#fangirlproblems Page 3

  He rams into my side and both of us trip. We’re spinning and tumbling toward the ground. He’s aware enough of the situation that he presses my head into his chest and turns us as we’re about to hit, so my weight lands on him.

  My glasses fly off to who knows where. He grunts as we land, no doubt the air pushed from his lungs.

  Great. I’ve just bruised my favorite idol.

  #fangirlproblem7

  Never knowing when to stop.

  I try to get off him as fast as I can, but his arms tighten around me.

  “Don’t shift your weight,” he says. “It hurts.”

  I close my eyes and inhale, so I can hold my breath. He’s not clinging to me because he likes me. He’s doing it because he’s injured. Goodness, though, he smells good.

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice breathy. “Just...go slow.”

  I press my hands to the ground on either side of him, lifting myself straight up. If my vision wasn’t so horrible, I would be able to see his beautiful face instead of the blur in front of me. I’m practically blind without my glasses.

  Careful not to touch him again, I lift one side of my body and flip toward my back, landing in the rocks beside him. The picture is still tucked into my pants, but I can tell it’s gotten wrinkled in the action.

  I take a moment to breathe then get to my feet to hunt for my glasses.

  “Does it hurt very much?” I ask as I begin my search.

  “I’ll be fine in a minute,” he answers. “What are you doing?”

  “I lost my glasses. Do you see—” Crunch.

  Crap.

  I hear a light laugh from Chansol. “They’re under your foot.”

  “Thanks, Sherlock,” I answer, sarcastic. I lift my shoe as gingerly as I can, but I’m wearing high-quality sneakers since I’m on my feet for long hours. There’s only rock under where my glasses were. It’s not a pretty sight.

  I pick up my glasses—one side is swinging in the breeze, and as I try to put them on, it breaks off. A lens is missing, and the other has cracks through it. At least I can see out of that one eye, crooked glasses or not.

  The sound of scattering rocks alerts me to Chansol’s movement. I turn around to face him.

  He slaps a hand over his mouth as he snorts.

  I must look like a freaking dummy right now. I rip the glasses off my face, but then regret it as soon as I do. I have to be able to see.

  Screw it. I’ve come this far. It’s not like he first spotted me wearing Cinderella’s gown. I came in as the servant girl wearing her tattered clothes with soot on her face. Then I cried. Broken glasses? That’s nothing.

  I put them back on, chin held high. My eyes narrow as I dare him to laugh.

  This time, he doesn’t utter a sound, only shifts his weight, focus on the ground.

  “You’re hurt,” I say, my voice softening as I step toward him, pointing at the blood on his neck.

  He cups the wound, looking surprised when his hand comes away red. I approach him, placing my sleeve over the blood. “You have to put pressure on it, this is a bad place to be cut.”

  I lift my face to find him staring into my eyes. I’ve lost my freaking mind. What makes me think I can stride up to Chansol and touch his neck? I wasn’t thinking about the person, only the injury.

  Stepping back, I notice it’s only a nick that’s already slowing. He covers the injury with his own sleeve.

  I clear my throat, trying to focus. How much more of this can I take? This isn’t just any guy, he’s the guy. The one I would do anything for, and it hurts to know he’ll never feel that way for me.

  “I’ll go ahead,” I say. “You stay here while I check if there are more paparazzi out front.”

  He nods, still not raising his gaze.

  I clomp forward, keeping behind a tree near the front corner of the building. It’s worse than I feared.

  Media vans crowd the entire half circle. People with microphones and cameras are hanging around, waiting to get a shot. Crap, something huge must’ve happened to cause this firestorm.

  “Doesn’t look so good,” Chansol says, sneaking up on me.

  I jump, screaming and throwing a hand over my heart.

  He’s right behind me, that stupid grin on his stupid pretty face.

  “You scared me,” I pant.

  “Sorry,” he says, putting some distance between us. “I wanted to see what you were seeing.”

  “What are we going to do?” I’m not really asking him, more like the universe. Maybe I can sneak him back into the hotel and he can hole up in his room.

  “I can’t stay here,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “If it’s this bad out front, I’m sure reporters are all over the hotel.”

  He’s right. Which leaves us with nothing.

  “Maybe,” he continues, “you know of a place where I can lay low for the night?”

  There are two places with where I spend my time: home, and here. “I don’t know...” I lift my head to look in his eyes. “There are plenty of other hotels around here.”

  He empties his pockets. “I don’t have any money, or a phone.”

  I can’t afford a hotel room for him, and my purse is inside, anyway. I would have to face the madness to get it. I could, but that would mean leaving Chansol alone and vulnerable.

  “How were you planning on getting home?” he asks, his tone measured.

  Why would he worry about me? I’m a nobody. “I was going to hitch a ride with one of my co-workers,” I say, realizing that isn’t going to work out anymore.

  He nods to himself. “I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

  He smirks. “If you can create a distraction, I can grab our van. I know where they’ve attached the spare key.”

  I give him a full-on smile. I know exactly what I’m going to do.

  #fangirlproblem8

  Thinking I know what I’m doing, when really, I’m just moving forward through the darkness.

  “As soon as I go out there,” I say, “You make a run for the parking garage. It has two exits, so make sure you take the one to the highway.”

  “Got it.”

  I take off my broken glasses and put them in my shirt pocket, hating that I won’t be able to see, but also knowing how suspicious it would look for me to be wearing them.

  “Here goes nothing,” I say aloud, facing forward.

  It’s a good thing I know the basic outline of the hotel’s front lawn, because I can’t see the reporters from this distance.

  I pause at one of the bushes out front and pretend to pick something off it. I have the advantage of wearing a hotel uniform, so maybe they’ll think I came from the back because I work here.

  After messing with that for a minute, I casually stroll across the lawn. At least I hope it looks casual, because the urge to put my hands forward and feel my way across the lawn is strong, but I refrain.

  As I get closer, I can make out the outline of the reporters. Thank goodness I went the right direction.

  “Excuse me,” I say, approaching them. “What are you all here for?”

  I have no idea if I’m talking to the right kind of person or not—this is a disaster.

  “We’re here for X-O,” someone to my right says. “The Korean boy band.”

  “Oh!” I say, nodding. “I saw those guys earlier.”

  A bunch of blurry people crowd around me, all of them with thick Asian accents. At least they’re speaking English, so I don’t have to reveal my Korean. It’s amazing that reporters would follow these guys to the other side of the globe. “Did you see the tallest one?” someone asks. “Does he really have a girlfriend?” another says.

  Crap. Are they here because they heard Chansol has a girlfriend? If he does, that would make me the sucker of the century. Not that I really thought he was single. I’m sure I imagined that spark between us. He’s too handsome to be available, anyway.

  “Does he have red hair?” I ask the re
porters. I can’t really tell, but I think I have their attention now. I hope Chansol is making his escape while they’re focused on me. “I think I saw him in the back when I was getting into the garden shed. I can show you.”

  “Please do,” someone says, but as soon as I turn, someone else latches onto my shoulder, stopping me. “No, we need her as a witness. Send someone else to check out her story.”

  Crap. I guess I won’t be meeting Chansol at the highway. I hope he makes his escape and doesn’t wait around. I should’ve told him to just go. I can find another way home.

  “Did you see a girl with him?” one reporter asks me. I turn to her. “How did he look?”

  I keep my mouth shut.

  “I’m Nana, by the way,” she says, reaching out a hand. I don’t take it. “Strange he wasn’t in the ballroom with everyone else, isn’t it?”

  Who does this girl think she is? I hate that they’re using him this way. Why can’t they let him live?

  “He looked like a person,” I respond. “And he was alone.”

  Nana doesn’t quit her gossip. “He must’ve been back there to meet someone. I heard Tina is in the country, I wonder if it’s her.”

  Tina of Generation Girl? The most popular girl group in Korea? That would totally make sense. She would be someone worthy of Chansol. More worthy than me, a humble fan.

  I’m not sure if it’s the bright lights, all the people crowding around me, or the fact that I can’t see, but my breath is hitching in my chest, palms sweaty.

  My knees get weak, and I start to crumble. This was a bad idea. I’m not cut out for this. Shouts snap my attention back to the present moment, the roar of an engine scattering people.

  “Is that Chansol?” I hear someone say.

  I whip out my glasses, rushing to put them on. Chansol has the passage door open, a mask over the lower half of his face and a cap low over his eyes. There’s no way they could prove it’s him with picture proof, not with his entire face covered.

  “Get in!” Chansol screams. He didn’t follow the plan. Instead of heading for the highway and escaping, he came back for me, almost plowing straight through the reporters to get here. But they’re recovering as fast as I am. If I don’t run now, they’ll catch Chansol.

  #fangirlproblem9

  Feeling indebted to my idol for existing.

  I run, taking Chansol’s lead and covering my face. I knock away cameras and people to get to that waiting passenger seat. Chansol takes off before I have the chance to close the door, and I have to heft it with all my strength as Chansol plows into oncoming traffic. More horns blare as he cuts people off with the huge van, burning rubber in his haste.

  My seatbelt isn’t buckling quick enough. I didn’t know Chansol could be this crazy. I pull the picture out of my back while I’m at it, but it’s too late, it’s already been ruined. Maybe I’ll have a chance to get another one.

  “There’s someone on our tail,” he says.

  I cling to the handle above the door until I can no longer feel my fingers. “Why did you come this way? You were almost free.”

  “I couldn’t abandon you,” he answers.

  I’m about to ask why, but I scream instead as he shoots through a red light, almost getting us t-boned.

  “Are you trying to die?”

  He makes a hard left, glancing in the mirror as he goes. “I’m saving your butt, you could thank me.”

  I want to—really, I do. I can’t number the times I’ve been grateful just to watch his music videos and live streams. I wish I could tell him all the times he’d comforted me when I was feeling down, but somehow this seems like the wrong place.

  We have to lose these paparazzi creeps first. The freeway ahead gives me an idea. Texas is somewhat unique in their freeway system. Feeder roads run parallel to the freeway, and everyone merges and exits onto those roads. The only way to turn around is to get off, take the feeder to the next light, and go around a U-bend under the freeway.

  But here’s the kicker that might save us: the turns are blind to what’s happening on the other side and there’s plenty of shops along the freeway. Chansol would have to cross three lanes of traffic and abruptly pull into a parking lot, and then step on it until he’s behind a building—but the paparazzi are far enough behind I think we can pull it off.

  “Get on that road!” I say, grabbing the steering wheel.

  “The freeway? Are you crazy?” he asks.

  “Yes. Don’t merge on, take the U-turn.”

  He shakes his head but steps on the gas.

  “Don’t slow down as you take the bend,” I caution. “As soon as you get around, pull into the parking lot.”

  He does as I say, almost hitting a car in the far lane.

  “Step on it, get behind that building!”

  This might be a huge lumbering vehicle, but with Chansol behind the wheel it really goes. The van squeals behind a building, stopping so fast that I thrust my hands onto the dash to catch myself.

  We wait. Both silent and breathing heavily.

  “Do you think we lost them?” I say after a couple of quiet minutes.

  “Let’s wait a little longer,” he replies.

  The longer we sit, the more my defenses ease.

  “I guess I should thank you now,” I say. “I thought I was about to faint with all of those people around me.”

  He slides his hands down the steering wheel as his shoulders relax. “It’s no problem. I was the one who broke your glasses, so I should help.”

  I shake my head. “What if they took pictures of us?” Honestly, I created that distraction so Chansol could escape and no one would see us together. Him coming back for me makes no sense at all.

  He leans his head into the seat. “I only did it because I found the mask and hat. It would be hard for them to get a good shot of my face. Plus, I’m pretty sure your back was to them, and I took off too fast for anything to be in real focus. It won’t be enough evidence to convince anyone.”

  I let out a long breath, my worries going with it. “So, what are you going to do now?”

  He glances at me, lowering his mask. “I didn’t get to finish my dinner, and I’m hungry. Maybe we could find a phone and I can see how the guys are doing?”

  Neither of us have money or phones. But there is one place he can contact people. My apartment.

  “We could,” I start, feeling nervous. “I mean if you don’t mind...maybe you could come to my pla—”

  “Yes,” he says before I’ve even finished the word. He looks suspiciously happy about it.

  “Okay, then,” I say with a shrug, “my place it is.”

  I have to remind myself that this means nothing. I’m just helping him out. But man, does it feel like it’s more. The only thing I know for sure is, Sam’s going to kill me for not telling her. .

  #fangirlproblem10

  I wish there was a way to magically know how to react around your bias.

  Chansol’s going to see my apartment. It doesn’t feel real. Having him sitting next to me in the van, smiling his signature smile...it keeps confusing me.

  The blood on his neck is dried and flaking off, which shouldn’t be hot. But it is. It matches the crazy color of his hair. Goodness, he’s handsome.

  I want to say something to him, anything. Under pressure, my Korean came easily. Now I have the chance to get to know him personally, but the only word floating around in my head is michesseo. Which means, are you crazy? Because I am. I’m absolutely insane to let Chansol come to my house.

  This isn’t going to work. Space. That’s what I need. What if I get attached?

  Scratch that―I’m already attached. I’ve been attached for so long, loving him every day from a distance. But this is different. He’s been looking at me, interacting with me, even touching me.

  I feel so dang guilty. I took him away from his bandmates. If I hadn’t cried and left the room, he never would’ve followed. Why couldn’t I just be normal and say thank you?

 
; He didn’t have to follow me, though. I still don’t understand why he did. Then he took it a step further and saved me. There has to be a deeper reason. He’s met hundreds of fans in person. Given out high fives and signed pictures like they cost nothing.

  The airport this morning was a good example. So many fans were gathered, hoping to see him—maybe even touch him—but he didn’t give them a second look. Broken glasses or not, he wasn’t obligated to come for me.

  I want to dig and figure it all out, but I’m not sure how.

  “Do they have music in America?” he says, breaking the silence.

  What kind of question is that? Of course they have music here. How else would I know who he is?

  He’s smiling like he just told the best joke ever. Now I get it. He wants me to turn the radio on.

  Immediately, Taylor Swift or some other overplayed, overly adored artist booms through the car. Although, it does have a catchy tune. After a second, I start to bob my head.

  All right, maybe I’m getting into the beat. Just a touch.

  It builds to the chorus, and I start singing before I’m even aware of what’s happening, my shoulders shaking to the sound.

  My teeth clack as I shut my mouth. I only sang, like, one line. There’s no way he heard me. How could I get so lost as to forget Chansol is sitting beside me?

  He keeps turning his head to look at me. I swear he’s laughing.

  “Shut up,” I say, swatting him. Stinker.

  The chorus comes around again and Chansol clears his throat.

  My heart drops as he starts to sing along. He doesn’t sing often in X-O, but when he does, it surprises me. It only takes three words for me to realize he’s better than he thinks he is, which is saying something.

  He’s bouncing along to the beat, his legs getting into the motion. “Sing!” he yells when there’s a break in the lyrics.

  Well, if he’s going to make me... I start soft, but he shoves my shoulder. “Louder.” Since his voice is drowning out the radio, he probably can’t hear me too well. I decide to do as the song commands and Shake It Off.