Before You Go

Chapter One

Chapter One

Makes your head feel like it's in a bubble, doesn't it? This was what my brother Joshua had asked me the first time he'd snuck me a drink, his grin splitting wide as he watched me wince it down.

This thought often happened upon me, sometimes after one too many glasses of wine, in the kitchen at a too loud party, or even just passing by a bar at peak hour, raucous laughter leaking from within.

It came to me now, as I hesitated with my hand on the doorknob of my childhood home. Inside, I could hear music and bubbling conversation, an occasional shriek of delight, surely egged on by the champagne.

It was New Year's Eve, which meant dinner party at my father's house—an excruciating ordeal for the past seven years, but tradition nonetheless. With a deep breath, I pushed the door open, the warm air swallowing me up in one big gulp.

My eyes skipped over the large family photo hanging in the foyer and, forcing down the funny feeling working its way up my throat, I settled my gaze on my father instead. Joohyun Park—Formula 1 racing legend, Morini team principal, businessman, art collector, absolute prick holding two glasses of warm champagne. The list went on.

The champagne was as warm as it looked as I took it from him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Happy New Year, appa," I said then, forcing a half-smile. "How long have you been waiting here for me?"

"Just about as long as you've been standing on the other side of the door." He nudged his chin toward the dining room. "Go get some food. And say hello to the guests. They've been waiting for you to get here."

This was simply code for I'm going to go talk cars for the next hour, so make yourself busy. Nothing foreign. No one cared if I was here or there; I hardly knew his house guests anymore. They were strangers, just like this place, and the man who owned it, all familiarity lost to time.

I helped myself to a couple of grapes from the overflowing table spread, before floating my way to the kitchen, where I swiped a bottle of Moët and made a run for the back patio.

The fireplace blazed, but the lights were off. They flicked on as I strode toward the warmth, and only then did I see the figure sitting on the edge of the table, turning toward me as everything became illuminated all at once. I couldn't keep the surprise off my face. "Charlie?" 

Charlie Yang, racing talent of the past half-decade, stood swiftly at this, straightening the loosened tie around his neck as he went. "June. I—Happy New Year."

Suddenly, I was seven years younger, blanched under the hospital fluorescents, staring after him as he shrunk down the length of the hallway, head down, racing suit hanging from his waist. I'd shouted after him—just his name, just once. But he'd never turned around. Never looked back one last time.

That had been our goodbye.

And yet now he was here. Inexplicably. A man now, evident in the tired way his mouth turned down. The firmness in his shoulders. But still so the same. Soulful brown eyes. Tall and reliable. Faint scar on his upper lip. If he smiled, I knew exactly where his crooked dimples would carve into his cheeks. Knew the way my heart would dip if he did.

"I'm sorry," I managed then, finally finding words. "I don't—what are you doing here?"

"Oh." He shifted awkwardly, uncertain. "I'm not really good at these types of things. Needed to breathe."

"No," I said slowly. "I meant why are you at my house?"

Looking away, he shook his head, as if unable to produce a reply. Then, after a beat, he gestured toward the fire. "You should sit. It's cold out."