He could be any one of these people.

After all, I don't know what V looks like. I don't even know his real name. I mean, we've been talking online for months now, so I know things that matter. He's smart, sweet, funny, and just finished his sophomore year. While I just finished my junior year, but transferring to a school in Monterey. We share the same obsession - fashion companies. We both like being alone.

If these were the only things we had in common, I wouldn't be freaking out right now. But V lives in same city as my dad, and that makes things . . . complicated.

Because now that I'm descending a Monterey Regional airport escalator in V's general area, watching strangers move in different direction, endless possibilities coming in my head. Is V short? Tall? Does he eat with his mouth open or have an annoying catchphrase? Does he pick his nose in public? Has he had his arms replaced with metals? (Note to self: don't talk about it.)

So, yeah. Meeting real life V could be great, but it could also be an awkward disappointment. Which is why I'm not really sure if I want to know anything more about him.

Look, I don't do confrontation well. Or ever, really. What I'm doing now, moving across the globe one week after my eighteenth birthday to live with my dad, is not an act of bravery. It's a work of avoidance. My name is Bae Suzy, and I'm a habitual evader.

When my mom traded my dad for Lee Minho of Minoz Law LLC - I swear rainbow colored poop, that's how he introduces himself - I didn't choose to live with her instead of Appa because of all the things she promised: new clothes, a car of my own, a trip to Europe. Nice stuff, sure, but none of it mattered. (Or even happened. Just saying.) I only stayed with her because I was embarrassed for my dad, and the thought of having to deal with him while he faced his new life was too much for me to handle. Not because I don't care about him either. Just the opposite, actually.

But a lot changes in a year, and now that Eomma and Minho are fighting constantly, it's time for me to exit the scene. That's the thing about being an evader. You have to be flexible and know when to leave before it gets weird. Better for everyone. I'm a giver.

My plane landed half an hour ago, but I'm taking another route to what I hope is the backside of baggae claim, where my dad is supposed to pick me up. They key to avoiding uncomfortable situations is a strike: make sure you see them first. And before you accuse me of being a coward, think again. It's not easy being this screwed up. It takes planning and sharp reflexes. A devious mind. Eomma says I'd make a great pickpocket, because I disappear faster than you can say, Where's my wallet?

And right there is my dad. Like I said, it's been a year since I've seen him, and the dark-headed man standing under a sunlight beam of the early afternoon is different than I remember. I've cheered on his new gym-crafted body every week as he showed off his arms during out Sunday night video calls. And the darker hair isn't new either; who knows I've about dyeing away the gray in an attempt to slice off the last few years of his forties.

But as I secretly reach toward him while hiding behind a sunny CALIFORNIA sign, I realize that the one thing I didn't expect was for my dad to be so . . . happy.

Maybe this wouldn't be too painful, after all. Deep breath.

A smile forms on his face when I came out of my hiding spot.

"My giant maknae," he says, calling me by my silly nickname.

I don't really mind, because he's the only one who calls me that real life, and everyone else in baggage claim is too busy greeting their own familial strangers to pay attention to us. Before I can avoid it, he pulls me into a hug so hard my ribs crack.

We both tear up a little. I swallow the constriction in my throat and force myself to calm down.

"My, my, Suzy." He looks me over shyly. "You're practically grown."

"You can introduce me as your sister if it makes you look younger in front of your friends," I joke in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness, poking the robot on his T-shirt.

"Never. You're my greatest achievement."

Ugh. I'm embarrassed that I'm os easily wooed by this, and I can't think of a witty comeback. I ended up sighing a couple of times.

His fingers tremble as tucks a strand of my long wavy hair behind my ear. "I'm so glad you're here. You are staying, right? You didn't change your mind on the flight?"

"If you think I'm going back into that fight they call marriage, you don't know me at all."

He does a terrible job at hiding his giddy victory, and I can't help but smile back. He hugs me again, but it's okay now. The worst part of our uncomfortable meet-and-greet is over.

"Let's get your stuff. Everyone on your flight has already claimed theirs, so it shouldn't be too hard to find," he says, gesturing with a knowing look of his eyes toward the luggage carousels.

Having grown up in Seoul, I'd never been farther overseas than a single school trip to Jeju Island, so it's strange to step into bright sunlight and look up at such a big blue sky. It seems flatter out here without all the dense buildings blocking out the skyline - so flat, I can see mountains foothills bordering the entire Monterey horizon. I'd flown into Monterey Regional airport, and the drive here to Appa's new house on the coast is about thirty-five minutes. Not that I'm complaining, especially when we're driving in a glossy silver car with the sun roof wide open.

Appa is a Certified Public Accountant (CPA). He used to drive a broken down car. I guess California changed that. What else have changed?

"Is this your midlife-crisis car?" I asked when he opens the trunk to put my luggage in.

He laughs. It totally is. "Get in," he says, checking the screen on his phone. "And please text your mom that you didn't die in a plane crash so she'll stop bothering me."

"Sir, yes sir."

"Goofball."

"Weirdo."

He nudges me with his shoulder, and I nudge back, and just like that, we're falling back into our old routine. Thank goodness. His new (old) car smells like cherries, and there's no accounting paperwork stuffed in the floorboards, so I'm getting the posh treatment. As he starts the engine, I turn on my phone for the first time since I've landed.

Texts from Eomma: four. I answer her while we leave the airport parking garage. I'm finally coming down from the shock of what I've done - holy moly, I just moved across the ocean. I remind myself that it's not a big deal. After all, I already switched schools a few months ago, thanks to Minho LLC and Eomma moving us from Gwangju to Seoul, which basically means I didn't have a notable friend investment in Seoul to leave behind. And I haven't really dated anyone since Appa left, so no boyfriend investment either. But when I check the nonemergency notifications on my phone, I see a reply on the fashion all around the world from V and get nervous all over again about being in the same city.

@V: Is it wrong to hate someone who used to be your best friend? Please talk me down from planning his funeral. Again.

I send a quick reply -

@GiantMaknae: You should just leave town and make new friends. Less blood to clean up.

If I looked past any reservations I may have, I can admit it's pretty thrilling to think that V had no idea I'm even here. Then again, he's never really known exactly where I've been. He thinks I still live in Gwangju, because I never bothered to change my profile online when we moved to Seoul.

When V first asked me to come out here and see Gucci's limited clothing line with him, I wasn't sure what to think. It's not exactly the kind of style to ask a girl out to see when you're trying to win her heart. Considered one of wealthy fashion company, I wouldn't been caught seen with it since I'm just a middle class. I pictured myself and V falling madly in love over this common interest, despite the fact we barely know each other. And sure, I know that's a fantasy, and reality could be so much weirder, which is why I have a plan: secretly track down V before Gucci's limited clothing line shows at the summer fashion festival.

I didn't say it was a good plan. Or an easy plan. But it's better than an awkward meet-up with someone who looks great on paper, but in real life, may crush dreams. So I'm doing this the safe way - from a safe distance, where neither of us can get hurt. I have a lot of experience with bad strangers. It's best this way, trust me.

"Is that him?" Appa asked.

I quickly put the phone in my pocket. "Who?"

"What's-his-face. Your online soulmate."

I've barely told Appa anything about V. I mean, he knows V lives in this area and even jokingly dangled this fact as bait to come out here when I finally decided I couldn't handle living with Eomma and Minho anymore.

"He's contemplating murder," I tell Appa. "So I'll probably meet him in a dark alley tonight and jump his unmarked van. That should be fine, right?"

An undercurrent of tension twitches between us, just for a second. He knows I'm only teasing, that I would never take that kind of risk, not after what happened to our family four years ago. But that's in the past, and Appa and I are all about the future now. Nothing but sunshine and palm trees ahead.

He snorts. "If he's got a van, don't expect to be able to track it down." Crap. Does he know I've entertained that idea? "Everyone's got vans where we're headed."

"Creepy molester vans?"

"More like hippie vans. You'll see. Monterey is different."

And he shows me why after we turn off the freeway. Once the location of historical California mission, Monterey is now a bustling tourist city between San Francisco and San Jose. Forty thousand residents, and twice as many tourists. They come for three things: the museums, the private beach, and the surfing.

They come for one other thing, and I'd be seeing that up close and personal soon enough, which makes my stomach clench to think about. So I don't. Not right now. because the city is even prettier than the photos Appa sent. Hilly, cypress-lined streets. Buildings with terro-cotta tile roofs. Smoky purple mountains in the distance. And then we hit Big Hit Avenue, a two-lane road that hugs the curving coast, and I finally see it: the Pacific Ocean.

V was right. Korea beaches are trash beaches. This . . . is stunning.

"It's so blue," I awe, realizing how dumb I sound but unable to think of a better description of the bright aqua water breaking toward the sand. I can even smell it from the car. It's salty and clean, and unlike the beaches back home, which has that iodine, metal stench, it doesn't make me want to roll up the window.

"I told you, didn't I? It's paradise out here," Appa says. "Everything is going to be better now. I promise, Giant Maknae."

I turn to him and smile, wanting to believe he might be right. And then his head whips toward the windshield and we screech to a stop.

My seat belt life like metal rod slapping my chest as I jerk forward and brace my hands on the dash. Brief pain shoots through my mouth and I taste copper. The high-pitched squeal that comes out of me. I realize, is entirely too loud and dramatic; apart from biting my own tongue, no one's hurt, no even the car.

"You okay?" Appa asks.

More embarrassed than anything else, I nod before turning my attention to the cause of our near crash: two teen boys in the middle of the street. They both looked like walking advertisements for tanning oil - tousled hair, shorts, and lean muscles. But the tall one with blonde hair is mad and hits the hood of the car with his fists.

"Watch where you're going, coward," he shouts, pointing to a colorful hand-painted wooden sign of a line of surfers walking with their boards through Big Hit Avenue - looking crosswalk. The top says: WELCOME TO MONTEREY. The bottom read: BE KIND - GIVE SURFERS RIGHT-OF-WAY.

Um, yeah, no. The sign was nowhere near official, and even if it were, there's no real crosswalk on the street and this tall shirtless dude doesn't have a board. But no way am I saying that, because (1) I just screamed, and (2) I don't do confrontation. Especially not with a boy who looks like he's just inhaled a pipeful of something.

His silver-blonde haired buddy has the decency to be wearing a shirt while jaywalking. On top of that, he's ridiculously good-looking (ten points) and trying to pull his jerky friend out of the road (twenty points). And as he does, I get a quick view of a nasty dark-pink scar that curves from the T-shirt sleeves to his Gucci watch on his wrist; maybe this wasn't his first time dragging his friend out of the road. He looks as embarrassed as I feel, sitting here with all these cars beeping behind us, and while he wrestles his friend back, he hold up a hand to my dad and says, "Sorry."

Appa politely waves and waits until they're both clear before cautiously stepping on the gas again. Go faster, for the love of snails. I press my sore tongue against the inside of my teeth, testing the spot where I bit it. And as the drugged-out blonde dude continues to scream at us, the boy with the scarred arm stares at me, wind blowing his wild silver hair to one side. For a second, I hold my breath and stare back at him, and then he disappear out of my view.

Red and blue lights briefly flash in on the oncoming lane. Great. Is this kind of thing considered an accident here? Apparently not, because the police drove past us. I turn around in my seat to see a female officer with shades stick her arm out the window and point a warning at the two boys.

"Surfers," Appa says under his breath like he was swearing. And as the officer and the boys vanish behind us along the golden stretch of sand, I can't help but worry that Appa might have exaggerated about paradise.

author's note:
Sometimes I will post two updates like this one; the "private message" are connected with the ious chapters.

Thank you for reading my next adventure!