chapter one

w e n d y

***

Jetlag is a pain.

It’s Wendy’s first day in Seoul, and her body clock is a mess as she has foreseen it to be. The restlessness she has been exhibiting since the crack of dawn should have been a given. Even so, it does nothing to diminish her irritable state.

Not to mention that darned out of the blue craving she had at two in the morning after tumbling and turning in bed to no avail.

Her hunger had overpowered her resistance, prompting her to roll out of bed in the groggiest mood. There could have been an easier solution to remedy her grumbling belly, say a short trek to the kitchen refrigerator where food should have been. Maybe some leftovers from the excessive amount of takeout they had ordered for dinner. She had been reasonably expectant, but nooo, it totally went over her head that her sister has the appetite of an overpopulated village on the verge of starvation.

How absolutely great that was.

The apartment was wiped out, exhumed, from any signs of nourishment, forcing Wendy to brave the chilly streets at the dead of the night. Begrudgingly, she would add. The universe had to be having a blast pulling the nastiest tricks on her by snagging her favorite college hoodie—her only piece of clothing as of the moment—at the door, tearing the fabric diagonally at the side.

Oh, how she wanted to scream and wake the entire apartment complex.

But what really puts the cherry on top of her way-past-midnight-snack escapade was her embarrassingly awkward encounter with that weirdly persistent woman.

Wendy couldn’t say she’s insulted though.

It wasn’t the woman’s fault Wendy’s luggage is happily vacationing at a detour in Japan. It wasn’t her fault Wendy spilled her drink all over her clothes at the airport in Toronto, so she had to change and be dressed in her sleepwear for the entire flight. It wasn’t her fault the convenience store wouldn’t accept her bills. It wasn’t her fault Wendy manifested homelessness so effortlessly that she made a very convincing portrayal.

So she couldn’t exactly blame the woman, who heavily insisted that she take the money and coat Wendy seemed to desperately need from her viewpoint. It was an honest mistake, possibly fueled by the woman’s naivety judging from the Miumiu sequin dress she wore and the Givenchy clutch she held. She must have grown up in an affluent neighborhood along with her intimidating cat-eyed friend bathed in everything Chanel, unexposed to anyone who doesn’t sparkle in glitter and gold. In Wendy’s defense, people shouldn’t be quick to judge a book by its cover, including when said cover hasn’t showered nor slept in the last twenty-four hours.

Wendy sighs with longing. She can’t wait for her luggage to be home into her arms.

She yawns exhaustingly at the vibrant yellow light peeking through the curtains of the living room window in her soon-to-be apartment. It’s well into the day, the sun already rising, yet slumber has refused to crawl its way into her system. Her sister has taken the liberty of driving them to Gangnam, starting off today’s agenda by dropping off a couple of boxes and wrapping the furniture in plastic since her lease would be starting in the following month.

Wendy had initially pegged for the minor housework to douse her with drowsiness in the aftermath, however, all she’s feeling is her mind floating away, abandoning her body. Huffing in defeat, she flops herself onto a box containing her books and just sits there, shoulders slumped and her head in the clouds. She wonders when her body would decide to participate in becoming a member of society.

A clanking noise resounds throughout the apartment causing Wendy to jolt from her daze. She lazily cranes her neck to the source in the kitchen where her sister hastily scrambles for the fallen object. Wendy would have reprimanded her for nearly breaking something she hasn’t gotten to use herself, but her lack of sleep and her lack of emotional response to her environment lets Rosie off the hook.

That, and she hasn’t completely recovered from being mistaken as a bum either.

“Do I look homeless?” Wendy poses her million-dollar question. She couldn’t shake it off anymore. Her eyes resume to zero in on the blank living room wall in front of her.

The taller blonde pops her head up from the kitchen floor, forehead wrinkling at her question. She pushes her body up to stand by the kitchen counter, her eyes scanning around the partially furnished flat in a scrutinizing fashion. “Are you trying to rub your sweet apartment to my face?”

Wendy snorts.

It was a of luck, she would have to admit. Hell, she might have up all the luck in her lifetime to bag this unit. Her mother’s friend was the former tenant and referred the landlord to her upon hearing she was on the hunt for a place in Seoul. The rent price was such a steal for a one-bedroom apartment in Gangnam, of all places, with the additional perks of renting the vacant commercial space at the ground floor for her patisserie. It was as if the offer was made specifically for her. The amenities passed her checklist, making it a rare bargain to be seized at once.

She finally feels herself blinking, remembering Rosie’s presence in the room. Breaking away from her stupor, she says, “No, no, it’s uh, someone gave me their coat and bought me food when I went out earlier.”

Rosie looks at her appalled, like she has declined a billion’s worth of inheritance. “Why are you complaining about free food?”

“Because I could actually pay for it?” Wendy scowls at her in disapproval. Of course her sister would jump at any chance to obtain free food regardless of the situation. “I gave some of it to someone else on the street. As in, an actual homeless.”

“An actual homeless?”

“Yeah, a legitimate no-house person.”

She was a hundred percent sure that the guy was homeless. At least, he said he was. How reliable are verbal assertions? He definitely looked the part, she reasons. Then again, she did too and is nowhere near homeless nor broke. Oh, dear God. Had she been duped? Conned? Tricked into offering a free meal courtesy of 7-11? Her stomach lurches uncomfortably at the thought, her own generosity which had subsequently uplifted her spirits going in vain.

“Holy crap!”

The sisters turn to the tell-tale sound of the bathroom door opening. A tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair emerges, a satisfied smile painted on her doll-like features. Wendy’s mind whirrs for an identification, but she’s certain she hasn’t met her before. Or has her jetlagged brain redacted her recent memories? She couldn’t recall anyone else coming in her apartment. She was probably in her bedroom putting away more boxes when the woman arrived. Could she be a friend of Rosie’s? It’s a more acceptable probability than a lame burglar hiding in her bathroom.

“What took you so long?” Rosie asks, further confirming Wendy’s suspicions.

“Dude,” the brunette sighs out dreamily to Rosie, overlooking the shorter blonde’s small stature. She closes the bathroom door behind her and leans languidly against it. “I was in bathroom heaven! The Japanese toilet is a gift from the gods of—” she stops abruptly, and it dawns on her that another breathing, barely functioning vertebrate is within their company.

She walks headed to the living room, locking eyes with Wendy in the seconds that tick by, both women continuing to stare at each other in curiosity. She darts her round doe-eyes for a few beats between Rosie and Wendy, ultimately settling on the latter. “Who’s this kid?”

Wendy grunts in vexation.

First I’m homeless, and now I’m a kid?

She could not believe how her day is turning out.

“My sister,” Rosie provides a matter-of-factly. The proper label would be step-sister in technical terms, having the possibility of the two blondes being biologically related highly unlikely, taking into factor their major height difference. They don’t bother with the “My mom married Rosie’s dad” story which has baffled several people into wondering out loud where Wendy’s growth spurt had gone. “She’s the owner of the Japanese toilet you just gushed about.”

The woman whips her head to Rosie. She knits her brows together in confusion. “I thought your sister is twenty-six.”

“She is twenty-six.”

“You sure she isn’t sixteen?”

Wendy glowers at her. This is getting ridiculous. It’s true she may be lacking in the height department and she hasn’t wholly outgrown the baby fat on her round cheeks, but it would be too much for someone to mistake her for a child, right?

She speaks up, crossing her arms, “I am a grown adult.” She proclaims resolutely and rises from the box to prove her point, although it doesn’t help in justifying her claim with the short-haired brunette and Rosie towering over her. Their combined height makes her feel even shorter than usual.

A total pipsqueak.

“An overgrown mochi maybe,” the woman playfully coos at her. Those perfectly aligned teeth gleam in delight.

Wendy backs away within her hold before the woman could lay a hand on her. Something tells her that this person is quite touchy-feely with everyone, and it extends to people she has recently met.

“I’m a working professional,” Wendy says in the most formal manner she could summon.

Her hunch becomes a reality as the tall smiling woman stretches out her arms, reaching for her. Wendy would have flinched under the usual circumstances. Anyone around strangers would have. In her jetlagged condition, her brain and movements do not coincide, allowing the woman to invade her personal bubble. With an objecting grumble, she has unwillingly surrendered herself to be manhandled like a limp pool noodle.

“You’re so tiny, I could fit you in my pocket!” The woman squeezes her little prisoner lightly. She has managed to lock Wendy into a back-hug, her arms barricading around Wendy’s stiff posture (who wouldn’t become stiff at a stranger embracing you all of a sudden), gently propping her