CHAPTER ELEVEN
JASE
I have been standing in front of the mirror for at least 10 minutes. Probably longer. If I don’t move pretty soon, I’m going to be late. Well, maybe not late, since I wasn’t given an exact time to arrive, but it will be later than I want it to be. I like to be early to everything when I can, and for something like this, well, I want every second I can have. As if I’ve ever done anything like this before.
I’ve never been to a k-pop concert.
I’ve never been this nervous about meeting someone.
I’ve never had these butterflies or this kind of anticipation zipping through my veins, like I’ve taken a hit of something very potent. It feels like there’s so much riding on tonight. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but this is… big .
We’ve been face-to-face for months now, but not like this. Not sharing a space. Not breathing the same air. Not close enough to touch.
The idea alone is enough to send another jolt of adrenaline shooting up my spine.
I take another look in the mirror and decide that this is as good as it gets. Since the day Nikko invited me to the show, I’ve tried on everything in my closet at least twice, in an attempt to decide what I should wear. I want to blend in and look like I belong there, but I also want to look kind of amazing. In the way that might make someone think I was hot. If they happened to be interested in me.
Once I had determined that I did not own a single thing that was acceptable, I did the only thing I could think of outside of asking the girls at school to dress me: I went to the internet. Turns out dressing for a k-pop concert is basically like getting ready for a fashion show, but also a marathon? So many suggestions about making the right kind of impression on fellow fans, but also preparing for the hours-long experience that seems to start early in the day for the truly dedicated.
I still don’t know what to expect, but I have an entirely new outfit—shirt, jeans, shoes, accessories—and I have to admit, the departure from my usual look has given me something of a confidence boost. The jeans are more form-fitting than I’d usually go for, the shirt more tailored, and the shoes not unlike a pair I’d seen one of the RYSING members wearing in a recent interview.
Noel is in absolutely no hurry when I take her outside, giving me more time to think about things. I actually haven’t talked to Nikko in several days, which is unusual for us. Now that the group is in the States, they’ve been so busy with their scheduled interviews and appearances that there hasn’t been time. It’s ironic that we’re geographically closer than we’ve ever been—even in the same time zone—and we haven’t managed to have much of a conversation.
There had been texts here and there—pictures of varying degrees of flirtatiousness and short messages relaying times when we’d crossed each other’s mind—but it wasn’t the same. I want to talk to him. Hear his voice. See his eyes light up in real time.
Nikko had popped up unexpectedly the other day, eager to tell me that the DJ at a satellite radio station had complimented his English and said he seemed more relaxed during their segment. It made me so happy to see how excited he was, clearly pleased that the work he was doing was noticeable.
His pride had felt contagious. As his teacher, I’m thrilled he’s being recognized for his success. As his friend and someone who cares about him, I’m glad he was able to be himself more and let new people see him and how amazing he is. He deserves that kind of attention.
As I set Noel up with her treats and toys for while I’m gone, I try to shake off the nerves and restlessness that keep creeping up on me. Nikko’s presence has become such a part of my life that our lack of conversations has thrown me off-kilter somehow. Walking out the door, it hits me. I miss him. It’s just that simple.
But here I am, literally on my way to see him. To meet him, for real. To see him do what he does best. To watch him, surrounded by people who love him. Idolize him. Fans who probably know more of the details of his life than I do—things like his shoe size and what kind of toothpaste he prefers. There’s a part of me that’s smug, though—and maybe unfairly so—because I know the cadence of his voice as he reads poetry that he wants me to hear, and the way his eyes go dark and soft as he confesses a secret that he holds close to his heart.
It’s that thought that stays on my mind for the better part of the drive. All the way into the city, sitting in traffic outside the arena, and looking for a parking spot in the massive lot. It seems so obvious to me, the weight of what I’m about to do. That I’m going to get out of my car and take deliberate steps toward something— someone— that could change my life.
Maybe he already has.
??
The pep talk that I give myself all the way to the will-call ticket window does not help. I pass fans with painted faces and giant signs proclaiming their love for their biases, many with very incorrect grammar, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts. It hits me then, though, that I’m not just meeting Nikko tonight—I’m also seeing a show from a group I’ve come to legitimately enjoy with a bunch of other people who love them, too. This really does feel like a once-in-a-lifetime kind of night.
As soon as I approach the window, tell the bored-looking employee my name, and she hands over a bulky white envelope with both English and Hangul on it, I can feel myself breaking out in a sweat. Somehow, this one thing just made everything so much more real. It’s happening. Right now.
On the outside of the envelope is my name, but also “seonsaengnim.” Teacher. The first way Nikko ever addressed me. I wonder if he wrote this. If I’m seeing his handwriting for the first time.
I step aside to let the next person up in line take their turn. My hands are actually shaking as I try to carefully slip open the envelope and keep as much of it intact as possible. I can’t decide if my desire to preserve it is more of my middle-school-crush side or the grandma-at-Christmas-with-the-wrapping-paper. Either way, I’m handling it gingerly because I am nothing if not sentimental.
Once I can see inside the envelope, I find a ticket, an all-access pass on a RYSING lanyard that I am immediately aware any of the fans nearby would probably murder me for, and a torn off piece of yellow legal pad paper with a local number and a note that says, “Call when you see this.”
I move a little farther away from the crowd, unsure of what to expect as I dial the number. It’s picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Jase Kitson. I was told to call this number? It was on a note at…”
The other person cuts me off. “Yeah. Okay. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
I look around for the nearest marked door. “I’m by the A5 North entrance.”
“Great.”
The call ends and I have no idea who I’ve spoken to or should be trying to find. I scan the crowds again as I hover as inconspicuously as possible by the door. I’ve always loved people watching, and this is fascinating. There’s a wider range of ages than I might have expected, a mix of outfits ranging from head-to-toe merch and looking like they just stepped away from a magazine cover shoot, and while the majority of attendees definitely are women, there are still a fair number of guys milling around.
“Jase?”
I actually jump at the sound of my name being called and whirl around to see a man in a very bright green shirt leaning out of the A5 door, waving me toward him.
He shoves his hand into mine as soon as I’m close enough and shakes it like he’s trying to prove something. “I’m Trevor. Venue management team. I was given very specific instructions on where to deliver you.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I try to wiggle some circulation back through my fingers as I follow his rapid strides through the empty arena. The doors aren’t supposed to open for about another hour, I think, which seems crazy given all the people outside already.
“You must be important or something?” Trevor asks, giving me a once over as we pause in front of an elevator and wait for the doors to open.
“I don’t know about that,” I tell him, unsure of how anyone is supposed to answer that question. I can already tell I wouldn’t like Trevor if I had to spend any more time with him.
He seems very unimpressed as he pokes at a button and we begin to descend. “You work for the company?”
“Nah.” I shrug. “I’m a librarian.”
I enjoy the absolute confusion on his face as we exit the elevator and wind further into the depths of the concrete halls.
Finally, he stops and points toward a set of black double doors. “Green room is through there. Make sure you’re wearing your pass from here on out.”
“Thanks.” I slip the lanyard over my head as he turns and jogs away. I stare at the doors, my heart rate kicking up to a speed that seems like it should be hazardous to my health. I know he’s on the other side. All I have to do is grab the handle, open the door, and he’ll just… be there.
I can’t quite seem to make myself reach for it, though, because it’s suddenly panic o’clock at Kitson HQ. What am I even doing here? I mean, I know why I’m here. I want to see him. Want to see if that spark I feel will actually burst into flames.
But then what? How do I go back to my life—back to what I know—after I’ve been around him? Near him. With him. What am I thinking? How can I do this?
I can’t seriously expect to walk away from this and just go be me again. No matter what happens between us, things are different after I open this door. This nondescript black metal door that someone stuck a local radio station sticker to at some point is the dividing line between now and… then .
Later.
After.
Between wondering and knowing.
And then I have to leave. Have to live with whatever I learn. Try to find a way to be content with returning to long distances, different time zones, and being literal worlds apart.
I take a deep breath—shakier than I would like to admit—and grab the handle, yanking the door toward me like I’m some kind of warrior about to storm a castle. My knees feel weak, but I move forward anyway, drawn in by curiosity and the desire to be closer to him.
It’s total chaos in the green room. The door nearly hits me as it closes and I’m just standing there, staring and trying to make sense of all the commotion. There’s so much noise and movement, so many people in the middle of so many different tasks. I can see racks of clothing, rows of shoes, tables lined with food and drinks, stations with mirrors set up and seems like an endless number of hair and make-up products ready and waiting. I’m not sure what I thought backstage would look like, but this is still more overwhelming than anything I could have possibly imagined on my own.
I scan the space again, trying to pick out the members from among the crowd of bodies. There is definitely a part of me that feels a little bit like a swooning fanboy. I am acutely aware of just how famous and talented they are, and how well-loved and lusted-after. It’s a strange dichotomy to try to come to terms with—they are RYSING, but they are also Nikko and his brothers.
Lux is closest to where I’m standing, folded up in a chair flipping through a magazine while someone fusses with his hair. Ryo and Tang are off in a corner laughing and either going over choreography or making fun of each other. It’s hard to tell.
With half of the group identified, I’m more than a little afraid of the speed at which my heart is pounding as I look for Nikko. I think I’d kind of hoped that I’d just walk in and he’d be right there, waiting. But I also don’t want that. I’m not here to distract him or take away from whatever he needs to do to prepare for the show. I know he takes performances very seriously, but this is a big enough step for us that I’m sure he’s been thinking about it, too.
Just then, I hear him—his laugh cutting through the rest of the noise—and I automatically turn toward the sound. He’s off to the side, nearly hidden behind some kind of partition, cracking up at something Lalo has shown him. He doubles over, disappearing from my line of sight, and I gasp, taking a deep breath that I desperately need.
He’s right there.
He’s here .
In the room with me.
“Hey, Jase.”
I practically jump out of my skin. I had no idea anyone had approached me and it makes me wonder if I’ve been staring longer than I realize. Chita is standing beside me, smiling. We’re not quite the same height—I might have a couple inches on him—but there’s something about him that feels like he’s got a big presence. “Hey. Hi. It’s nice to meet you. In person.”
“You, too,” he tells me, shaking my hand and pulling me into a bro-hug that I don’t feel nearly cool enough to execute properly. “Lalo’s been trying to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t just keep staring at the door.”
So he has been waiting for me. I can feel the blush heat up my cheeks at how much I like the idea of it. “No closets to organize here… and he’s probably not allowed to touch those,” I comment, gesturing to all the clothes hanging up nearby.
Chita chuckles. “I like that you know that about him.”
“I want to know everything about him,” I say. I know how important Chita is to Nikko and how much his thoughts and opinions matter, so I want to be honest with him. To make sure he’s aware that this is serious for me, no matter what kind of relationship we have ultimately. I’ll treat Nikko with care, just as the members of the group do.
He looks at me for a moment. “I believe you. And I believe he wants that, too.”
I return the grin he gives me, watching as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps the camera, slides over to video and raises it up, recording. “Nikko!”
I understand what Chita is doing in the split second before Nikko turns our way. I see his eyes go wide, his cheeks flush pink, and his jaw drops all at once, before his face transforms into a smile that I will remember for the rest of my life.
The moment we make eye contact, everything else falls away—the people, the sounds, the commotion, the fact that Chita is capturing this as it happens—Nikko is the only thing I see. As he moves closer, I think might take some steps, too, but all I know is that the distance is shrinking.
My heart isn’t so much pounding now as flailing, off-rhythm and uncontrolled, like it recognizes his nearness and is using it as an excuse to go rogue.
Suddenly, he’s standing right here.
Right in front of me.
I shamelessly let my eyes dart over his body, taking in as much of him as I can. His hair is styled to perfection in that careless kind of way that suggests he’s just rolled out of bed and might not have been alone— fuck me —and his clothes are obviously stage attire, artfully ripped and clinging to his body just right. He’s wearing make-up, looking flawless, and he’s so close I could touch him.
I could touch him.
Nikko blinks at me once, twice, like he’s having a hard time believing this is really happening. But he’s still smiling. Shyly, biting his lip even as he looks back at me with those devastating eyes that are somehow even more dangerous up close. “Hello, Jase,” he whispers.
“Annyeong, Nikko.” I’m smiling as I say it, like every bit of anxiety and joy that has been swirling around inside me can’t help but bubble up and out now that we are face-to-face with no screens in between.
Neither one of us moves; we’re frozen where we are, staring back at each other, unsure of what to do with the new level of access granted.
I hear someone clear his throat nearby and direct the rest of the members into a huddle on the other side of the room. I assume it’s Chita, giving us space to have a moment that’s just ours .
My hands are practically twitching at my sides, desperate to reach out and touch him. But even more than that, an almost overwhelming desire to kiss him makes it difficult for me to stand where I am. But I won’t move until he does. Until I know what he wants. I watch as he bites his lower lip, glancing away and then back up at me.
“Will you hug me?” Nikko asks, his voice both nervous and hopeful, as if he thinks there’s a chance I’d say no, but really wants to believe that I won’t.
Nodding, I tell him, “Of course,” and open my arms for him. He moves quickly, all but falling against me. Instantly, I am extremely aware of several things:
Nikko is the perfect height to rest his head on my shoulder and nuzzle into my neck.
He holds on tightly, locked around me like he’s been craving this kind of contact as much as I have.
I am absolutely sure that I am completely, one hundred percent crazy about him.
I have no idea how I’m going to let him go. When it’s time for the concert, when it’s time to leave, whatever the case may be—this feels right. Him and I, wrapped up in each other.