The freeway gives way to city streets, which narrow into a residential neighborhood with roads that aren’t made for two cars. I find myself holding my breath as Park maneuvers between oncoming cars, pedestrians on the street, and outdoor displays in front of a succession of small stores. Finally, the long vehicle stops at the base of a set of very, very, very steep stairs.

My mouth drops open in dismay. Had I known that it was a literal mountain climb to reach the rental, I’d have packed lighter. I’d have put everything in one backpack, but instead, I stuffed in about a month’s worth of clothing changes because I couldn’t decide what to wear to meet my father. Were jeans okay? Maybe I should wear a dress? Or perhaps even a suit?

I packed it all and now I regret everything.

The Airbnb instructions were deceptive. At the #3786 bus stop, go straight until the first light and then take a right, the email had said. Continue for three blocks until you reach Ahjussi’s Chicken. From there, it is a short walk up a hill to a house with the number.

Short walk my ass.

“What number did you say your house was?”

I look at my phone. “Fifteen, I think.”

“Hmm.” He peers over my shoulder and his warm lemony scent drifts into my lungs. I try not to sniff like a dog but it’s hard.

“That’s about halfway up. Not so bad. Let’s go.” He climbs out. Park Minho has the bags waiting, and before I can grab one, Yujun has his hands wrapped firmly around the handles.

“I’m not getting that away from you, am I?” I sigh, even more regretful that I packed so unwisely because when I was stuffing the hundredth item into the suitcase, I was thinking of how easy it would be to roll into my apartment, but now that someone else is shouldering the burden, guilt creeps up my neck.

“No.” He smiles, and a shallow right dimple and a shadow of a dot on the left appear, but they have the same deadly effect.

I wrinkle my nose and force myself to turn away. Briefly, I entertain the image of me wrestling the bags out of his clasp and carrying the unwieldy things up the mountain like a trophy over my head. In reality, I’d fall down and cut myself on the asphalt, and then he’d take me to the hospital, all the while politely declaring it was his fault. To save myself that humiliation I avoid the wrestling match. “Can I at least carry the small bag?”

“No.” He starts walking.

Beside me the driver, Park Minho, makes a disgusted sound. I don’t know if he’s madder at Yujun or me. Probably me.

“It’s not my fault,” I say quietly, but I’m not sure Park understands me.

“Coming?” Yujun calls back.

“Yep, saying goodbye to your friend.”

That generates a grunt. I give the driver a little wave and scurry up the stairs after Yujun.