A makeup artist swoops in to start my face, and I can tell by the way she keeps going back and gently dabbing more concealer under my eyes that I must have some seriously dark circles going. Once my makeup is complete, the hair stylist comes back and tells me my rollers need to set for another ten minutes, so I head to my room to change into my dress. I’m reaching into my closet to grab the garment bag—and trying not to sigh as I see the still-empty spot where my Balenciaga should be—when suddenly my phone starts trilling out the FaceTime ring. I lay the gown on my bed, lock the bedroom door (sorry, Jiyoon), and answer the call.

“Wow, great look! Very Lisa Simpson,” Alex says, grinning at my curlers.

After the Lane Crawford meeting, Alex drove me to the airport to catch my flight back to Seoul. I was quiet and crabby the whole ride, and Alex could tell that the best thing was to just let me stew. I hate to admit it, but in that moment, I was actually kind of annoyed at him. Why didn’t he tell me he wasn’t coming to the meeting? His last-minute absence totally threw me off. And why did he call me his girlfriend to his family without even talking to me about it first? If I’m being honest, that was what really had me distracted during the meeting.

But as soon as I left him at security, with a quick kiss on the cheek and terse “Bye,” I knew my frustrations were misdirected. I was pissed at myself for screwing up that meeting. I had no one to blame but myself for how it went. Before the plane took off, I sent him a string of texts, thanking him for setting up the opportunity and apologizing for being such a grouch.

So now when Alex’s face pops up on my phone screen, easily cracking a joke, I feel like I can let go of the awkwardness of Hong Kong. I may not have broached the whole boyfriend/girlfriend conversation yet, but we’re back to being Alex and Rachel—and for now, that’s the only definition I care about.

“Thanks, Lisa Simpson’s my biggest style icon, didn’t you know?” I say with a straight face.

He laughs, but then his expression grows serious—mock serious, though; I can always read him. “Hey, listen, I have something kind of bad to tell you.”

“Yeah, what is it?” I ask, smiling.

“I know I’m Korean, and this is kind of blasphemous to say, but I’ve never actually had soondubu before.”

I make a gasp of exaggerated horror.

“I know, I know,” he says. “Do you know a good place? I was thinking you could take me next week when I’m in Seoul.”

This time, I gasp for real.

“When you’re what?”