“Unlike Yuni, you’re the type who doesn’t really trust yourself. You do well when you’re forced into a situation where you have to, but until then, you don’t really want to step up. I just realized this time that you’re the type who does better when given responsibility.”
Smiling with satisfaction, Director Han took a sip of her coffee, then her expression changed as she lowered her gaze and added calmly.
“In a way, Juhan is the one with the most fairytale-like obsession with Phantom. That’s why I sometimes feel for him, and sorry for him….”
Liu agreed with that. Director Han, who had been lost in thought while stroking the surface of her mug, suddenly looked up at him.
“What do you want to do about the gallery’s social media?”
It was a question about Juhan’s proposal to open and run Phantom’s official social media accounts after the reopening.
“He wants to do it. Let’s just let him.”
After his reply, Liu, who was drinking his coffee, became aware of the gaze from across the table and looked up.
“What?”
“I was just thinking you’ve changed a lot.”
“Kwon Juhan’s been working hard lately. And not just working hard, but doing a proper job. I’m saying we should entrust it to him because I think he’s worth entrusting it to.”
“No, that’s not exactly what I mean.”
Director Han pushed the empty plate forward, leaned her elbows in its place, and studied Liu’s face.
“You act like someone who has no lingering attachment to Phantom.”
“I do?”
“It’s not that you’ve lost affection or anything, but more like you’ve taken a step back, like your mind is somewhere else….”
As if she couldn’t quite find the right words, she furrowed her brow and scratched her cheek with her index finger, then suddenly lowered her shoulders and chuckled.
“Is it because Yeehyeon’s not here?”
Liu smiled as he brought the mug to his lips at the joking question. But he didn’t deny it either.
It wasn’t entirely untrue, but it wasn’t just that either. Perhaps he had already been unconsciously putting psychological distance between himself and Phantom from the moment he approved Juhan’s plan to open a café within the gallery—that is, from a time when he didn’t know Yeehyeon had decided to accept him.
“You two have worked things out now, right?”
“……”
“……Right?”
Asking again as if to carefully confirm, Director Han’s gaze fell on Liu’s left hand. Liu nodded silently.
For a while after Liu returned from Paris late last year, there had been a buzz about the ring on his left ring finger.
Since it wasn’t uncommon in Korea for unmarried couples to wear matching rings, it seemed they had their own speculations about whether Liu’s ring was a simple couple’s ring or one with a deeper meaning, but Liu had not officially opened his mouth about it.
Not only did the ring have a complex meaning, but the process by which it came to have that complex meaning was not simple either.
“I don’t know about CEO Ryu, but I really want to work with Yeehyeon after he leaves ‘The Hands.’ I don’t want Yeehyeon to come back out of a sense of obligation to repay a debt; I want to give him the conviction that Phantom is the team that best understands and will care for his art.”
Liu pressed his lips together and slowly nodded. It was less an agreement with the opinion itself and more a nod of understanding what Director Han was feeling.
“So, be good to Yeehyeon. I don’t want to lose Yeehyeon because of CEO Ryu’s personal mistakes.”
At her words, Liu’s expression softened and he smiled. It was a joke made in ignorance, but it was enough to make his own feet tingle.
Feeling that a good amount of time must have passed, Liu checked his watch, then stood up with his half-full coffee cup and his own plate. Director Han’s eyes followed him.
“Stay a little longer. Inwoo is supposed to come over too.”
“……”
Liu, who had paused for a moment at the name Inwoo, turned and headed toward the sink. It was a sign of refusal.
“We’re meeting privately, but he’ll probably talk about his solo exhibition. Stay with us, won’t you?”
“I have plans.”
“At this hour?”
Director Han looked skeptical, but she didn’t press him further. As Liu picked up the jacket he had draped over the adjacent chair, slipped his arms into it, and headed for the door, the bell rang.
Director Han glanced once at Liu, whose steps had slowed, then walked past him and opened the front door. As expected, the visitor was Inwoo.
“Leaving?”
“Yeah.”
The two, awkwardly intersecting at the entrance, exchanged perfunctory greetings, barely looking at each other. Director Han, who was watching them with her arms crossed, leaning against the wall, clicked her tongue.
“What’s this? Are you two still awkward with each other?”
“What’s there to be awkward about?”
As if to say there was no childish grudge left between them, Liu denied it with a disbelieving laugh, but by all accounts, the atmosphere between them was not smooth.
Well over a year had passed since he heard from Inwoo that he had kissed Yeehyeon. He’d had no time to burn with jealousy or properly lash out at Inwoo, as he’d had to focus on Yeehyeon, who had found out about the changing. After Yeehyeon left for Paris, the emptiness and pain had been so great for so long that jealousy over a kiss felt trivial. Above all, thinking about what he himself had done, blaming Inwoo for a kiss felt like something he had no right to do.
They still sometimes went to a bar for a drink like before, and perhaps trying to make up for it out of his own sense of guilt, the other man would sometimes come over to his house with good liquor or snacks. But there were still moments when he saw Inwoo’s face and the kiss came to mind. The ferocious anger that surged up at those times seemed unlikely to disappear no matter how much time passed. Just as the fact that the man before him had kissed Yeehyeon could never be erased, no matter how much time flowed by.
“I did something to deserve it.”
Even his attitude of admitting his own fault and backing down in front of Director Han didn’t look good to him. Suppressing the urge to sneer and ask if he was putting on a show about paying a harsh price for his sins, Liu took a step toward the door.
Shaking her head and sighing as if looking at stubborn brothers ignoring each other after a trivial fight, Director Han gave Liu a short farewell and turned her back first, returning to the dining room.
“Heard you’re going to Paris in a few days?”
Liu, who had grabbed the doorknob, turned around.
“I didn’t hear it from Yeehyeon-ssi.”
Inwoo gestured toward where Director Han had disappeared and added, as if making an excuse.
“I don’t contact him personally or anything.”
“……”
Upon hearing the statement that made things clear, Liu felt his heart disgracefully soften somewhat and cleared his throat.
“Why don’t you try? He’d be happy to hear from you. He’s more generous than I am.”
“Yeehyeon-ssi is a married man now… or as good as one.”
Inwoo’s gaze tilted diagonally toward Liu’s left hand. This time, Liu protectively fiddled with the ring and lightly curled his hand into a fist. As he stood at the door, wondering to what extent he could explain that Yeehyeon bore no responsibility for this ring, the other man hesitantly continued.
“A guy, an alpha… with a history of surprise-kissing his marriage partner in the past. If a guy like that kept pestering him, I don’t think I’d feel great about it either. Just give him my best.”
The heart that had been about to soften was now horribly crumpled, like a plastic bottle stomped on with full force. Liu, who had been looking down at Inwoo’s shoes, swept his hair back and lifted his head.
“Were you planning on calling Yeehyeon to pester him?”
“……”
Inwoo looked as if he’d misspoken. Liu knew that wasn’t what he meant. But Liu himself couldn’t help how he’d become more easily childish and prone to picking fights when it came to Yeehyeon.
“If that’s the case, just don’t contact him at all. I’ll pass on your regards.”
Leaving the entryway, Liu quickened his pace to make up for the time he’d lost because of Choi Inwoo.
■ ■ ■
Liu had been in the dressing room for 30 minutes already. After piling clothes on the bench-style sofa and agonizing for a long time, he chose a white shirt and a dark gray sweater. Liu, who had taken off all his tops to change, paused the hand that was about to grab the shirt. He wasn’t quite feeling it.
He went back to the innermost closet where shirts were neatly arranged by color and material and picked out a new one: a black shirt made of a fluid material that flowed along the body, with a wide collar for a touch of flair.
Looking comfortable and warm was nice, but he also wanted to look sexy. That was hard to give up, too.
He laid the two tops side by side on the sofa and gnawed on his lower lip with his arms crossed. After a moment of deliberation, he checked his wristwatch; it was time to make a decision.
He quickly put the shirt on his bare torso. Exiting the dressing room directly through the door that led to the hallway, not the bedroom, Liu hurried down the stairs, fastening the buttons.
But as soon as he entered the living room, he had to pause for a moment at the image of blue and white.
A month had passed since the painting was hung there, but every time he faced it, his breath stopped as if he were submerged in the sea. But in the next moment, he would realize that he could breathe even underwater. It was a sea that accepted him, allowing him to move his body and float freely as he pleased, like a dolphin from a childhood fantasy.
The surfer in the painting, no bigger than a knuckle, was not Yeehyeon but Liu himself. The sea, which extended infinitely beyond the canvas and embraced the surfer, was Yeehyeon. That was how Liu saw it.
By the time he crossed the living room with a smile, passed the dining room, and entered the kitchen, Liu had managed to fasten all the buttons except for the top two. He took a bottle of wine from the dedicated refrigerator, which looked sparse with only a few bottles left. He glanced at the label perfunctorily, then grabbed an opener and glasses and set them down on the dining table next to the laptop that had been set up in advance.
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