chapter three

w e n d y

***

“Some cheater you are, huh?”

Wendy almost chokes on an ice cube.

The cold solidified liquid lodges in , but she manages to successfully cough it back out to her glass, the suds generated from the impact bubbling onto the dark surface of the carbonated beverage. For a moment there, the comedy that is her life has flashed before her eyes like a movie reel, and Wendy skims through her timeline that has gotten her to this point in her existence.

An untimely demise due to frozen water would certainly add to her life’s comedic value.

But because she is human and has the built-in reflex to do the opposite of dying, she has mustered all the strength in her body to remove the choking hazard from , hacking the ice out in a manner that’s comparable to a cat producing a gigantic hairball. She is instantly washed with relief, and sweet baby Jesus she could finally breathe!

Wendy would have relished in being alive (living hasn’t felt this alleviating), but right when her vision stabilizes, the small group of wary onlookers around her and Joy have become vivid. She’s motionless, conceivably nonplussed, her cheeks peppering themselves in pink.

As graceless as spitting an ice cube is at a formal event, Wendy concedes to the critical head-turns of the guests than to have Joy perform a Heimlich Maneuver on her. Her new life in Seoul has already gotten to a pathetic start, she doesn’t need for it to be more pathetic. Joy performing abdominal s on Wendy wouldn’t be a dazzling sight for the evening, and it would make a lasting impression on her premature reputation, one that would haunt her on a sleepless night.

The choking seems to have humored Joy who has chuckled at the scene, unperturbed by what the older woman would label as a “near-death” experience. Sure, she could be overreacting, but an entire ice cube and in a mix might have seriously given her a visit to the Grim Reaper. Wendy’s concerns are mitigated when the crowd doesn’t dwell on her choking fiasco for an extended period, resuming to their interrupted endeavors, while the blonde strains to recompose herself, backtracking to Joy’s comment that nearly sent her into a heaving fit.

“I, uh, what?” Wendy croaks. Her voice is rough, and she coughs into her closed fist to divert Joy from noticing her strange behavior. It must have worked because the tall raven-haired woman says nothing about it.

“The drink. I saw you. You switched it with a glass of cola when Miss Choi wasn’t looking.” Joy points out cheekily, proud of how she has apprehended the flushed blonde in her not-so sneaky tactic.

Wendy has to adjust her breathing evenly.

“Oh. Yeah. That.” She stammers nervously. Joy really doesn’t appear to be fazed by her or is pretending not to be for the older woman’s sake. Wendy then waves her hand dismissively. “Wine’s not my thing,” she says.

It’s a lie. A big fat lie. She would guzzle a gallon of merlot and a bottle of Rosé if she could. But with her name and the future of her business on the line, she couldn’t gamble the unpredictability of her alcohol tolerance for tonight.

Which in retrospect, has been a fine choice with the bundle of nerves thumping on her chest multiplying tenfold. She could be unbothered on the exterior but internally, the word “cheater” replays itself like a broken record stuck on repeat, submerging her mind into an endless pit of self-doubt. Wendy flits her eyes consciously as though any of the guests would be capable of reading her thoughts, amplifying her vulnerability.

College Wendy.

Twenty-one and dumb.

Had fallen in love.

But was stupid and a scum.

Wendy wrings her fingers around the neck of her glass steadily, the feel of the inanimate object tethering her to reality. Mind-reading is a superpower exclusive to movies and comic books, not in real life, she rationalizes. Had that been possible, there would be a handful of dirty looks sent to her for discreetly attempting to dislodge the beef wedged in between her rear teeth for thirty minutes (she had eaten it again after her tongue had poked it out).

Yet, none of her rationalizations could change the fact about her distasteful past. A troublesome past that is riddled with poor judgment and the abandonment of her common sense. It leaves a bitter taste in , the sensation lingering on her tongue. But she’s here five years later, doing her hardest to make amends for those mistakes.

That has to count for something.

However, this isn’t the appropriate time to perpend. Wendy is still at Choi Sooyoung’s party after all, her respected client. Recomposing herself, she wills the troubling thoughts aside, taken down from being lost in her own world as Joy stifles a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Wendy dabs around her chin. Has she smudged her make-up? Rosie had applied waterproof foundation to safeguard her from the inevitability. Wendy has to look up at Joy to gauge for the brunette’s response, her assistant for tonight just as long-legged as her younger sister. Rosie definitely gravitates towards people who make Wendy feel like she won’t ever be eligible to ride the rollercoasters at the amusement park.

“You’ve got stain on your dress.”

Wendy mars her lips into a frown, the downward curve of becoming a habitual action in the recent days. The sequences in her life really haven’t been a jolly stroll in the meadows lately. She instinctively runs a palm above her chest to examine it, and just as Joy has said it, she finds a dark blob dampening a portion of her dress.

“Lovely.” She glowers at it.

Did karma patiently wait for her homecoming before kicking her in the ?

Joy tugs on her arm and lurches her from wallowing in self-pity, then ushers her to go to the kitchen to clean herself. There’s a queue of ladies lining up by the nearest toilet so the two women avoid the line, heading to the kitchen instead. Wendy tails behind Joy and her silky red dress draped around her slender proportions, its above-the-knee length accentuating her smooth toned legs.

The blonde couldn’t resist but commend on Joy’s well-maintained physique. She really should have taken those afternoon naps she had defiantly skipped during her developing years. Her mother should have imposed strict parenting on her too.

Once they get to the enclosed kitchen through the oak double-doors, the essence of freshly baked goods is still permeating in the air. It’s been three hours since Wendy and Joy had baked. The remnants of their handiwork and the last tray of macarons Wendy had dished out onto the kitchen island have since vanished, a satisfied smile replacing the frown on the blonde.

Choi Sooyoung did intervene her earlier to congratulate and thank her on the job well done, but Wendy hadn’t been persuaded even with the compliment from her client, so the sight of the spotless kitchen countertop is a key evidence to tonight’s success. Joy hands her a roll of tissue to dry the stain on her brand-new dress, and Wendy takes it with gratitude, the thought of people enjoying her food rectifying her sour mood.

But her boosted spirit rescinds in the blink of an eye at what would be the of her night, the kitchen doors swinging open to reveal a huffing woman bringing forth a breath of sophistication in her off-shoulder little black dress that matches her Christian Louboutin heels. Her eyes are burning in fervor, the raging fire saturating itself queasily onto Wendy’s flesh that the blonde could visualize the puff of smoke seeping out of the woman’s ears.

Wendy slackens her stance, back slouching and one eye twitching, at the forthcoming catastrophe this meeting is inevitably unveiling.

Welp. There goes the beautiful evening.

“You’re not poor!” The woman bellows.

Wendy sighs in resignation. “Ah, crap.”

“Um, what’s going on?” Joy side-eyes Wendy, pleading for answers with her upturned eyebrows. She grabs onto the shorter woman’s arm for protection. Concealing herself behind Wendy would be an ineffective ruse, the taller woman a mountain higher than the blonde. On the contrary, Joy could be using the shorter woman as a human shield or weapon to chuck at the stranger whenever this fuming brunette decides to lunge at them.

It weirdly sounds like something Joy would do given that this is the closest Wendy has gotten to know her.

Wendy rubs on her nape. “It’s a really long story.”

The impending headache gnaws at her skull, a numbing sensation scratching at the back of her eyelids. Wendy blinks once to exterminate the nausea but nothing happens. What if this isn’t even real? What if this is all a dream? She could be having one of those realistic and detailed nightmares where she goes about her day as usual until hits the fan.

Please, oh please, let this be a nightmare.

But when Wendy subtly pinches herself on the wrist to be roused from the torment, her environment doesn’t shift. Her body doesn’t transcend from her version of dreamland. The walls don’t morph into the shade of Rosie’s bedroom where she has been sleeping, and the disappointment looms over her head with the woman still standing there, tangible and so so real.

On the opposite end of the room, the brunette stranger is gesticulating at her in complete disbelief and is encompassing Wendy’s frame, resembling a defective robot on the border of self-destruction. She hasn’t quite decided on what to do with her feet, going back and forth just pacing randomly on the wide space between the kitchen island and the double-doors. Everything about her emits class, from the shiny black hair, flawless porcelain skin, to her straight pointed nose.

It’s her hysterical behavior that shatters her image.

She stumbles over her speech, firing up incoherently.

“How—you’re—the trash—”

“Did she just say you’re the trash?” Joy murmurs to a frazzled Wendy.

The woman’s intermittent rambling goes on, sputtering through a million miles per hour. She throws up her hands wildly in midair, stopping her pace to look at the blonde in the eyes, and says the only sentence Wendy could correctly interpret. “I gave you my coat and money!”

“That I told you I didn’t need!” Wendy snappily reiterates, intentionally looking at Joy for good measure. It would be another train-wreck for the blonde to have someone else be surmised with the wrong idea, whatever misinterpretation could be drawn out from this. The tall woman beside her watches their argument, mouth moderately ajar, consequently muddled by the turn of events the night has descended upon them.

What kind of person has Wendy become in Joy’s perspective?

By now, people would have been swarming the kitchen to investigate the commotion, but the closed double-doors have muffled out the volume of their dispute.

“You could’ve been more specific as to why you didn’t need it.” The stranger stubbornly rebuts, her brows slamming together.

Wendy squeezes her eyes shut to calm herself as best as she could. “I’ve been telling you at the convenience store.” She runs her hands through her hair, aggravated by the woman’s unwillingness to admit her misconception. She then opens her eyes. “I am not poor!” Wendy states slowly, enunciating every syllable to have it eternally ingrained into this woman’s brain.

“B—but you were dressed—”

“Accident at the airport, changed my clothes into pajamas, had nothing else to wear for the day, luggage flew itself to Japan and ended up in Switzerland.” The issue of Wendy’s jet-setting luggage fuels her annoyance. It was an inconvenience she doesn’t want to relive.

“The trash—”

“Sister taped a phone number inside a Subway wrapper.” Context would be important for this tidbit, but Wendy casts it aside as unnecessary.

“I—I just, you weren’t.” The woman gesticulates again, aiming her vague motion at Wendy’s dress and heels.

Wendy gawks at her outfit. It is a drastic change from her everyday get-up. She may be a firm believer on the phrase “looks aren’t everything” but with her first client coming from a well-renowned family of architects, the aberrant splurge on clothing had to be made. The high-class designer ensemble really isn’t her style either, only acquiring the outfit at Rosie being hell-bent on getting her to conform with Seoul’s It-crowd.

That has to be the woman’s mindset. Gucci, Prada, Chanel are what her eyes would have feasted on. Wendy’s unbranded clothing were detestable garments to be worn by peasants. This rich people perception of hers has got the blonde eyerolling. “Forgive me if I wasn’t presentable according to your standards.”

 “What does that even mean?” Wendy must have hit a nerve on the woman as she clenches her jaw.

“You’re a rich girl, hangs out with classy people in your classy clothes, living your classy lifestyle.”

The woman balls her hands into fists. “I am far from a rich girl. Real judgmental.”

Wendy scoffs. “Look who’s talking.”

Her comeback smears the pressure off the woman’s face. Mortification dawns on her, the embarrassing mishap finally settling at the tip of her ears that are poking out from her hair. “I’m sorry for wanting to help, okay!”

The woman’s intentions had been pure, but the execution could have been handled better. Wendy had been judged by the state of her clothes and was indirectly accused of fraud. It’s understandable to feel offended in her predicament. “Right off the bat, after seeing how I was dressed, you made the assumption that I needed help?”

The double doors of the kitchen reopen, startling everybody at the abrupt noise. They snap their heads to the doorway at whoever has broken the tension enveloping the room.

Another familiar face.

“Irene, there you are!”

The woman, who Wendy assumes to be Irene the newly-arrived person is calling, looks over her shoulder.

“I’ve been trying to…” The newcomer trails off. She wears a blue Chanel tweed suit completed with Chanel accessories and a Chanel clutch tucked under her arm. But the trademark outfit isn’t the one that has sparked Wendy’s memory, it’s those distinct cat-like eyes raking the blonde’s frame. She smiles.

“Oh,