4 Gemma
T here’s a Korean word, inyeon , for the fated destiny between two people. And apparently Celeste and I have that, but agyeon , or the bad kind that leaves you tossing and turning at night, because there’s no other explanation I can think of for the stall door opening to reveal Celeste Min, my ex from college. She’s holding back Gretchen’s hair as she vomits, but both women straighten when they see me.
Gretchen wipes her mouth, flushes the toilet, and then fixes me with an icy, but slightly unfocused, glare. “Who are you?” she asks.
But before I can answer her, Celeste says, “Gem.”
Her low, alto voice caresses every consonant of my name, sending chills down my spine.
Celeste was always beautiful, with large doe eyes made sharp by her signature winged eyeliner and long, elegant limbs. But the youthful awkwardness I remember her having back in college is gone, replaced by the goddess-like air of a fully defined woman almost in her thirties. Her entire body looks different now, toned and with the kind of ass you can only get from spending countless hours at the gym. Instead of the long waves that softened her features when we were younger, her hair is now pulled tight into a straight, sleek ponytail, accentuating her perfect jawline.
And her tattoos. Holy shit, Celeste has tattoos now.
Tattoos aren’t widely accepted in Korean society, or at least not as much as they are in the US. When I was growing up, my parents would tell me only criminals and other social deviants have tattoos. That isn’t to say no one in South Korea has tattoos—a good number do. But it’s much more of a big “fuck you” to traditional values than it is here in the US, especially prominently visible ones like Celeste’s. And definitely more so if you’re a woman.
Gorgeously inked black flowers trail across her left arm and leg, giving her femme fatale vibes that make my heart skip a beat. I get the sudden urge to run my hands over them, to trace all the lines and curves.
But of course, I can’t do that. Not when it’s been eight years since we last saw each other.
I swallow, and ball my hands into fists before glancing away like I didn’t spend the last few seconds staring at her. My cheeks are red-hot, but I keep my expression indifferent. That and avoiding eye contact are the only things I can do to keep some semblance of my pride.
But fuck. Some people do age like fine wine.
In an attempt to regain my sanity, I pretend Celeste doesn’t exist, and address Gretchen instead.
“Sorry for barging in, but I wanted to check if you’re okay,” I say to her. “I can get you some water if you want…”
Gretchen heaves a long sigh and stumbles forward, away from Celeste. She jabs a finger in my direction and says, still slurring her words, “ You. How do you know Celeste? She’s been cheating on me this whole time, hasn’t she?”
And that’s enough drama for me today. It appears I overstepped. Gretchen has stopped vomiting, at least, so it’s time for me to make my exit.
I back away, pushing the stall door open behind me. “Um, no idea about the second part but if she was, it wasn’t with me. We went to college together, that’s all. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
I of course don’t mention she’s my ex. That’s a detail I doubt will sit well with Gretchen.
If Celeste visibly reacts to what I say, I don’t see it, because I force myself to keep ignoring her. Her mere presence, only a few feet away, makes my entire body tingle in an unfortunately not-unpleasant way. I can’t stay here.
Some part of me wants to yell at Celeste like Gretchen’s been doing and demand that she explain why she left me all those years ago. Why everyone in my life keeps leaving me without any explanation whatsoever. But I know she’s not the type to respond well to that kind of thing. Admittedly, few people are, but Celeste is even more allergic to loud voices and conflict than anyone I’ve ever known. Or at least, she was eight years ago.
Celeste shifts her weight, and I instinctively glance in her direction. Damn it.
Apparently, she’s been watching me this entire time. But when our eyes meet, hers immediately dart back to Gretchen.
“I didn’t cheat,” she says, quietly but firmly. “Please don’t think that. Just because I don’t do relationships—which I made clear when we first met—doesn’t mean I’m a cheater.”
I make a sound of disbelief before I can stop myself. Both Gretchen and Celeste give me confused looks, but I couldn’t help it. The Celeste I knew was a hopeless romantic. She was the girl who carried around romance books and made little braids in my hair when we were curled up in bed together. The girl who whispered how much she loved me and wanted to marry me one day. And now, she doesn’t “do relationships”? What happened ?
“Can you please leave?” asks Gretchen, shooting me a glare. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. Successfully avoiding eye contact with Celeste this time around, I slip out of the restroom. This is clearly not the time and place for me to interrogate Celeste about her past. About our past. Especially not after the night I’ve had.
And that’s when I remember what I was doing before Celeste crashed into my life again.
Oh shit. I glance down at my phone.
I’d received a couple texts from Kiara and Val asking me if I’m okay. I immediately reply to them to say that I am, and Kiara tells me they’re now at another bar down the street.
You’re welcome to join us if you want! she writes.
I’ll see you guys back at the apartment , I reply. Thanks for coming out with me!
Of course! Kiara replies.
Have fun~ texts Val. While also being safe, of course.
We’ll stay in this area for the next hour or so before heading back home, so just call or text us if anything happens! Kiara adds.
I tap my phone to heart Kiara’s message and make my way through the bar, doing a double take when I see Ian angrily yelling at the bartender for more drinks. He seemed tipsy when I left, but now he’s definitely drunk.
The rage disappears from his face the moment he sees me.
“Oh, you didn’t leave?” he asks sheepishly.
“Nope,” I say. “Sorry, I was helping someone in the bathroom.”
“Oh.” He puts down his empty glass.
“Sorry. I should have let you know.” I turn to the bartender, a blue-haired twenty-something with piercings, and add, “ So sorry you had to deal with this.”
I fish a couple of bills from my wallet and place them on the bar. The bartender gratefully slips the money into their pocket.
Ian is practically a stranger, but I still don’t want to leave him alone at the bar like this. Not when he’s drunk out of his mind. Maybe I can call him a car.
“Come on,” I say to Ian. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I meant those last words figuratively, since there’s no way I can actually physically take him out of the bar, and am wholly unprepared when Ian slumps forward, slipping down from his seat like he expects someone like me to support a giant like him.
“Oh, nononono!”
Panic flashes in my head, but I’m not fast enough to avoid the crushing weight of a two-hundred-something-pound man bearing down on me. It’s like I’m fighting a grizzly. And failing miserably.
The people around us jump out of the way. A few younger ones start recording on their phones. This is what I get for trying to be nice. Which is laughable now, because clearly, no one wants to help me .
I’m about to drop him on the floor when the pressure lightens significantly.
“Whoa there, buddy.”
I turn my head to see Celeste holding the man up. Her slender arms strain against his weight, but they miraculously push a now asleep Ian back onto the bar stool. The jackass actually dozed off at some point.
Still, Celeste manhandled him expertly… all while wearing heels . It’s, unfortunately, one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.
My face heats up when our eyes met again. Shit.
“I never understood why short women always go for the really tall guys,” Celeste says in a familiar, dry tone. “Save some for us tall girls, won’t you, Gemma?”
I’m out of breath, and my heart is still racing with the adrenaline of having almost been crushed alive. But I manage to get out, “You don’t even like men.”
Celeste flashes me a wry smile. “That’s incorrect. I like my jiujitsu instructor and my personal trainer, and without both men , we would have been crushed alive. Not all of them are bad, shockingly. My best friend is also a guy.”
Shoving away all inappropriate thoughts of Celeste working out and wrestling with people on the floor, I clear my throat. “But you’d never date them.”
She cocks her head to the side in acknowledgment.
“Where’s Gretchen?” I ask, belatedly realizing that the other woman is nowhere to be found.
“Safely on her way home. I got her a car.”
Celeste’s words echo in my head. I don’t do relationships.
“So,” I start to ask. “What happened—”
“Are you two together?” Celeste cuts in before I can finish my question. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Ian.
“No, I just met the guy. This is kind of our first date.”
I glance down at the now unconscious man. From this angle, he looks unexpectedly cute, almost like a big, sleeping baby and not the massive giant he really is.
“Wow, some first date,” Celeste replies.
Now that Ian’s out of the way, I can’t ignore how close she and I are to each other. It’s still hard to believe she’s standing right here in this random bar in San Francisco. I could lean over and kiss her if I wanted to.
Before I can stop myself, my eyes linger on her scarlet-red-painted lips.
“How about you?” I ask. “Why are you here? I thought you moved back to Seoul.”
Celeste leans back against the bar. “I did. But I came back to LA a year later to finish my degree. Now, I travel back and forth between there and SF for my photography work. I got in yesterday for another project here.”
The bartender turns back to us, and Celeste orders a pumpkin spice cocktail, the same drink Val ordered when my friends and I arrived at the bar.
“And what happened between you and Gretchen?” I can’t resist asking.
A crease appears between Celeste’s eyebrows. “Pretty much what you heard in the restroom” is the only thing she says in response. The bartender hands Celeste her drink, and she takes a long sip.
I expect her to go on, to tell me about why she doesn’t do relationships or why she disappeared on me so many years ago, but she doesn’t. She slowly takes another sip of her cocktail instead, keeping her gaze on the floor. I’m about to directly ask her about everything she clearly doesn’t want to talk about when something she’d said earlier gives me pause.
“Wait, what project?”
She shrugs. “Oh, it’s for some magazine. They want me to shoot video and take photos of couples for Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t start until later, but I had to meet with some people to finalize some things. I could have done the meeting virtually but since I had another shoot in the area scheduled for this weekend, I figured I’d come in earlier and kill two birds with one stone.”
And then it all clicks. The Valentine’s Day project that I’ve been assigned to. The hot woman photographer from UCLA that Kiara mentioned. And now, Celeste, who’s not in Seoul or Los Angeles but in San Francisco, of all places, sitting right next to me in this crowded bar.
“No,” I whisper. It’s all I can do against the wave of horror that rushes over me.
Celeste cocks her head in confusion, her eyes squinting with concern. “You okay?”
A whirlwind of thoughts and emotions war inside me. I want to scream. To laugh. To do both at the same time. But what I don’t want to do is tell Celeste that we’re assigned to work together. That’s an awkward conversation I won’t be touching with a ten-foot pole.
I have to get out of here and email Evelyn. I resolve to meet with her as soon as I can and change her mind about hiring Celeste. I might not be able to do anything about the past, but I want to do everything in my power to stop our paths from messily overlapping again.
“Well, thanks for your help,” I say. “Have a good rest of your night. I’m taking this guy home.”
I’m not, but the lie is a hundred percent worth Celeste’s reaction. She jerks back in disgust, a way stronger reaction than I expected from her.
“Wait, you’re going home with this loser?” she asks.
“That’s the plan, or at least, it was before I got caught up in all of this,” I say, gesturing between her and me.
“Do you even know where he lives?”
I shrug. “I’ll ask him.”
When I shake him awake, he gives me an address on Spear Street, a less-than-ten-minute drive from the bar.
I turn to Celeste with a triumphant smile. “Well, there you go.”
I’m trying to flag down the bartender when I feel a firm but gentle grip on my shoulder.
“Gem,” Celeste says, her voice low and smooth like silk. “This is crazy. You barely know this guy and he’s half-asleep. You should get him a taxi or something and go home.”
I check the time on my phone to avoid telling Celeste that I’m actually doing exactly what she said I should do. Ten fifty-five p.m. After disappearing without any explanation or apology for eight years , who does she think she is to tell me what I can or can’t do?
I type Ian’s address into my phone and request a ride. Luckily the cost is pretty minimal since it’s not rush hour.
“Can I have two glasses of water, please?” I ask when the bartender turns our way. “And close the tab? Sorry, again.”
“It happens,” they congenially say as they pour two glasses of water for us and place the check on the bar.
I chug the first glass of water and press the other one against Ian’s cheek to wake him up. I really don’t want to pay for his egregious bill.
Fortunately, Ian stirs awake.
“Oh, hello!” he says. “Sorry, did I pass out?”
“Yup, but don’t worry about it. Let’s go. Don’t forget to pay your bill!”
I keep my tone light and friendly, and Ian dutifully pays without incident— thank God . As we get up to leave, he catches sight of Celeste, who’s been closely watching him this entire time like a murderous cat.
“Wait, who’s she?”
I almost call Celeste a “friend” but then realize she’s everything but. And I don’t want to get into our painful history with a total stranger, either, so I say, “Just someone I know.”
As Ian and I leave, I fix Celeste with one last stare. She blinks rapidly, her eyes widening slightly as she bites her bottom lip. It’s an innocent gesture, but the sudden moment of vulnerability makes my cheeks heat up again. I quickly turn away and walk out the bar with Ian.
When his car arrives, I hold the door open.
“You’re not coming with me?” Ian asks, pouting like a little kid.
“Sorry,” I say. “Maybe some other night.”
I have no intention of ever seeing this guy again, but I don’t want to piss him off. You can never tell how men will react to rejection, and I’ve already seen him yell at someone once tonight.
Luckily, Ian is either too tired or too drunk to put up much of a fight. He obediently slips into the back seat, and I close the door behind him.
The car drives off, leaving me alone with thoughts of Celeste.