6 Gemma
A bsolutely not.” Evelyn’s response comes quick and without a moment of hesitation. “All the paperwork just got finalized, and we’re already behind schedule. Plus, she’s perfect for the project, so I’m not sure why choosing someone else is even necessary. I had a lunch meeting with her yesterday, and she was absolutely lovely.”
I tightly clutch my thermos of coffee, trying to find the right words to explain the situation to Evelyn.
“What if I have a… personal reason why I can’t work with her?” I ask, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “She and I have history, and not a good one at that.”
Peering at me over the edge of her glasses in a way that reminds me of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada , Evelyn purses her lips. “What kind of history?” she asks, slowly drawing out every word.
I sigh. So much for keeping my personal life away from my professional one.
“We dated,” I say. “In college. Things didn’t end well, and honestly, if I knew she was attached to this project, I would have asked to not be assigned to it.”
I drink from my thermos as Evelyn raises her eyebrows. “That bad? So you still have feelings for her.”
I splutter, choking on a mouthful of coffee.
“Um, no, of course I don’t. It’s been almost ten years since we dated. I’ve been engaged to and broken up with a whole other person since the last time we saw each other.”
“Well, I’m assuming working with Ms. Min won’t be a problem, then?” Evelyn asks, turning her attention back to her desktop. If it weren’t for the slight, amused quirk of her lips, I’d think she’s being dismissive.
She thinks it’s funny , I realize. And I guess, in a hilariously cruel twist of fate kind of way, it is. I think back to how awkward things were between Celeste and me last night.
“Gemma, if it bothers you that much, I can certainly assign this project to another writer,” Evelyn goes on when I don’t say anything else. “Since Celeste is already contracted to be on this project, the only movement we can do at this point is internal. But I’d much prefer the writer to be you , since it’s an amazing opportunity.”
Disappointment flashes in her eyes. Evelyn’s done so much for me in the last seven years. She’s probably the reason why I still have this job in the first place. I hate letting her down, so I blurt out, “It’s not just me, though. I mean, I can handle it, if I have to. But if Celeste knew I’m involved in the project, she wouldn’t want to stay on it, either.”
It’s hardly a lie. Celeste had seemed as uncomfortable around me last night as I was with her. Maybe even more.
“Oh?” Evelyn asks. “If that’s the case, it can’t be helped. Could you please reach out to her and ask her to confirm? Sorry, Gemma. I have a meeting in five. You can cc me on the email if you’d like. I’ll step in if needed.”
As if on cue, Evelyn’s phone rings. She picks up and says, “Yes?”
With her other hand, she jots down an email address onto the back of her own business card before handing it to me as she continues talking to the person on the other line. “Understood. I’m on my way. Thank you.”
I blush, realizing how ridiculous and unprofessional I must seem right now, making a big deal about a work assignment because of a college ex. Fortunately, Evelyn seems to find it amusing, and she and I have a long enough working relationship that this isn’t something she’d fire me over. Or at least, I hope not.
Mouthing Thank you to Evelyn, I slip out of her office, carrying the business card with my arm stretched out in front of me like I’m handling a vicious viper. Honestly, I would have rather it be an actual snake than a piece of paper with Celeste’s email address. At least then I’d know what kind of situation I’m getting myself into.
Despite the awkwardness, Celeste seemed polite enough when I saw her yesterday, so hopefully the email exchange will be quick and painless. Hands trembling, I open Outlook and write up the most professional email I can manage.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Modern Love in Focus
Hi, Celeste. This is Gemma. I heard we’re bringing you into this project. Unfortunately, I’m also attached to it. It’s understandable if you don’t want to work with me. Let us know and we’ll make changes.
Best,
Gem
I’m about to hit send when, last minute, I add the last “ma” to the end of my name. “Gem” is what Celeste called me when we were dating. It’s also what she called me last night.
Old habits only die when you kill them with force.
During lunch, I get a text from Mom. Since she prefers phone calls, she and I don’t usually text, and especially not during work hours. But when I read the notification, I realize I haven’t talked to my parents since I first told them about my breakup with James.
I can sense all her concerns, fears, and love in the three words she sends.
Have you eaten?
We’re so Korean sometimes, it hurts. In our culture, food is absolutely a love language, and it’s deeply ingrained in our history and how people often went hungry as war tore the land apart. My parents rarely ask me how I’m feeling, but they always ask me if I’ve eaten my meals.
All things considered, I’m glad. “Have you eaten?” is a much easier question to answer than “Are you okay?” I wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to respond to the latter.
I’m about to , I reply. And then in a second message I add, Thanks. I’ll come home for Thanksgiving.
She sends me back a big, red heart, and I do a quick search of flights from SFO to SNA. Since it’s a smaller airport, flights to John Wayne are often pricey and limited, especially during the holidays. But I definitely do not want to ask my sixty-something parents to drive for over an hour in heavy traffic to pick me up from LAX.
The last time I visited my parents was in September for Chuseok, the Korean Mid-Autumn Festival. James and I flew down together. Even then, I had no idea I’d be coming home again so soon, on Thanksgiving, since for the last seven years, James and I always drove down to San Jose to celebrate the holiday with his family.
While my parents do a simple but still delicious meal whenever we celebrate the holidays together, the Mathesons always threw extravagant parties in their mansion with tons of relatives and acquaintances. Aside from a few of the servers and other staff, I’d often be the only non-white person there, which initially made me uncomfortable. But after the first couple of years, I got used to it, and thankfully, even though we were clearly in very different tax brackets, everyone was usually super nice and sweet.
Daphne, who is not only white but also—if the office gossip is true—very rich, will probably fit right in from the start. My stomach turns at the thought.
I’m about to shut down my computer and leave the office for the day when I get Celeste’s reply.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Modern in Love in Focus Project
Hey, Gem. Nice to hear from you. I’m fine with being on the project if you are. Talk to you soon.
-C
Fuck. I read the email over and over again, as if my life depends on the few sentences. No, I’m not fine with any of this. But it’s not like I have a choice. Not really. Evelyn is dead set on keeping Celeste. Like I said I would, I’ll just have to deal with my own discomfort.
It’ll be the biggest project you’ve ever worked on at Horizon, I remind myself.
I take a deep breath. The only thing I can do at this point is rip off the Band-Aid. I hit reply and write up another email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Modern Love in Focus
Hi, Celeste. Great! Then why don’t we meet up sometime after Thanksgiving to talk more about our visions for the project, expectations, etc.? Let me know your availability.
-Gemma
In almost no time at all, Celeste sends me a list of her available days and times. Unfortunately, things are going as smooth as they can.
I glance up from the email chain and realize it’s half past five. No way am I working overtime to schedule things with Celeste. On a Friday, no less. She’ll have to wait until Monday morning.
I shut down my computer and head out for the weekend.
The days before Thanksgiving fly by in a blur, like they usually do, with everyone in the office either slacking off or working in hyperdrive before the holiday. I’m in the latter camp, and I hustle to get as much done as I can, including finalizing my meeting time with Celeste. Since she isn’t coming back from LA until a full week after the holiday, the earliest time we can meet is the next Friday night. Which isn’t ideal, but it can’t be helped. We’ll have to start working on the project ASAP after we meet.
On Thanksgiving morning, I fly an hour and a half to Irvine. The gravity of the whole situation only fully sinks in when I see my parents’ worried faces at the airport. In the seven years I’ve lived in SF, it was always either Mom or Dad who came to pick me up, never both. The fact that they’re both here, even after I called ahead to tell them I’d get an Uber back home, is a crushing reminder of how much my life has changed since I last saw them.
Mom envelops me in her arms. Dad follows suit, and even without them saying anything, I can tell they can feel my grief as if it were their own.
Neither of my parents say “We told you so” on the drive back home. Nor do they say something like “See, this is why we told you to date a nice Korean man from our church.” They don’t say anything, other than to ask how Val and Kiara are doing and if I’d eaten dinner yet.
I must look more pathetic than I thought.
Back home, Mom’s prepared us an extravagant meal of braised beef galbi, pan-fried dumplings, japchae noodles, and more than five different other side dishes that make my mouth water. We’ve never been the traditional American Thanksgiving type of family, opting to eat Korean food for every holiday instead.
When we don’t have any guests over and it’s just the three of us, Mom usually only makes one nice dish, like a hearty stew or banquet noodles. Without her even having to tell me, I know she’s put in extra effort today to help me feel better.
My heart squeezes in the best way.
“Eat up,” Mom says. “You’ve lost a lot of weight since we saw you last.”
Korean mom translation: You don’t look well. I’m worried about you.
Over dinner, my parents and I catch up, talking in a mix of both Korean and English like we always do. They tell me what they’ve been up to, both at work and in their Korean church community, and I tell them as much as I can about what happened in my life—minus printer room–gate and my messy bar encounters—without bursting into tears. They’re worried enough about me as it is. I don’t want them to lose sleep at night because of my dating woes.
Hours later, after they’ve gone to bed, I draw myself a bath. When I was a kid, Mom used to draw one for me whenever I’d had a particularly hard day at school. I’d come home feeling like the world was imploding and submerge myself into hot water infused with whatever bath salts Mom was into that day. By the time I got out of the tub, life would feel manageable again, like I’d finished a therapy session.
I haven’t taken a bath since the breakup, because I didn’t want to rack up my friends’ water bills. So when I sink into the soothingly warm water tonight, I relish it. Or at least, I try to. But no matter how much I stay submerged or scrub away my dead skin, I can’t change the fact that I gave up seven years of my life for someone who seemingly had a change of heart overnight. I can’t change the fact that just weeks after my disastrous and traumatic breakup, I ran into my college ex. And I can’t change the fact that she and I will have to see each other regularly until we finish working on “Modern Love in Focus.”
If Celeste and I weren’t already exes, it’d be like a meet-cute of a rom-com. But instead, it’s more like a car crash. An accidental encounter between two people who would rather not have been at the same place at the same time.
When the water grows cold, I get up from the tub, dry off, and change into pajamas. Then I slip into my childhood bed with my phone in one hand. Like I’ve been doing for the past few weeks, I search for and apply to “roommate wanted” listings in the city. There’s no way I can afford to live by myself in San Francisco, so this is the best I can do for now.
After I run out of listings to apply for, I end up flipping through people’s Instagram Stories and feel a slight sting of FOMO when I see Kiara, Val, and their other friends at a queer Friendsgiving party. They all look so happy, an emotion that seems foreign to me right now.
I exit out of my friends’ stories to go to my own profile. Tragically, my last post was a picture of James and me laughing together while wine tasting in Napa with his parents in October. James’s mom took this picture. And both our faces—mine a little flushed from the alcohol—are so bright and cheery.
My big, gaudy engagement ring shines bright in the sunlight.
I pinch my phone screen with both hands to zoom into the picture, scrutinizing James’s smile. It looks so genuine , which ironically makes me feel better about my situation. At least it isn’t obvious that James wanted to end our relationship. Or that he had any thoughts of doing so at all. Is it my fault that my ex either has the skills of an Emmy Award–winning actor or had a drastically sudden change of heart? My head hurts thinking about how, two weeks after this photo was taken, James would become just another ex.
I tap on the three dots in the top right corner and delete the photo.
Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I unblock Celeste on social media and navigate to her profile.
For the sake of my own mental well-being, I’d blocked her back when we first broke up. It’s almost comical how easy it is to unblock her now, after eight years of keeping her tightly locked away in my past.
We’re not following each other now, of course, but her account is public, so I can still see everything. I’m surprised to see that she has over five hundred thousand followers. When we dated, she didn’t even have five hundred. I scroll through countless beautifully shot portraits, breathtaking pictures of Californian landscapes, and various promotional shoots with stunningly gorgeous models. I spot Gretchen in one of the shots, her long auburn hair glowing as she looks out at the Big Sur coastline during sunset.
So that’s how they met.
I keep scrolling until Celeste’s posts begin to blur together. Some naive part of me hopes that if I go far enough, I’ll find the reason why Celeste left me so many years ago.
But of course, I don’t.
Instead, toward the end of her page, I spot a picture that’s practically a jump-scare. A selfie of Celeste and me, back in college, her lips gently pressed against my forehead as we lie together on a picnic blanket. Celeste is taking the photo, and I still remember the words she said as she snapped it: “Just commemorating how much I love my beautiful girlfriend.”
We both look like babies , or at least, that’s how we appear to present-day, twenty-nine-year-old me. Our cheeks are flushed and still round with baby fat, and neither Celeste nor I has a single visible wrinkle on our faces. I’d turned twenty-one a few months before this photo, and I remember thinking I was a real adult, now that I could legally drink. Which is entirely laughable to me now.
I thought I had everything figured out then, since by that point, Celeste and I were talking about “grown-up things” like a getting a place together in Koreatown after graduation. Just like twenty-nine-year-old me had no idea James Matheson would suddenly break off our engagement, twenty-one-year-old me had no idea Celeste would upend our lives and disappear.
By the time I close Instagram for the night, I’ve made my decision.
I can’t work with Celeste until I know why she disappeared on me eight years ago. And I know just the place we can meet to talk about everything.