7 Gemma
T he next Friday at around eight p.m., I enter through the doors of the Irishman’s Jig, an Irish pub in San Francisco that my friends and I usually go to for St. Patrick’s Day. Because I don’t regularly frequent Irish pubs, I have no idea what they even do on normal weekdays, but it’s the least romantic spot I could think of for Celeste and me to meet. And it’s a fun enough place that I can’t imagine myself crying in here if things go wrong. Or at least, I hope I won’t.
Since it’s the first week of December, the Irishman’s Jig is decked out with Christmas lights, bright tinsel, and nutcracker statues. A handful of college students in red Santa suits and green elf costumes tune their fiddles and flutes on the stage. I watch them for a moment before looking around for Celeste.
When we were in college, Celeste was always perpetually early for everything, so I’m not surprised to see her already sitting in the back corner of the pub like she’s a regular. Maybe she is. Just thinking about how we’ve been in the same state for all these years, possibly frequenting the same places but at different times, makes my heart race. That’s one piece of knowledge I wish I never found out about.
Today, Celeste looks gorgeous, even though she’s just wearing a black leather jacket over a simple white shirt and jeans. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t think I can survive another encounter with those ridiculously sexy tattoos of hers. I barely resisted the urge to run my fingers across her skin the last time I saw her.
When she sees me, Celeste holds up a hand in the air. I can’t even meet her gaze without blushing. Which is an absolutely fan-fucking-tastic start. Eight years later and she still has that effect on me. I’m almost thirty and yet, around her, I’m a shy college kid again, my cheeks turning red whenever I accidentally make eye contact with my beautiful roommate.
“The Irishman’s Jig, huh?” Celeste asks when I sit down across the table from her.
“A proud and historic establishment of the city, first opened in 1972.” I point at the sign above the door that says just that.
“Ah, yes. The seventies. How historic,” she says dryly, before nodding her head at the musicians behind me. “They’re going to have a live performance soon. Are you okay with that?”
I purse my lips. The truth is, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of there being a performance on a normal weekday night. But it is a Friday, so maybe I should have known better. I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “Sure, why not? We can take breaks from talking to watch, I guess. And go somewhere else if it gets too bad.”
Celeste frowns. “Okay, then.”
I clear my throat. “Before we work together, I need to go over some things with you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “All right. What things?”
“First of all, I want you to know, I did everything I could to make it so we wouldn’t have to work together. But unfortunately, Evelyn is convinced you’re the perfect person for the job. And at this point, it’s also too late to get someone else.”
Celeste smirks, resting her chin on her right hand. “I knew I liked her.”
Frustration rises up inside me like a kettle about to boil over.
“I need this project to do well, Celeste,” I say, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. “If this doesn’t get the attention we need, my coworkers and I might lose our jobs.”
She sits up, finally serious. “This project is a big deal for me, too, so don’t worry about that. Or at least, not about the visual aspect of it. And I’m willing to work with you, if you’re willing to work with me.”
Celeste takes out a tablet from her big black purse and opens it to a gallery of what I can only assume is her most recent work. I try to keep a blank face as I look at her portraits, practically holding my breath because I cannot let her know that I stalked her online and have already seen some of these pictures. Thankfully, a good chunk are portraits and videos that weren’t shared on social media, featuring various individuals from all walks of life. All framed and lit perfectly, the people in her art somehow look both familiar and ethereal at the same time, like neighbors portrayed in a way that makes them appear otherworldly.
Like the pictures on her Instagram, all the pieces in her portfolio are beautiful, too. And I can now see why Evelyn thinks she’s perfect for this job. My voice comes out hushed when I say, “You’re really talented.”
Our eyes meet over the small candle in the center of the table. Somehow, even amid all the people laughing and sloshing beer around us, it feels like Celeste and I are in the middle of our own romantic date.
Fortunately, at that exact moment, loud cheers erupt from the people seated around us. Everyone raises their pints of beer, and Celeste, with a bemused look on her face, raises her hand like she’s holding an invisible drink.
Four dancers appear onstage, dressed in matching green shirts and either black skirts or leotard pants.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Celeste says. She stands up from her seat and whoops, joining in with the loud cheers. “Definitely not something you’d ever see in Korea. Well, maybe in Itaewon, but not anywhere else.”
A server comes by our table, asking, “Do you two want to order any drinks before they start the performance?”
Celeste glances over at me. “You okay with drinking during our meeting? We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
I mull it over. I do want to keep things relatively professional. But it is a Friday night, and I’m going to need a drink by the time Celeste and I are done talking about everything. “Sure, why not?”
“Fabulous.” Celeste turns her attention back to the server. “I’ll have a Guinness, and she’ll have a Blue Moon.” She turns back to me. “You still like those, right?”
“Yeah,” I say begrudgingly, before it hits me. “Wait, who said I was okay with you buying me a drink?”
She winks at me. “It’s the least I can do for crashing your work project.”
Celeste ordering me a drink and winking at me takes us dangerously close to the “date” category. When the server comes back with our beers, I take a small sip of mine. Celeste can get drunk and sloppy, for all I care. I’ll gladly be the one to keep things professional.
The music starts, rendering all conversation impossible as everyone claps and stomps along to the dancers, who prance around the stage to the bright and cheery music. Some sound like traditional Irish songs, while others are classical renditions of holiday tunes.
The performance goes on for much longer than I expected it to, and even though it was my idea to come here in the first place, I start to regret it. I want to keep Celeste at arm’s length, but we still have a lot of things we need to talk about. Namely, our past. Which won’t be an easy conversation in the slightest.
I’m about to suggest to Celeste that we go somewhere else when I notice she’s not at our table anymore. Somehow, she’s linked arms with the guys at the table next to us. I watch as they dance in a circle and joyfully slosh their beer around.
Celeste’s cheeks are bright pink, and my eyes almost instinctively drop down to her red-painted lips. When our gazes meet again, the corner of her mouth lifts. That small movement is enough to make me swallow.
The moment thankfully passes, and she turns around to laugh at something one of the guys said. The music is too loud for me to make out any words, but she replies, and suddenly the whole group is cracking up like she said the funniest joke in the world. One guy even slaps his knees and almost falls backward, which makes everyone laugh harder.
Somehow, she’s already all buddy-buddy with these strangers, something I could never do. And that’s when it hits me. Besides her technical skills, there’s another reason why Celeste is absolutely perfect for this project.
I love my job because I can help strangers in heavily controlled environments, like answering virtual submissions and emails. But just because I love people doesn’t mean I’m good with them. Meanwhile, even back in college, when she first started out by taking graduation photos to build her portfolio, Celeste somehow always knew the right words to say to make her clients drop their guards and loosen up. By the time she was done taking their photos, she not only became friends with all of them, but she captured her subjects in the best figurative and literal light, helping them shine in their own unique ways.
From the way she’s instantly charmed her way into the group of guys, it’s clear that Celeste still has those social skills. Meanwhile, since graduating from college, I haven’t made any new friends other than Val and Kiara, whom I met several years ago.
The music finally comes to a stop, and the dancers bow as the audience gives them a round of applause.
“Thank you, everyone!” says one of the performers onstage. “We’re done for the night but stick around for other great performances tonight. The Irish Fighters are up next, and they’ll be ready in a few minutes. Happy Friday and happy holidays!”
After a round of resounding cheers, the college students get off the stage and everyone settles back into their seats. I’m watching the Irish Fighters, a local band whose lead singer looks suspiciously like Dave Grohl, set up their guitars and drums when Celeste says, “Whew. Sorry about that. This is my first time at an Irish pub, so I couldn’t resist having some fun.”
She gives me an impish smile, reminding me of why I first fell in love with her so many years ago. Sure, she’s super sexy, but I was always even more attracted to her personality, the fun, air sign energy that kept her—and me, too, when I was dating her—leaping from new experience to new experience with a childlike sense of wonder.
That’s something I’ll always be grateful to Celeste for, no matter what. Realizing I’m not straight during junior year in college would have been a lot scarier if Celeste hadn’t been there by my side, making everything, even my own sexuality, feel like just another fun adventure we were going on together.
In the now relatively quiet din of the Irish pub, I finally say, “Celeste. We have to talk about our past before we start this project. You may be able to pretend that nothing happened between us, but I can’t see you all the time and work with you after what you did.”
The smile drops from Celeste’s face. She clears her throat and takes a swig of her beer.
There’s a sharp edge in her voice when she asks, “What I did? Okay, sure. Let’s talk about everything.”
I tense up, preemptively preparing myself for her response. “Why did you disappear eight years ago?”
Celeste blinks, as if that’s not what she expected me to say. Finally, with her gaze cast down to the floor, she says, “My mom got sick, so I had to go back home. Things were bad, so I couldn’t return to the US to finish my degree until the next school year, after her condition stabilized a bit.”
The way she explains it, it’s so straightforward. But there’s something off about her voice and the way she’s avoiding my gaze as she speaks.
I frown. “Is your mom okay now?” I ask, fearing the worst.
Celeste’s eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. She is. Or as well as she can be. She’s in remission. Has been for several years now, thankfully.”
“That’s good to hear.” I breathe a sigh of relief and sit back in my seat.
“What?” she asks when I don’t say anything else.
“It’s just…” It’s my turn to look away, but instead of the floor, I stare at the stage where the Irish Fighters are setting up. “I wish you’d have come to me and told me what was going on with your mom, rather than break up with me via text with no explanation. It made me feel like I meant nothing to you. Also, it’s been eight years. Like, I get that you had a lot going on when you first went back home, but what about afterward? You never replied to my messages on KakaoTalk asking if you were okay. And you dodged all my calls. You ghosted me, after we were together for over a year.”
KakaoTalk is the chatting app that almost all Koreans use, whether they live in South Korea or elsewhere in the world. Even though I blocked her on social media, I kept that channel open between us for all these years and occasionally sent her messages, in case she ever decided to reach out. But she always read everything I sent her without replying.
Celeste stares down at her hands. “First of all, I’m sorry for leaving like that. Definitely not the best way to go about things. I fully acknowledge that. I was—still am—the only member of my family living abroad. And since that was the first time I experienced a family emergency, I panicked when I heard that my mom was in the hospital. I dumped my stuff at Goodwill on my way to the airport and didn’t even properly withdraw from classes until I arrived in Seoul.”
“Wow,” I reply. “That’s a lot.”
She nods in acknowledgment before looking up from her drink. The sudden heat in her eyes is so intense that I’m taken aback as she says, “And as for why I didn’t reach out later… honestly, I didn’t even know you cared that much. You blocked me on social media and were already dating someone else four months after I left.”