“I was worried about you.” There’s a slight chiding note in his voice. “I texted you as I was leaving but didn’t hear back.” He grimaces and I realize he’s more angry at himself than me. “I promised I’d be there for you and I wasn’t. My father’s nurse called and asked that I come quickly. He fell ill a few years ago. That’s when Choi Wansu was appointed sajangnim, the head of IF Group. I would’ve told you before, but . . . I didn’t want you to be concerned.”

We hadn’t had that kind of relationship—the one that shared the bad things in our lives. Ours was a vacation fling, no matter how many cameras and Wi-Fi bands connected us. I used him the same way he used me. We allowed ourselves the luxury of joy, but that meant all the dark, dirty spots in our lives were ones we had to clean ourselves. There’s a certain freedom in the knowing, a lightness that I hadn’t felt before, and because anger is such a tiring, corrosive emotion, I let that slide away, too.

“My phone took a swim in the river and I went in after it.” I attempt to explain the sodden, wrinkled mess of clothes I’m currently wearing.

“That is how you got wet.”

“Yes, and thank you for not assuming I did it on purpose.”

“It doesn’t seem like a thing you would do.”

For some reason, the story of the young couple that killed themselves by jumping into the river flashes into my mind, and I wonder if we’re talking about the same thing.

“I was mad that it kept ringing and I pretended to throw the thing into the water, but it slipped from my hand.”

“So you decided that you would dive in after it?”

“Yes.” I cross my arms.

“I don’t think all the rice in Korea would’ve saved it. Sometimes it is best to let lost things go.” Is he giving me advice about his mother? Before I can ask, he moves on. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” I admit.

“Eomma can be difficult at times. She doesn’t like surprises.”

“Did you know?” I don’t think he did but I have to be sure.

“No, and even when I saw her name on your paper today, I didn’t immediately put it together.” His fingers curl around the edge of the robe he’s still holding.

“Does it surprise you at all that we met? It seems almost too coincidental.”

“Not at all. It is fate. Your red string of destiny and mine must be tied together so we will always meet, no matter what life we are in.”

He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if our coupling was as certain as the tides rising with the moon. And I need to hear it, even if it’s not sincere. My heart takes those words and wraps them around the fragile, sore edges like a Band-Aid.

“I don’t look like her.”