“And that’s good, because it’s where you’ll be going next semester,” my mother says flatly. “The time has come for this hobby to end. You’re eighteen now, and you cannot keep pushing off the future.”
“I’m not pushing off anything! This is my future!” My mother’s frown lines tighten at my outburst, and I force a deep breath to help me rein in my rage. Yelling has never gotten anywhere with my parents, and I know it won’t now either. “Mom. Dad. I have a job, and it pays well, and I’m good at it. If I were a doctor—”
My mother snorts, and I wince. God, it’s amazing how much disappointment I can see on both their faces right now. And even more amazing how quickly it drains the fight out of me.
“You can’t even imagine how many people dream of being me,” I tell them, quieter now. “Why can’t you understand that? Why can’t you understand that what I’m doing is important? Even if you don’t think my show is, the fact that I’m doing it is amazing. The fact that a Korean-American actress has a starring role on a primetime network show is amazing. How can that not mean anything to you? It means everything to me.”
Tears stream down my face, but they’re not moved at all; they never have been. Even when they allowed me to audition, it wasn’t with any hope or pride; at best, they saw it as a potential résumé-builder, maybe something to improve my confidence and public speaking. My mother didn’t even watch me try out; she brought a crossword puzzle.
“It’s a television show,” my father says, still quiet, still stony. “Do not make it more than it is.”
I couldn’t possibly, I think, but I already know he doesn’t understand. Neither of them do. And it breaks my heart. Because I do love it more than anything. I love it enough that I chose it over the first person I’ve ever had real, strong feelings for. If the fact that I passed on being with Bri for this life doesn’t convey how much it matters to me, nothing will.
But of course, I can’t tell them that. Because as disappointed as they are in me right now, I can’t even imagine how much it would compound it to tell them their only daughter is not going to marry a nice Korean boy. Is probably not going to marry a boy at all.
“You can’t make me stop,” I say, forcing my voice above the whisper it desperately wants to be. “You can’t. I have a contract.”
“Your uncle is looking into that,” my mother says proudly, as if her brother, a real estate lawyer, knows anything about entertainment contracts. I bite my tongue, though, because the only thing my parents hate more than yelling is sarcasm.
“It doesn’t matter.” I try to keep my voice respectful, but I know there’s no way I’m caving on this. Especially not after what I’ve just given up. “I’m not going to quit. This is my life now. I wish you would respect it, and I understand that you don’t. But I’m not quitting. And I’m not going to UCLA next semester.”
“Then you are not living in this house.” My father’s voice is firm. “If you insist on keeping this job and this lifestyle, you’re not doing it under our roof. You think you’re an adult, earning your own money? Use that money to buy yourself a respectable apartment.”
I should’ve known that was coming. In a sense, I think I did. And looking back on my conversations with Ally, I think she knew it, too. So there’s nothing to do but nod and stand. “I will.”
I think the steadiness in my voice surprises all of us, but for the first time in forever, I have no shred of doubt about the decision I’m making. They’re the only two words I can manage to get out, though; if I try any others, I’ll crack. So instead, I turn, walk up the stairs, and pull up the e-mail Ally sent me months ago with listings for brokers.
I’ve been ignoring it forever because it’s so freaking overwhelming, but all it takes is closing my eyes and imagining the anger in my father’s eyes to force me to push through. For I don’t even know how long, I make myself look at listings and e-mail to set up appointments. Eventually, my exhaustion — physical and emotional — catches up with me, and I pass out right on my keyboard.
When I wake up, it’s to the sound of a familiar, grating voice coming from my doorway and saying, “Rise and shine, K-drama.”
I pick my head up slowly and wipe the sleep from my eyes and the drool from my keyboard. Seeing Josh Chester in my bedroom at my house — my parents’ house — does not compute. “What are you doing here? My parents are gonna kill you. After they kill me.”
“Oh, I’ve already been through the Park family wringer. They told me to make sure you’re packing. After yelling at me for ten minutes.”
Oof, well that’s embarrassing. And yet I’m sort of sorry I missed it. “And you stood through that? Why?”
“Because I needed to talk to you, and it couldn’t wait. But what the hell is going on here?”
“Oh, nothing big. Just my parents trying to get me to quit acting and then kicking me out because I won’t.” The words sound so crazy coming out of my mouth, I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so much like crying. “And what’s up with you?”
He scratches the back of his neck, looking sort of…nervous? If that’s a thing Josh Chester ever gets, anyway. He closes my bedroom door and takes a seat on my princess bed, shoving one of the canopy ties out of his face. “This is weird, and I don’t know how to say this kinda shit, so I’m just gonna say it, okay?”
Suddenly, I’m wide awake. I have no idea what he’s about to say, but he’s nervously picking at a nail and refusing to meet my eyes and I feel like I have no idea who I’m looking at right now.
And it’s strangely comforting to see someone who looks just as screwed up inside as I feel.
“Go for it.”
He takes a deep breath…and then mutters something I can’t even hear. So much for a grand announcement. But for a second, the tiniest part of me wonders if — maybe even hopes — he’s having the same kind of internal struggle that I am. I mean, Josh is one of the most notorious ladies’ men in Hollywood, but hey, most people think I was with Liam, and Zander, and am now hooking up with Josh, so.
I don’t even realize he thinks I did hear until he looks up at me with red cheeks, obviously awaiting a response, and I have to admit that I didn’t.
He rolls his eyes. “You’re just doing this to torture me, aren’t you.”
“For once, no. I really didn’t hear you.”
This seems to chill out his anxiety, and this time, he just says it. “I said I think I might be…into you. Which is weird, I know. And trust me, I wish I wasn’t. But I’m feeling weird about a whole lot of shit right now, and I just needed to know if you felt the same. At all. Or something.”
I’m so floored by his admission, I have no words. Zero. Which is awful, because he’s just sitting there, waiting, and nothing’s coming.
And then, I do the worst thing humanly possible.
I laugh.
It’s terrible, and I clap my hand over my mouth the second it comes out, but all I can think is that of all times for a guy to actually like me—like; not date me because of a publicity plan, or to get a purity pledge ring on my finger, or fantasize about dating me just because I’m famous and they have some absurd image of what that’ll be like — it has to be when my head and heart have finally realized I don’t want a guy at all.
When I pull my hand away to apologize, though, the laughter just comes out again, and I have to clap it back.
“Wow,” says Josh, a dark-red flush creeping up his neck, “tell me how you really feel.”