the holidays, and Ma had accepted without hesitation, despite the fact that my family doesn't really celebrate Chuseok.

Yoongi takes out his tablet from his backpack and sets it up on our tray table. "I downloaded Immortals for the flight."

"Ooh, you are a godsend, Min Yoongi."

"I figured shots of a topless Henry Cavill would help take your mind off meeting my folks."

I roll my eyes. "There is way too much boobage in Immortals for you to act all selfless."

"True." He laughs, then leans in and lowers his voice. "But yours are my favorite."

I hit his arm, but to be honest, I'm kind of giddy about it. We sit down to watch the movie, and he pulls me closer so I can rest my head on his shoulder. We both doze off at some time. When the flight attendant awakens us up hours later, I discover that my head is locked at an odd angle, much to my distress.

"Oh, no. No, no." I try to turn it, but pain shoots down my spine, and I squeak.

Yoongi stretches, yawning. "What's up, funsize?"

"I fell asleep badly, and now my neck's refusing to turn."

He gives me a two-beat look before laughing out loud. "Are you a ninety-year-old woman in disguise?"

"Don't make fun of me, child. I'm just 87 years old. Ugh. This is not the way I want to meet your parents!" I make a frantically gesticulating motion with my tilted head.

"Relax. Come here." Yoongi puts his hand on the back of my neck and starts massaging it.

"Ow, ooh, ah," Is it excruciatingly painful or exhilarating? I can't make up my mind.

"Stop twitching."

"Please put on your seat belts and face forward," an air attendant reminds us with a pointed look.

We just do what we're told. My head is still stuck despite Yoongi's best efforts. When this happens, I normally have to wait until I can get some rest before my neck regains its regular flexibility. So, I really am going to meet his parents with a slanted head. Okay, that's totally fine. I am not at all freaking out about that.

Yoongi tries to massage some mobility back into my neck and shoulders as we get off the plane, then adds, "Well, this'll be great."

When I punch him, he laughs and catches my fist and kisses it.

"It's so cute when you hit me with your teeny-weeny hand. It'll be OK. They'll adore you so deeply that they won't allow you to return to the States."

Despite the crooked neck, he is correct.

As soon as we retrieve our luggage and enter the arrivals hall, there's a shout, and his parents appear. His mother, a lovely tall brunette, gives me a brief embrace, and his father, an Asian man who looks like what I imagine Yoongi will look like thirty years down the road, offers me one of those awkward hugs that my mother and uncles frequently give.

"Oh, it's lovely to have you two here," his mom says.

"Hi, Mrs. Min."

She pooh-poohs at me. "Call me eomeoni, none of that Mrs. Min business. And that's abeoji." She points at Yoongi's dad, who smiles at me.

"Alright then, son?" Abeoji says.

"Alright, Appa."

Huh. Yoongi does speak satoori after all.

When we step outside, I'm taken aback by the biting, merciless cold that cuts straight through my hoodie. Yoongi pulls out a jacket he'd packed for me, which is a size too big for me but is warm and smells like him.

The trip from Incheon to Seoul takes over two hours, and I'm weary by the time we exit the freeway—or expressway, as it's known in Korea. Yoongi's parents are polite, but they're so unlike Ma and my uncles that I'm always on edge, eager to make the greatest first impression possible.

I'm not sure if all Korean-British families are like this, if they all use terms like "lovely" and "wonderful" instead of yelling and flapping like my family.

It simply reinforces my determination to keep my relationship hidden from my family for as long as humanly possible. Which is becoming extremely difficult to accomplish.

Yoongi has a strong desire to meet Ma. As well as all of my uncles.

It's a major obstacle in an otherwise flawless relationship. I'm concerned that he thinks I'm ashamed of him since I haven't introduced him to my family. Why don't I take him home with me one weekend? he'd ask. They'd be delighted, they would. And they would, if they knew about him.

But.

It's not even just the stark differences in our families that's holding me back from taking him home.

I've spent my entire life adhering to Ma's rules.

For her, I even opted to stay in L.A. I love Ma, but I'd like to be apart from her. Even thinking about it makes me uncomfortable; it feels like such a betrayal. However, I do. I'm a nasty, selfish person, and I'm well aware that I need to bury that side of myself. I know I'll have to return home after college to be with Ma.

For the time being, I just want Yoongi to myself.

I want to keep him as far away from Ma and my uncles as possible. If that's self-centered, then let me remain self-centered for the time being, till we graduate. I don't want my loud, dominating family to swallow him up. I don't want him to see me the way I am with them—quiet and benign.

I want him to see the real me, the one who lives on campus and is free to be sarcastic and sharp. Instead of a shadow, it's a challenge.

Then there's the curse, of course.

What if, by bringing him home, it discovers me even sooner than it discovered my mother and uncles? 

I've tried to explain why I'm keeping him away from my family, but I always end up flailing my words, and the conversation ends with him hurt and disappointed.

His parents' home looks like it belongs in an Interior Design Magazine. It is, in reality, Yoongi informs me as my mouth drops wide as we go into the house that it has been featured in Home & Garden magazine.

I'm taken up to his room, and I'm astounded by how neat and beautiful everything is. It has a navy blue colour scheme, and everything is in its place, so I can picture what a neat kid he was. I recall my own room in San Gabriel, where I discovered a forgotten coffee mug with real mushrooms growing in it only last weekend. Not merely mould, but full-grown mushrooms, complete with stalks and heads.

"So this is my childhood home, and that's my family," Yoongi says, dropping our bags on the carpeted floor. "You okay? I'm sorry, I know they can be a bit much."

"Are you kidding? They're amazing. And your house is amazing." 

Not at all like mine, I want to say, but I don't, because honestly, I'm embarrassed.

My mother and uncles are indeed hoarders. It's said to have something to do with being poor as a child. There are twenty-seven bottles of face cream in the bathroom, for example. I know because I counted them when I was fifteen and the pile hasn't moved in five years. They're almost all vacant. When I asked Ma why she doesn't throw them away, she said, "Maybe one day I need, then how?" I guess a grower of mushrooms in coffee cups is not one to judge.

Yoongi's fingertips brush across the underneath of my shirt as he wraps his hands around my waist. When he touches my skin, I shudder.

"Hey, none of that, not right now. Your parents are right below us," I scold, smacking his arm.

He grins and kisses me. "I'm not doing anything," he says, in between kisses. "I just love touching you here." His hands splay across my back, and I melt against him.

"You've got your horny face on," I say.

"What does my horny face look like?"

I lean back and try to imitate it, and Yoongi bursts out laughing.

"Seriously? If my horny face looks like that, why did you ever start sleeping with me?"

"Out of pity." Then I squeal as he catches me and flings me over one shoulder as though I'm a sack of potatoes. "Don't make me fart while my butt's right next to your face!"

"I dare you to." Yoongi laughs, but then he lowers me gently onto his bed and kisses me again, this time slow and deep. By the time he stops, I'm out of breath and aching for him. He presses his forehead against mine. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Me too."

Later, lying in bed next to him, I realize something.

We've been dating for almost three years, and he's the first person I tell when I get my papers back, when we're given horrible assignments, and when the leader of the photography club says something stupid, which happens frequently. And he does the same for me, giving me every fascinating detail about his piano lessons, revealing his greatest aspirations of one day running a posh hotel, and even telling me how much weight he's lifting at the gym. I guess the last one's him showing off, but I don't mind.

I appreciate that Yoongi wants to impress me because I, too, want to impress him. And he does make an impression on me. I still find Yoongi amazing after three years, which includes a lot of farting and humiliating bedroom things (queefs, anyone?). He is one of my favourite people.

I'm in love with him.

I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

To heck with the curse of the family. It doesn't matter. I'm now in Seoul, South Korea. This is where curses are extinguished.

At the idea, I almost burst out laughing. I hadn't given much thought to how much my half-belief in the curse has dragged me down, but now I realise that I've always sensed it lurking behind my back, giving me a deadline.

But it's a blunder. 

When there's nothing wrong with the relationship, why ruin it?

I make a decision—I'm going to tell Ma about Yoongi when I get home. I'm going to tell her everything. I'm even going to tell my uncles about it. Because they're always pleased while they're eating black bean noodles, I'll tell them all over Sunday jajangmyeon.

That'll be a big hit.

Present day

"Fuuuck."

Pain. 

So much of it lurches from deep within my bones, squeezing my chest with a red fist, before erupting in a groan, and the sound of my voice, so raspy with agony it's alien, pulls me back.

I take a deep breath and blink.

Blink once more.

Right. I'm in my car. 

Not in Korea with Yoongi.

My car.

At the periphery of my vision, a flash of light appears. It's my turn signal, which is producing a devilish clicking sound. The movement causes anguish to shoot through my chest as I reach out to switch it off.

"Fuck—"

I finally get the turn signal switch with one more heroic effort. Silence is sweet and fortunate. I cast a downward glance, not daring to move my head too much. My seat belt's digging into my chest. I push myself back somewhat with a swallow, still unclear what's broken and what isn't. Moving back helps to relieve the pressing pressure around my chest. I take a little breath, followed by a larger one. It aches a little, but not too much. Ribs were bruised rather than fractured.

I release a shuddering laugh. Unbelievable. I'm okay. I'm—

I turn and barely stifle the shriek clawing its way up my throat.

Jackson!

"Oh god," I moan. "Jack—" My voice catches.

Every question that comes to mind feels ridiculous and pointless.

Are you okay? It's obvious he's not, not when he's lying against the dashboard like that.

Are you... dead? I moan again. 

Oh my god. I think he is.

Blood is dripping from his blasted ear, down his neck, and soaking his shirt collar. That tiny detail, the spreading smear of blood on his white shirt, strikes me as particularly poignant.

He's no longer alive.

He's dead.

I killed him.

The words in italics are in Korean, while the words in italics and bold are in Malay.

Eomeoni  =   The formal term of saying mother (Korean: 어머니)
Abeoji  =   The formal term of saying father (Korean: 아버지)
Appa  =   The informal term of saying the same (dad) (Korean: 아빠)

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