SeoulMates

Chapter 1

“You’re a pair of shit-stained fuckers, you know that?” The words must come out of my mouth louder than I expect, because the mom and daughter duo in the dressing room next to mine go dead silent.

“Excuse me?” the momma bear asks, claws and fangs at the ready.

Forehead, meet palm. “I promise that wasn’t directed at you. I, uh …received some shocking news.”

What’s the news, you may ask? I’m officially a fatass. Oh, and the shit-stained fuckers? The size sixteen pair of pants staring right at me, burning a hole into my dwindling self-esteem.

The mom sighs. “Okay, but keep in mind there are children here.”

Children? Ma’am, your child of a daughter has tits bigger than mine, I want to say. Clearly, the girl is in her late teens.

I side-eye my own breasts in the mirror. My genius doctor sister told me it’s called macromastia —giant balloon boobs with downturned nipples. And the tiny little flame of my dwindling self-esteem finally snuffs out.

But since I don’t confront people because it makes me want to literally die, I mumble a sad little sorry, grab the size six-fucking-teen pants, and book it.

Size sixteen.

Sweet Jesus, never in my life have I been this high into the double digits. From puberty and throughout my twenties, I easily maintained a size eight—occasionally a ten after one too many nights of chicken wings and beer. But my hot, twenty-something metabolism always kept too much of the fat and carbs I happily consumed from making a permanent home on my thighs.

Once I reluctantly said goodbye to my twenties, however, my metabolism took a steady decline and my weight an even steadier incline.

Which leads me to this moment—my elderly, thirty-four-year-old self slamming the damned mammoth pants on the counter, mumbling one of the stupid self-affirmations my mom texts me every morning.

Today’s was:

It’s no hemorrhoids, but hell, everything about this whole situation is a challenge.

“Did you…find everything alright, ma’am?” a bored voice asks.

My eyes flick to hers the moment she ma’ams me, narrowing on their own accord. And her eyes…look at me like I have five heads, and one of them is on fire.

“Are you, like, okay, ma—”

“Ma’am me again, and I’ll go full Karen,” I try to say jokingly, adding a smile for good measure.

With manicured, too-long claws, she flips her platinum hair over a shoulder, throws in a lip curl for flair, and seals it with a baby-blue eye roll. Okay, Regina George. I see you.

“I’m joking,” I say. “Yes, I found everything just fine.”

She levels a flat stare at the computer screen, smacking her gum like a cow smacks cud. “Sure. Your total is $78.53.”

I laugh. Out loud. “No, it’s not. For a pair of jeans? I thought the sign said fifty bucks.”

She blows a bubble, letting it pop before answering. “Yeah, the normal sizes are fifty bucks. But, like, the plus sizes are more because of, like, the extra material.”

Plus sizes.

And there goes my soul with my self-esteem, dragged straight down to the floor. If I forget where it is, at least my nipples can point me in the right direction.

“Right,” I mutter, sighing and swiping my card. If bigger clothes cost more, shouldn’t I at least be paid more? Nope, then everyone would want to be a fatass, and everyone would be paid more. And then the original fatasses would get even fatter for more money. The cycle would go on forever until the OG fatties’ hearts give out.

I walk out of the store, bag in hand, feeling small, but only in terms of confidence. My mother was right—I am way too sensitive. And if anyone tells her I said that, I’ll deny, deny, deny.

But seriously, if that teeny-tweeny-bop Regina George wannabe affected me like that, then the Koreans are going to eat me alive.

I work for the American branch of a South Korean tech company. After two straight years of seventy-hour weeks, I finally landed my dream promotion. Sure, it comes with more responsibility, but it’s worth the hefty raise and a one-year stay in South Korea. The catch? I can now afford plus-size clothes, but I’m moving to a country where plus-size clothes virtually don’t exist.

Which is why I’m out shopping today, stocking up for the year, so I don’t have to humiliate myself wandering the streets of Seoul, hoping and wishing to find the holy grail before the inner thighs of my pants give way. T-minus ninety days before that nightmare may actually become a reality.

That dreadful thought has me stopping and extending my arm with the pants. Holding the shopping bag level with my face, I bring my other hand up and flip it the bird, ignoring the weird looks from passersby.

“You suck, and I hate you,” I mutter to the bag—the pants—but know deep down it’s meant for me. For letting myself go. If I had just listened to my mother and focused more on taking care of myself, I could still be living happily as a size eight.

Again, deny, deny, deny.

My middle finger lowers just as I hear a smooth voice to the side of me ask, “What did that bag ever do to you?”

My eyes squeeze shut. I can handle the looks, but not a direct interrogation about my admittedly odd gesture. Hates confrontation, remember?

A loud, nervous laugh bubbles out of my throat. “It’s not the bag,” I say, turning to face the person wanting to know my business, “but the pants in…side…”

My words trail off when my eyes meet those of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Looking over his shoulder at me from atop a ladder, he’s clearly in the middle of hanging what looks like a banner.

Muscles and tan skin and a perfectly symmetrical face, framed by a sharp jaw, straight nose, and softly slanted onyx eyes that I would happily allow to look at me all day. He’s the type of person you see and immediately know, without a doubt, that God has favorites.

His hands—mother of pearl, his giant, sexy hands—curl around the edge of the banner. My gaze falls to the red letters spelling out grand opening in all caps, and that’s when I note the business behind him. None other than a shiny, new gym.

He cocks his head. “You’re mad at a pair of pants?”

Eyes flicking back to him, they spot a name written in Korean hangul on the back of his black jersey—Park Jiho over a number ten.

The third, out-loud laugh of the day bursts from me, probably igniting another one of my five heads with the way he’s looking at me, like I’m crazy. At this point, I might be. But it can’t be helped—the irony, completely not lost on me.

Turning in a circle, I try to spot any cameras. My movements must intrigue him because he cranes his head, trying to see whatever it is I’m looking for.

After a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation, Jiho Park’s face comes back into view. And in more of a statement than a question, I say, “Is this a prank? This has to be a prank.”

“Why would this be a prank?” he asks slowly, raising a brow.

I point to myself. “Because I’m fat.” Then, to the building. “And that’s a gym.” And finally, to him. “And you’re Korean.”

Jiho steps down from the ladder, keeping hold of the banner as his tall frame towers over me.

“Korean-American. And you’re racist,” he says, folding two solid arms against his chest.

I blink once. Twice. “I beg your pardon? I am the least racist person to ever walk the earth.”

Jiho smirks. “That’s something only a racist would say.”

Jaw falling open, something in me just kind of…snaps. After the death of my self-esteem and soul and quickly learning the new realities of living a plus-size life, my sanity temporarily goes poof, right into thin air.

Dropping the bag by my feet, I close the distance between us in two steps.

“Now look here,” I snap, poking my finger into a pec that barely moves. “I don’t appreciate your harassment. I already threatened to go full Karen once today. Don’t make me do it again.”

“I dare you,” Jiho challenges, poking me lightly back in the shoulder.

Straightening, I take my hand back and the hint, raising my chin. “Fine. I want to speak to your manager.”

“Fine, just a second.” He spins in a circle, plastering a perfected customer-service smile on his face. I want to smack him. But also to tell him to keep smiling that panty-dropping grin. “Hi there, I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

My face falls into a scowl. “Really? Okay, BTS.”

“BTS? And you aren’t racist.”

“Absolutely not. I just don’t tolerate insufferable assholes.” I suck in a breath to reload, but another voice joins the fray.

“Hellooo,” the adorable little woman sings. “I’m Jina, the manager here. Is there a problem?”

My indignant stare levels with Jiho’s, looking at him down the bridge of my nose. “Oh, are you now?” I turn to face the woman. She looks just like Jiho, but instead of deadly handsome, she’s deadly gorgeous. I must have taken a wrong turn and walked straight into a K-drama.

Since learning about my promotion and imminent move to South Korea, I’ve been binging the shows nonstop—picking up bits of the language and using a language app to fill in the gaps.

But outside of hello, goodbye, and the alphabet, I haven’t learned much. Korean is easy to read, but speaking is a completely different story. However, one thing I understood immediately—South Koreans are exceptionally beautiful. Jiho and Jina are prime examples.

I look at Jina and smile, not wanting to direct my Karen-fueled snootiness at her friendly face. “Unfortunately, yes. Your employee is harassing me, and I think he’s enjoying it.”

Jina rolls her eyes exaggeratedly enough that I think they may pop out of her head and land on Jiho.

“Ugh, really, Oppa? An employee?” she whines before addressing me again. “My brother isn’t an employee. He’s supposed to be helping me set up for the grand opening, but apparently, he’s choosing to drive away potential customers.”

“I am helping,” Jiho bites out. “Besides, you don’t want racist customers.”

“I am not racist!” I point my finger at his face, reminding myself not to poke him this time. If I felt that firm pec again, I’d be a whole other kind of riled. “Pointing out a person’s ethnicity is not racist.”

He shrugs. “Assuming a person’s ethnicity is.”

My finger lowers to his jersey. “Agreed, number 10, Jiho Park.”

His eyes briefly widen before one of the corners of his mouth tilts up in a coltish grin that makes me forget why I’m annoyed with him in the first place. He should always smile like that.

“You know Korean,” he says. “Impressive.”

“Anywaaay,” Jina sings again. “Please ignore him. Actually, just erase him from your memory and talk to me. Are you looking for a gym membership? I’d love to show you around.”

Looking at her and her perfect little South Korean body, then at Jiho’s, a looming sort of doom rolls over me. In three months, I’ll be moving to a country full of people who look like them. My eyes then look down at my body, my stomach muffin-topping over the waistband of my too-tight jeans, reminding me of the bag carrying my new, even bigger pants lying on the ground a few feet away.

Dammit.

I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot in a gym, but maybe it’s time. At least, for the remaining three months I’m in the country.

Next thing I know, I’m telling Jina yes and letting her lead the way. Thirty minutes later, I slide into my hatchback with a new Flex Factory membership card—a picture of me hardcore cheesin’ in the corner, right above a purple star, indicating my premium member status.

Jina was very persuasive, convincing me that I absolutely need personal training sessions on top of my month-to-month membership, sending three years of therapy to learn how to say no down the good ole toilet drain.

A long breath slips out, like I’ve been holding it in since entering the gym. Between New Year’s resolutions and momentary hot girl eras over the years, I started and quit gym memberships so many times I’ve lost count. The longest being a six-month-long stint in a scuzzy boxing gym. That one was interesting. Apparently, I have a mean right cross.

But this time…

“Three months, Morgan,” I tell myself. “Get sexy and fit, and maybe you’ll find a hot South Korean man to bring home.”

But it’s a Korean-American man’s face that flashes in my mind, one I don’t have to travel around the world to see.

One would think I’d never want to see Jiho Park again, but bickering with him was…fun. Mainly because I totally won that argument. Not to mention the things that man’s voice, hands, and smile do to me, if my damp panties are any indication.

So, instead of a scowl, a smile etches across my face. And for the first time in my life, I’m excited to go to the gym.