Chapter 1
Anna
If there’s one thing I hate more than Valentine’s Day, it’s uninvited memories of Valentine’s Day.
Unfortunately, both seem to be making a comeback, despite my best efforts to ignore them.
Case in point: the unopened envelope in my desk drawer.
It’s been eighteen months, and it still sits there, quietly mocking me every time I open that drawer.
I should have tossed it. Burned it. Turned it into an origami crane and set it afloat on Lake Superior.
But no. Like the masochist I am, I kept it.
So, naturally, my brother Ethan needs a damn phone charger. And, of course, the only spare I have is tucked away in that fucking drawer.
I yank it open with an exaggerated sigh, my annoyance amplified by the sound of Ethan rummaging in my kitchen like a raccoon. The envelope is right there, lying in wait like it knows I’ve been trying to forget about it.
“Find anything?” Ethan calls out, his voice muffled, probably because his face is buried in my leftover dumplings now.
“Working on it,” I snap, shoving aside a tangle of USB cords, sticky notes, and a half-empty pack of gum. My hand brushes against the envelope, and my stomach twists.
It feels heavier than it should—like it’s stuffed with bad decisions and unresolved feelings instead of paper or God knows what else. It could be filled with the tears of children, for all I know.
Ethan appears in the doorway, a dumpling poised halfway to his mouth. “Why do I feel like you’re having a meltdown over something that’s not a charger?”
“I’m not having a meltdown,” I say, pulling out the charger and slamming the drawer shut before the envelope can suck me into its vortex of regret.
He leans casually against the doorframe, smirking. “That your ‘I’m lying’ voice?”
“It’s my ‘shut up and take this stupid charger’ voice, jerk,” I snap, tossing it at him a little harder than necessary. “Get your own damn charger, too. That one stays here.”
Ethan catches it easily, his smirk deepening. “You’re touchy today.”
“You’re annoying today,” I shoot back.
He shrugs, unbothered, and heads back to the kitchen.
I collapse into my chair, glaring at the closed drawer like it’s the embodiment of all my unresolved life choices.
“Thanks for the charger,” Ethan says, wandering back into the kitchen to scavenge the rest of my leftovers by the sound of it. When he returns, he nods toward my desk. “You know, you could really stand to organize that drawer. It’s a disaster.”
“It’s organized chaos,” I mutter, not wanting to get into it.
He laughs as he pops another dumpling into his mouth. “Sure it is. Anyway, it’s nice to be out of the house. Do you know how loud a newborn is? It’s like she’s trying to win an Olympic gold in screaming.”
I snort. “What did you expect? Babies cry, Ethan. She’s not going to come out quoting Aristotle.”
“Yeah, well, nobody warned me it would be this constant,” he says, leaning against the counter. “At one point, I swear Mina screamed for three hours straight. Three. Hours. Tess kept looking at me like I could fix it, and I’m just standing there wondering if I’ve aged ten years overnight.”
“Welcome to parenthood,” I say dryly, spinning my chair halfway toward him. “You signed up for this, remember?”
“Don’t remind me,” he groans. “Mom’s been calling non-stop too, trying to set up some big Korean family celebration to introduce the baby. I’m like, can we not? We don’t need to do a doljanchi.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Let me guess—she wants the full hanbok treatment, right? All the cousins, a table full of food nobody eats?”
Ethan’s laugh is full of exasperation. “You know it. She’s already talking about renting out the church basement.”
“Classic Mom,” I say, grinning despite myself. “Did she at least call it a ‘suggestion’ to make it seem like you had a choice?”
“Of course she did,” Ethan says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not falling for that again. You’d think after thirty years, I’d have figured out how to say no to her.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “She’s probably already ordered the catering.”
We laugh, the easy banter briefly cutting through the tension I’ve been carrying all morning.
“So,” Ethan says, casually shifting topics as he finishes his last dumpling, “Joel’s back in town.”
I freeze, the humor draining from my face. “Yeah, I know,” I say tightly.
Ethan blinks, clearly surprised by my reaction. “You do?”
“It’s not exactly a secret,” I snap. “It’s all over the internet. Every other post is ‘Joel Price Returns to Duluth!’ like it’s some kind of headline-worthy event.”
“I mean, some people think it’s pretty awesome. Just because you—”
I shoot him a glare that could cap a rhino at the knees.
Ethan raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I just thought I’d mention it, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“Well, I have,” I say, crossing my arms. “And before you even start—no, I’m not going to see him.”
Ethan sighs, leaning against the door frame. “Anna, it’s not like he came back to mess with you. He’s got a gig at Club Nocté. That’s it. I don’t understand why you have such a problem with him.”
I narrow my eyes at him, my fingers drumming against the arm of my chair. “You don’t understand? Really? You’re standing there, eating my dumplings, in my house, and you think this is the time to question why I have a problem with Joel fucking Price?”
Ethan shrugs, like he’s genuinely baffled. “He’s my best friend and practically family. He’s a good guy.”
“Oh, sure,” I say, the sarcasm dripping off my words. “Saint Joel. Paragon of moral integrity. How could I possibly have a problem with him?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being oblivious.” I push out of my chair, pacing to the window and staring out at the quiet street. It’s a perfect late September day—crisp air, golden leaves swirling lazily in the breeze. The kind of day that shouldn’t be wasted thinking about Joel Price.
Ethan sighs again, that big-brother-patient kind of sigh that makes me want to throw something. “He’s not the same guy he was as kids, you know. People change, Anna.”
“Oh, please,” I say, spinning back to face him. “This isn’t about people. This is about Joel. And Joel doesn’t change. He just gets better at pretending he’s not a self-absorbed—”
“Stop,” Ethan says quickly, cutting me off before I can finish. “I get it. You don’t like him. But you can’t avoid him forever.”
“Watch me,” I mutter, crossing my arms again.
Ethan shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“And yet, you keep coming over,” I snap back, though there’s no real heat in it.
He chuckles, pushing off the doorframe. “Alright, I’ll drop it. Just… don’t make things weird when you run into him. Because you will run into him if Mom’s scheming comes to fruition.”
“I’m not the one who makes things weird,” I say, sitting back down and flipping open my laptop. “Joel’s got that covered all by himself.”
Ethan snorts, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he shakes his head. “Well, I suppose I better head back. Wish me luck.”
“Tell Tess I said hi,” I call after him, rolling my chair to the doorway. “And leave the charger here!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, putting his jacket on and pulling the front door open. He pauses, looking back at me with a thoughtful expression. “You know, you might want to open that envelope someday. Just saying.”
I glare at him as the door closes behind him.
For a long moment, I sit there, the room silent except for the faint hum of my laptop. My eyes drift to the desk drawer, where the stupid envelope is no doubt sitting smugly, waiting for its moment to ruin my life.
Why did Ethan have to bring it up? And why does it sound like he knows something? Maybe Joel told him. Or worse—maybe Joel told Mom.
If she’s using the hanbok parade as some kind of Trojan horse to force me and Joel into the same room, I might actually lose it. I mean, I love Mina, but introducing her to the world doesn’t have to come with a side of family drama.
I groan, letting my head thunk back against the chair. Ethan’s probably right about one thing: I won’t be able to avoid Joel forever. Duluth isn’t big enough, especially with Mom’s enthusiasm for a guest list that always includes people we’re totally not still mad at.
I glance at the drawer again, half-expecting the envelope to wiggle out on its own, like it’s taunting me. “Just open me, Anna. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Oh, I don’t know. Everything.
I shove the thought aside and spin my chair toward my laptop, resolutely ignoring the drawer. Joel Price can have his stupid homecoming, his stupid guitar, and whatever he stuffed into that envelope.
Me? I’ll be over here, pretending I don’t care.
Because denial? Denial is a perfectly valid coping strategy.