Chapter 8: Ribbon

Jisung took the call on the back porch, with the storm blowing sideways under the roof.

"Hyung," he said. "You're up late."

"It's the middle of the afternoon here," Minho said. "I haven't slept since the video."

Minho's voice was flat and careful, the voice he used when he was holding something heavy.

Jisung's stomach turned over.

"I saw the video," Minho said. "The one from the cat café. You were on the floor."

"I'm fine."

"You were on the floor, Jisung. Somebody had her arms around you."

"She helped me. She's, she's nice, Minho. She's really nice."

There was a long silence on the line.

"The manager is furious," Minho said at last.

"She wants you all back in Seoul by the end of the week."

"I told her I'd come and see for myself first."

"You're coming here?"

"I land Thursday."

"Hyung, don't."

"I'm not asking."

Jisung put his forehead against the wet porch post.

He had loved Minho for four years.

It had happened on tour buses, in dorm kitchens, and in a hundred hotel rooms at three in the morning.

He had never said a word of it.

"Are you angry?" he asked.

"I'm afraid," Minho said. "That's different. Don't do anything stupid before I get there."

He hung up.

Jisung stood in the dark until his hands stopped shaking.

Then he went inside.

Chan was asleep sitting up in the armchair, and two men lay tangled together on the sofa.

A light was on in the kitchen.

Missy sat at the table in an old flannel robe with a cat in her lap.

"Couldn't sleep either," she said.

"I never can't sleep. It's my one talent."

"Sit with me, honey."

He sat, and he told her everything.

He told her about Minho, and the tour buses, and the four years of saying nothing.

He told her he had meant every second of the morning at her door.

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