A Ghost in Mind [Part One]
Title: A Ghost in Mind [1/6]
Pairing(s): JeTi
Rating/Genre: PG-13, for now; AU Angsty Romance
Warning(s): Mild death talk.
Disclaimer: I don't own Soshi. I don't own anyone, in fact. All Fiction.
Chap. Summary: Tiffany Hwang’s returned to her hometown and nothing’s making sense.
Author's Notes: Hey lovelies!! Did the dating news kill y’all? Haha. So, I’m trying my hand at some angst (oh, gawd) with (gasp!) JeTi. I started this story back in April after getting some uh, bad news. I hope all the italicized “she”s and “her”s don’t confuse anyone too much. Make sure your tool for reading includes my formatting or it’s gonna make no sense. D:< Oh, and this is a rated story, soooo yeahhh...
Part One: Tiffany
--
Here she lay.
Thumps of Tiffany Hwang’s heart had her inside ear under arrest for the past five minutes. As the open casket’s detailed exterior became more and more discernible (steel lining, polished woodgrain, pristinely white lining), self-assuring mantras seeped from her lips. Anything to keep the woman from tearing through the short queue of mourners, cursing to the vaulted church ceilings.
Gone.
No, dead.
Society had a funny way of using terms like “gone” and “passed on” to describe the deceased. Simply dressy, evasive terms. She was dead. Dead.
A body adorned in a decadent dress and a blanket of all things--as if the corpse got chilly in this state. She could no longer feel cold. She couldn’t snuggle up to the unused fleece. She was dead and that head-on collision made damn well sure of it.
Tiffany latched her rattling fingers onto the side of the coffin, further inspecting. The silk plushness surrounding her peaceful face gave the guise of an angel. Tiffany scoffed. Where the hell were so-called angels when the texting teenager decided their lap was a more suitable place to focus their attention? Where was her celestial guardian when said driver walked away from the accident unscathed? Was there no justice in this universe? The fuzzy line between sorrow and chest-constricting anger turned completely gray.
Tiffany hated it. This. Death.
The parlour did a remarkable job on her makeup. Not a bruise in sight. If Tiffany were naïve, she’d expect her to spring up in prankster fashion, eyes shining and guffawing like, “You thought I was dead? Me? Nothing can kill me, Fany!”
Tiffany’s nickname mentally spoken in her old friend’s voice tipped the hot streams down her cheeks. Holy shit. Something did kill her. Something swept the light from her and it’d never come back. She lied.
Then, the anger redirected itself inward. Tiffany failed. How could years of attached-at-the-hip closeness fade from normalcy? She should have called her more often. Traded personal life stories no matter how much it stung with bitchy karma’s poison.
Their history together had been beautiful, intense. Giggles from childhood bedrooms, stealth journeys into R-rated films, adolescent acne meltdowns, hands held under restaurant tables, tentative kisses, hushed confessions, intimately disrobing for the first time.
A bulldozer named Geography crushed that relationship like her Hyundai.
Tiffany remembered begging her to join along, years ago. “Get a Visa! Go to the States with me!” How couldn’t Tiffany return to her natural country and attend her parents’ alma mater? After years of living in Korea, her family transitioned back to the American life for Tiffany and her brother’s college careers. That’d been the deal.
She hadn’t been a part of that deal. Attending Princeton University with Tiffany had no more appeal than leaving her small town for Seoul. She applied for a degree in a rural area instead.
Maybe the split in their relationship happened on Tiffany’s volition, too. She’d been so hurt by the rejection--as if it’d been a personal attack. Geography and a little thing called hubris severed their ties year one of college.
Alas, Tiffany loved her.
Nine years later, there she was--standing before her ex-love tasting the salt from her tears. That train of thought seemed so stupid in hindsight. Their bond could have conquered the distance. But, it couldn’t defeat Tiffany’s overbearing pride. For even when she returned to Asia, getting a promotional job in Korea’s capital, she failed to ring her.
“That was dumb,” Tiffany whimpered, hoping only the corpse would hear. “It’s my fault.”
She, of course, didn’t answer.
“Love your hair. You said you’d never dye it. Bitch.”
Tiffany’s hand stopped short of touching the downy mane. Too much. She no longer belonged to her--living or not. It hurt.
Even her mother’s look of shock upon her arrival burnt Tiffany at the core. She’d been her second daughter since the age of nine and somewhere down the line, that evaporated, too. She’d been too ashamed to mention her highrise apartment in Seoul. So, Tiffany merely hugged the mother, trying to ask forgiveness through physical contact. She kissed the aged woman on the forehead and mumbled condolences. Whether her mother took it for the death of her 27-year-old daughter or something deeper, Tiffany didn’t know.
Seeing her for the last time had a strangely therapeutic effect, though. She’d been plagued by it for all this time. The least Tiffany could do was pay her respects and be grateful for these sacred moments.
Tiffany searched her chest for breathing. None.
Just as she built up the nerve to stroke that soft, dyed hair, another being materialized at her right. It may have been another nameless funeral attendant throwing a cursory bow or silent prayer. Somehow, this one’s presence made Tiffany halt her hand once more. She glanced down, noting the proximity of the intruder’s thin fingers gripping the casket edge--only centimeters from her own. She stepped to the left to send an overt signal of annoyance.
The woman appeared too distraught to notice. Through her dark veil (that already got an internal eye roll from Tiffany--drama queen wearing her mourning on her sleeve), her face was bright pink with moisture. She quaked at her shoulders, leaving no hesitance to place a hand over her lifeless ones. Tiffany scolded herself for not taking that bold gesture.
Veiled woman had a very high voice, scratchy with wear. While she murmured unintelligible statements to her body, sirena blue fingernails contrasted sharply against her pallid skin. Tiffany considered it a strange color for a funeral.
And Tiffany waited. This troubled woman had to leave eventually. Such sniveling put a damper on her remaining statements.
She didn’t budge. Soon, Tiffany figured that this lady was waiting for her to leave instead.
They’d reached an impasse.
Who was this lady? Tiffany digested her slender frame--accentuated by the black dress, long, strawberry blonde hair, a dainty face of someone her age, shadowed, pained eyes…
Dear, god.
Tiffany’s eyebrow arched as she glared back at her resting friend. The veiled woman’s tears were special tears, too heavy for even the closest of cousins or workmates.
This woman loved her.
Had she left a string of broken hearts in her wake? The deceased’s almost mockingly serene face unfurled no truths.
“Holy shit, did...did you--”
A heavy hand landing upon Tiffany’s shoulder broke the line of churning accusations. She whipped her head over to see Lee Sungmin. Her husband. They’d been newlyweds--only a year into the marriage--when she died in the car crash. His grin was strained.
“The ceremony will start soon, Miss Hwang.”
The proper title stirred unease at the pit of her stomach. Hinting for her to go sit in the pews, no doubt. “Okay.”
“Others would like a better view.”
Like for a concert? A baseball game? Tiffany nodded and backed off, creating immediate space for the veiled woman to claim her spot.
So much for making up lost time.
…
As expected, the funeral went on at a crawling pace. Most of the time, Tiffany read and re-read the color-print leaflet. Post-college, Tiffany discovered, she lived a humble life. Delved into social work, volunteered in shelters three times a week. A veritable saint, according to the flimsy sheet of accolades.
The friend she knew drank hard, danced harder, and cursed brazenly into bed sheets when she came. That’s who Tiffany chose to remember. Reckless, eighteen-year-old purveyor of mischief and a good time. Not the Dalai Lama's understudy.
She had a hard time ignoring the pew located closest to the podium where the priest bellowed in a dreadfully dull voice. There sat her parents, siblings, grandparents, random cousins, Sungmin, and the veiled woman at the very end. Tiffany already disliked the bitch.
Following back-to-back heartrendering eulogies--Mother talked about tricking her into wearing Sunday school dresses; brother told a story of their favorite fishing trip; a cousin played a multimedia project on a projector--the priest introduced the next speaker.
“And now, a poem by Jessica Jung, her dearest friend.”
She couldn’t decide what enraged her more: the title of “dearest friend” to the veiled woman who peeled from her seat, the knowledge that nobody asked Tiffany to give any final words, or the fact that this Jessica woman was a poet. A goddamned poet. Did they exist anymore?
Jessica could have been reciting ‘The Cat in the Hat’ for all Tiffany cared. She blocked it out. Her Louboutins pinched her toes. She wanted to go.
Tiffany didn’t give the blonde woman at the podium a single glance until a choked sound echoed through the microphone.
“My apologies,” Jessica gasped, clutching a necklace charm to her chest. “I’m very broken. We were more than best friends. She meant the world to me. I’m sure you all felt the same.”
The young executive searched the crowded churchgoers, wondering if anyone else was squirming in their seat. Jessica Jung was clearly in love with the girl in the coffin.
Breaking into another sob, the woman fell into Sungmin’s arms and he ushered her back to the pews.
Tiffany could put on a spectacle, too. If she’d been involved in the funeral. The heavy weight of outrage hurt more than her shoes.
…
In the blink of an eye, Tiffany found herself punching holes into the grass with her heel, peering at the rows of cars filling the parking lot to the brim. The procession would start soon. Her friend, her first lover, would be in the ground soon.
Tiffany couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t bear to watch those men lower her long-time best friend into the ground. Worms were down there. And dirt. Too much dirt. She hated dirt with a passion; it was one of the traits Tiffany found most adorable.
Tiffany spotted her mother amongst the throng of people. The short, pudgy woman was clutching Sungmin’s hand when Tiffany made her way over.
“Sorry for interrupting,” she croaked, chancing a panicked look at the empty plot. “I have to dip out. Last minute emergency in the city.”
The mother smiled, bringing Tiffany in for a tender hug, as if she detected her fragility. “You’ve grown into a successful young lady. I knew you would.”
Tiffany’s eyes poured out a new batch of warm moisture. “I’m sorry.” She felt like she’d said that word all day, even when she hadn’t.
“Don’t be sorry, Fany. You weren’t driving the other car.”
Tiffany shook her head into her mother’s cushiony shoulder. “For everything. I’m sorry.”
Sungmin stood nearby, warily watching. She felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“You were like another daughter to me, Fany.”
Were? The word stung. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Her mother sent emails to select women attending the funeral, announcing a brunch where they’d recall memories and give support. It’d happen in a week. Tiffany stayed on the fence about it; she feared that in the throes of emotion, she’d reveal her true feelings. That wouldn’t go well.
“I’ll see you when I see you,” the older woman answered, wrinkled eyes dim, “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.”
Tiffany broke from the motherly embrace, unwittingly matching eyes with Sungmin. He remained rooted in the grass. Not a hint of a potential hug. Tiffany had no idea where she found this guy, but she wasn’t a fan. She nodded an acknowledgement and he pricked on a thin smile.
As Tiffany drove off, leaving the funeral home to shrink into the distance, she damned the lot of them. To hell with their strange behavior. To hell with that teenager who killed her. To hell with Sungmin. To hell with Jessica Jung, the goddamned poet.
The simple thought of Jessica spending happy times with her until the day of the untimely death brought fire to Tiffany’s soul.
She had to attend that get together.
…
Seven days later, Tiffany received the same exact expression of sheer surprise when her mother opened the front door of her home.
Tiffany frowned, handing over a dish of rice krispie treats. “Did I get the wrong day?” She knew the answer was ‘no’; their ample country yard was littered with unfamiliar vehicles.
“No, honey. You’re right on time. Please, get comfortable.”
Two girls, not much younger than Tiffany when she’d met her best friend, dashed around her to the porch, barking orders to each other.
“I’m the mom and you’re the dad.”
“I don’t want to be the dad! You do it. You’re taller!”
“I can’t be the dad because I have on a dress!”
The mother closed the door on them as Tiffany smiled to herself, fond memories swelling her brain.
As nicely as the women seated in the living room greeted her, she felt like the odd one out immediately. An outsider with an unsavory history. Tiffany slid onto a wooden chair beside the door. Long day ahead, for sure.
No Jessica Jung in sight.
They made small talk for the next few minutes, ultimately interrupted by Sungmin traipsing through the room. He bowed accordingly, stiffening in posture when he reached Tiffany. “Miss Hwang. You’ve made it.”
This was getting old. “Yes, I made it. We were best friends for years. She must have mentioned me once or twice.”
“More than that.”
The shortness of the sentence brought Tiffany to silence. As the ladies chattered, she and Sungmin exchanged hard gazes.
“I’ll be going now.” His face brightened just in time to address rest of the room. “You ladies have fun. Keep the gossip at a maximum.”
The older women tittered at the man, waving him out the door.
Tiffany shifted in the creaking chair. Sungmin hated her. The women of the room, save her mother out of hospitality, seldom included her in the conversations. It’d be a shame to duck out early again. Isn’t that what they’d expect?
She missed her.
Before long, she wandered from the living room, legs taking her down the hall, to the room to the left. Her room. Tiffany peeked inside, pushing further into the bedroom after she realized that the coast was clear.
It looked much smaller than she remembered. Vaguely familiar, though. Many of the surroundings changed--different posters on the walls, a paint job, an intriguing saxophone propped onto the closet door. Still, she sensed her all over.
Tiffany grazed the timeworn vanity with light fingers, nostrils picking up the faint smell of foundation and fragrances of uncapped perfume bottles. The space apparently doubled as her post-college storage facility. Stacks of cleanly labeled boxes took up a quarter of the space. Not keen on climbing a cardboard mountain, Tiffany fell flat onto the bed. It smelled like her.
She grinned. Junior and senior year of high school, as she recalled, consisted of endless ploys for them to end up in bed. It’d been a tricky task between college searches and test prep. She sacrificed a few passing grades just to steal away to her house, where she’d tug off Tiffany’s pajama bottoms with insatiable haste. The danger in her eyes never failed to leave Tiffany excited and yearning for her touch. Seemed like eons ago.
“Knock knock.”
Like a teen up to no good, Tiffany hurried to sit up, smoothing her dark hair.
It was Jessica. The woman hovered in the doorway, eyeing the room as if something would be out of place. “I finished preparing brunch. You must be hungry.”
A poet and a cook? Of course. “Not especially.”
“Me neither.” Uninvited, Jessica sauntered to the mattress and plopped down. “I haven’t eaten much in days.”
Tiffany hummed. She wanted to know nothing and everything about Jessica. The confusion gave her a headache.
“Hope I didn’t come off as rude at the funeral,” Jessica continued, holding out a hand. “I’m Jessica.”
She shook it with a limp grip. “Tiffany Hwang.”
“I know.” Her lips pinned into a wry smirk. “I heard all about you...when she was alive.”
Tiffany couldn’t explain why that made her nervous. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good things, I assume?”
Jessica snorted at a joke only she knew, lashes cast downward. “She called you unforgettable.”
Tiffany paused at Jessica’s pensive tone, blinking up at an old picture taped to the corner of the vanity. A faded photo of Tiffany and her during middle school, hugging each other and beaming at the camera. Maybe she’d take it home, if her mom permitted. “Who are you?”
Jessica’s eyes were stapled to her knees. “A friend.”
“Dearest friend, according to the funeral.”
“Yes. We were very close. She…” Jessica trailed off to wipe at her cheek.
“She what?”
Jessica rushed to the door and clicked it shut with conviction. Tiffany raised her eyebrows at the sudden action, ready to grab a trophy as protection in case this girl was a headcase.
“I’ve been dying to meet you.”
“Why?”
“To see what I’ve always had to live up to.”
Nothing made sense anymore. “Can somebody here please let me in on the secret?”
“You’re Tiffany Hwang. Her true love.”
Tiffany’s lips stilled.
What to say to such a declaration?
“I’ve been secretly hating you for years. Except then, you were this unattainable entity. And now, you’re right here.”
“You gonna off me?”
“I want to talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Privately. Away from--” She nodded to the door. “Please.”
“When?”
“After brunch. I’ll offer you a ride home if you don’t want to take another car.”
“I live in Seoul.”
“So do I. But I--” The blonde fiddled with her nails. Sirena blue. “I have another home nearby, too. We can talk there.”
“You’re rich.”
“Is that a yes?”
Tiffany got to her feet, breezing past the blonde to turn the door knob. “Hope you have a guest room. I don’t sleep on couches.”
[Author's Note]A/N: Hope this makes sense. See? I didn’t stop writing. :3 I'm not naming names, but I wonder if any of you have a mental picture of the deceased friend/lover.
Pairing(s): JeTi
Rating/Genre: PG-13, for now; AU Angsty Romance
Warning(s): Mild death talk.
Disclaimer: I don't own Soshi. I don't own anyone, in fact. All Fiction.
Chap. Summary: Tiffany Hwang’s returned to her hometown and nothing’s making sense.
Author's Notes: Hey lovelies!! Did the dating news kill y’all? Haha. So, I’m trying my hand at some angst (oh, gawd) with (gasp!) JeTi. I started this story back in April after getting some uh, bad news. I hope all the italicized “she”s and “her”s don’t confuse anyone too much. Make sure your tool for reading includes my formatting or it’s gonna make no sense. D:< Oh, and this is a rated story, soooo yeahhh...
Part One: Tiffany
--
Here she lay.
Thumps of Tiffany Hwang’s heart had her inside ear under arrest for the past five minutes. As the open casket’s detailed exterior became more and more discernible (steel lining, polished woodgrain, pristinely white lining), self-assuring mantras seeped from her lips. Anything to keep the woman from tearing through the short queue of mourners, cursing to the vaulted church ceilings.
Gone.
No, dead.
Society had a funny way of using terms like “gone” and “passed on” to describe the deceased. Simply dressy, evasive terms. She was dead. Dead.
A body adorned in a decadent dress and a blanket of all things--as if the corpse got chilly in this state. She could no longer feel cold. She couldn’t snuggle up to the unused fleece. She was dead and that head-on collision made damn well sure of it.
Tiffany latched her rattling fingers onto the side of the coffin, further inspecting. The silk plushness surrounding her peaceful face gave the guise of an angel. Tiffany scoffed. Where the hell were so-called angels when the texting teenager decided their lap was a more suitable place to focus their attention? Where was her celestial guardian when said driver walked away from the accident unscathed? Was there no justice in this universe? The fuzzy line between sorrow and chest-constricting anger turned completely gray.
Tiffany hated it. This. Death.
The parlour did a remarkable job on her makeup. Not a bruise in sight. If Tiffany were naïve, she’d expect her to spring up in prankster fashion, eyes shining and guffawing like, “You thought I was dead? Me? Nothing can kill me, Fany!”
Tiffany’s nickname mentally spoken in her old friend’s voice tipped the hot streams down her cheeks. Holy shit. Something did kill her. Something swept the light from her and it’d never come back. She lied.
Then, the anger redirected itself inward. Tiffany failed. How could years of attached-at-the-hip closeness fade from normalcy? She should have called her more often. Traded personal life stories no matter how much it stung with bitchy karma’s poison.
Their history together had been beautiful, intense. Giggles from childhood bedrooms, stealth journeys into R-rated films, adolescent acne meltdowns, hands held under restaurant tables, tentative kisses, hushed confessions, intimately disrobing for the first time.
A bulldozer named Geography crushed that relationship like her Hyundai.
Tiffany remembered begging her to join along, years ago. “Get a Visa! Go to the States with me!” How couldn’t Tiffany return to her natural country and attend her parents’ alma mater? After years of living in Korea, her family transitioned back to the American life for Tiffany and her brother’s college careers. That’d been the deal.
She hadn’t been a part of that deal. Attending Princeton University with Tiffany had no more appeal than leaving her small town for Seoul. She applied for a degree in a rural area instead.
Maybe the split in their relationship happened on Tiffany’s volition, too. She’d been so hurt by the rejection--as if it’d been a personal attack. Geography and a little thing called hubris severed their ties year one of college.
Alas, Tiffany loved her.
Nine years later, there she was--standing before her ex-love tasting the salt from her tears. That train of thought seemed so stupid in hindsight. Their bond could have conquered the distance. But, it couldn’t defeat Tiffany’s overbearing pride. For even when she returned to Asia, getting a promotional job in Korea’s capital, she failed to ring her.
“That was dumb,” Tiffany whimpered, hoping only the corpse would hear. “It’s my fault.”
She, of course, didn’t answer.
“Love your hair. You said you’d never dye it. Bitch.”
Tiffany’s hand stopped short of touching the downy mane. Too much. She no longer belonged to her--living or not. It hurt.
Even her mother’s look of shock upon her arrival burnt Tiffany at the core. She’d been her second daughter since the age of nine and somewhere down the line, that evaporated, too. She’d been too ashamed to mention her highrise apartment in Seoul. So, Tiffany merely hugged the mother, trying to ask forgiveness through physical contact. She kissed the aged woman on the forehead and mumbled condolences. Whether her mother took it for the death of her 27-year-old daughter or something deeper, Tiffany didn’t know.
Seeing her for the last time had a strangely therapeutic effect, though. She’d been plagued by it for all this time. The least Tiffany could do was pay her respects and be grateful for these sacred moments.
Tiffany searched her chest for breathing. None.
Just as she built up the nerve to stroke that soft, dyed hair, another being materialized at her right. It may have been another nameless funeral attendant throwing a cursory bow or silent prayer. Somehow, this one’s presence made Tiffany halt her hand once more. She glanced down, noting the proximity of the intruder’s thin fingers gripping the casket edge--only centimeters from her own. She stepped to the left to send an overt signal of annoyance.
The woman appeared too distraught to notice. Through her dark veil (that already got an internal eye roll from Tiffany--drama queen wearing her mourning on her sleeve), her face was bright pink with moisture. She quaked at her shoulders, leaving no hesitance to place a hand over her lifeless ones. Tiffany scolded herself for not taking that bold gesture.
Veiled woman had a very high voice, scratchy with wear. While she murmured unintelligible statements to her body, sirena blue fingernails contrasted sharply against her pallid skin. Tiffany considered it a strange color for a funeral.
And Tiffany waited. This troubled woman had to leave eventually. Such sniveling put a damper on her remaining statements.
She didn’t budge. Soon, Tiffany figured that this lady was waiting for her to leave instead.
They’d reached an impasse.
Who was this lady? Tiffany digested her slender frame--accentuated by the black dress, long, strawberry blonde hair, a dainty face of someone her age, shadowed, pained eyes…
Dear, god.
Tiffany’s eyebrow arched as she glared back at her resting friend. The veiled woman’s tears were special tears, too heavy for even the closest of cousins or workmates.
This woman loved her.
Had she left a string of broken hearts in her wake? The deceased’s almost mockingly serene face unfurled no truths.
“Holy shit, did...did you--”
A heavy hand landing upon Tiffany’s shoulder broke the line of churning accusations. She whipped her head over to see Lee Sungmin. Her husband. They’d been newlyweds--only a year into the marriage--when she died in the car crash. His grin was strained.
“The ceremony will start soon, Miss Hwang.”
The proper title stirred unease at the pit of her stomach. Hinting for her to go sit in the pews, no doubt. “Okay.”
“Others would like a better view.”
Like for a concert? A baseball game? Tiffany nodded and backed off, creating immediate space for the veiled woman to claim her spot.
So much for making up lost time.
…
As expected, the funeral went on at a crawling pace. Most of the time, Tiffany read and re-read the color-print leaflet. Post-college, Tiffany discovered, she lived a humble life. Delved into social work, volunteered in shelters three times a week. A veritable saint, according to the flimsy sheet of accolades.
The friend she knew drank hard, danced harder, and cursed brazenly into bed sheets when she came. That’s who Tiffany chose to remember. Reckless, eighteen-year-old purveyor of mischief and a good time. Not the Dalai Lama's understudy.
She had a hard time ignoring the pew located closest to the podium where the priest bellowed in a dreadfully dull voice. There sat her parents, siblings, grandparents, random cousins, Sungmin, and the veiled woman at the very end. Tiffany already disliked the bitch.
Following back-to-back heartrendering eulogies--Mother talked about tricking her into wearing Sunday school dresses; brother told a story of their favorite fishing trip; a cousin played a multimedia project on a projector--the priest introduced the next speaker.
“And now, a poem by Jessica Jung, her dearest friend.”
She couldn’t decide what enraged her more: the title of “dearest friend” to the veiled woman who peeled from her seat, the knowledge that nobody asked Tiffany to give any final words, or the fact that this Jessica woman was a poet. A goddamned poet. Did they exist anymore?
Jessica could have been reciting ‘The Cat in the Hat’ for all Tiffany cared. She blocked it out. Her Louboutins pinched her toes. She wanted to go.
Tiffany didn’t give the blonde woman at the podium a single glance until a choked sound echoed through the microphone.
“My apologies,” Jessica gasped, clutching a necklace charm to her chest. “I’m very broken. We were more than best friends. She meant the world to me. I’m sure you all felt the same.”
The young executive searched the crowded churchgoers, wondering if anyone else was squirming in their seat. Jessica Jung was clearly in love with the girl in the coffin.
Breaking into another sob, the woman fell into Sungmin’s arms and he ushered her back to the pews.
Tiffany could put on a spectacle, too. If she’d been involved in the funeral. The heavy weight of outrage hurt more than her shoes.
…
In the blink of an eye, Tiffany found herself punching holes into the grass with her heel, peering at the rows of cars filling the parking lot to the brim. The procession would start soon. Her friend, her first lover, would be in the ground soon.
Tiffany couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t bear to watch those men lower her long-time best friend into the ground. Worms were down there. And dirt. Too much dirt. She hated dirt with a passion; it was one of the traits Tiffany found most adorable.
Tiffany spotted her mother amongst the throng of people. The short, pudgy woman was clutching Sungmin’s hand when Tiffany made her way over.
“Sorry for interrupting,” she croaked, chancing a panicked look at the empty plot. “I have to dip out. Last minute emergency in the city.”
The mother smiled, bringing Tiffany in for a tender hug, as if she detected her fragility. “You’ve grown into a successful young lady. I knew you would.”
Tiffany’s eyes poured out a new batch of warm moisture. “I’m sorry.” She felt like she’d said that word all day, even when she hadn’t.
“Don’t be sorry, Fany. You weren’t driving the other car.”
Tiffany shook her head into her mother’s cushiony shoulder. “For everything. I’m sorry.”
Sungmin stood nearby, warily watching. She felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“You were like another daughter to me, Fany.”
Were? The word stung. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Her mother sent emails to select women attending the funeral, announcing a brunch where they’d recall memories and give support. It’d happen in a week. Tiffany stayed on the fence about it; she feared that in the throes of emotion, she’d reveal her true feelings. That wouldn’t go well.
“I’ll see you when I see you,” the older woman answered, wrinkled eyes dim, “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.”
Tiffany broke from the motherly embrace, unwittingly matching eyes with Sungmin. He remained rooted in the grass. Not a hint of a potential hug. Tiffany had no idea where she found this guy, but she wasn’t a fan. She nodded an acknowledgement and he pricked on a thin smile.
As Tiffany drove off, leaving the funeral home to shrink into the distance, she damned the lot of them. To hell with their strange behavior. To hell with that teenager who killed her. To hell with Sungmin. To hell with Jessica Jung, the goddamned poet.
The simple thought of Jessica spending happy times with her until the day of the untimely death brought fire to Tiffany’s soul.
She had to attend that get together.
…
Seven days later, Tiffany received the same exact expression of sheer surprise when her mother opened the front door of her home.
Tiffany frowned, handing over a dish of rice krispie treats. “Did I get the wrong day?” She knew the answer was ‘no’; their ample country yard was littered with unfamiliar vehicles.
“No, honey. You’re right on time. Please, get comfortable.”
Two girls, not much younger than Tiffany when she’d met her best friend, dashed around her to the porch, barking orders to each other.
“I’m the mom and you’re the dad.”
“I don’t want to be the dad! You do it. You’re taller!”
“I can’t be the dad because I have on a dress!”
The mother closed the door on them as Tiffany smiled to herself, fond memories swelling her brain.
As nicely as the women seated in the living room greeted her, she felt like the odd one out immediately. An outsider with an unsavory history. Tiffany slid onto a wooden chair beside the door. Long day ahead, for sure.
No Jessica Jung in sight.
They made small talk for the next few minutes, ultimately interrupted by Sungmin traipsing through the room. He bowed accordingly, stiffening in posture when he reached Tiffany. “Miss Hwang. You’ve made it.”
This was getting old. “Yes, I made it. We were best friends for years. She must have mentioned me once or twice.”
“More than that.”
The shortness of the sentence brought Tiffany to silence. As the ladies chattered, she and Sungmin exchanged hard gazes.
“I’ll be going now.” His face brightened just in time to address rest of the room. “You ladies have fun. Keep the gossip at a maximum.”
The older women tittered at the man, waving him out the door.
Tiffany shifted in the creaking chair. Sungmin hated her. The women of the room, save her mother out of hospitality, seldom included her in the conversations. It’d be a shame to duck out early again. Isn’t that what they’d expect?
She missed her.
Before long, she wandered from the living room, legs taking her down the hall, to the room to the left. Her room. Tiffany peeked inside, pushing further into the bedroom after she realized that the coast was clear.
It looked much smaller than she remembered. Vaguely familiar, though. Many of the surroundings changed--different posters on the walls, a paint job, an intriguing saxophone propped onto the closet door. Still, she sensed her all over.
Tiffany grazed the timeworn vanity with light fingers, nostrils picking up the faint smell of foundation and fragrances of uncapped perfume bottles. The space apparently doubled as her post-college storage facility. Stacks of cleanly labeled boxes took up a quarter of the space. Not keen on climbing a cardboard mountain, Tiffany fell flat onto the bed. It smelled like her.
She grinned. Junior and senior year of high school, as she recalled, consisted of endless ploys for them to end up in bed. It’d been a tricky task between college searches and test prep. She sacrificed a few passing grades just to steal away to her house, where she’d tug off Tiffany’s pajama bottoms with insatiable haste. The danger in her eyes never failed to leave Tiffany excited and yearning for her touch. Seemed like eons ago.
“Knock knock.”
Like a teen up to no good, Tiffany hurried to sit up, smoothing her dark hair.
It was Jessica. The woman hovered in the doorway, eyeing the room as if something would be out of place. “I finished preparing brunch. You must be hungry.”
A poet and a cook? Of course. “Not especially.”
“Me neither.” Uninvited, Jessica sauntered to the mattress and plopped down. “I haven’t eaten much in days.”
Tiffany hummed. She wanted to know nothing and everything about Jessica. The confusion gave her a headache.
“Hope I didn’t come off as rude at the funeral,” Jessica continued, holding out a hand. “I’m Jessica.”
She shook it with a limp grip. “Tiffany Hwang.”
“I know.” Her lips pinned into a wry smirk. “I heard all about you...when she was alive.”
Tiffany couldn’t explain why that made her nervous. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good things, I assume?”
Jessica snorted at a joke only she knew, lashes cast downward. “She called you unforgettable.”
Tiffany paused at Jessica’s pensive tone, blinking up at an old picture taped to the corner of the vanity. A faded photo of Tiffany and her during middle school, hugging each other and beaming at the camera. Maybe she’d take it home, if her mom permitted. “Who are you?”
Jessica’s eyes were stapled to her knees. “A friend.”
“Dearest friend, according to the funeral.”
“Yes. We were very close. She…” Jessica trailed off to wipe at her cheek.
“She what?”
Jessica rushed to the door and clicked it shut with conviction. Tiffany raised her eyebrows at the sudden action, ready to grab a trophy as protection in case this girl was a headcase.
“I’ve been dying to meet you.”
“Why?”
“To see what I’ve always had to live up to.”
Nothing made sense anymore. “Can somebody here please let me in on the secret?”
“You’re Tiffany Hwang. Her true love.”
Tiffany’s lips stilled.
What to say to such a declaration?
“I’ve been secretly hating you for years. Except then, you were this unattainable entity. And now, you’re right here.”
“You gonna off me?”
“I want to talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Privately. Away from--” She nodded to the door. “Please.”
“When?”
“After brunch. I’ll offer you a ride home if you don’t want to take another car.”
“I live in Seoul.”
“So do I. But I--” The blonde fiddled with her nails. Sirena blue. “I have another home nearby, too. We can talk there.”
“You’re rich.”
“Is that a yes?”
Tiffany got to her feet, breezing past the blonde to turn the door knob. “Hope you have a guest room. I don’t sleep on couches.”
[Author's Note]A/N: Hope this makes sense. See? I didn’t stop writing. :3 I'm not naming names, but I wonder if any of you have a mental picture of the deceased friend/lover.