Homecoming

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“The number you’ve dialled is not available at the moment. Please try again later.”

Zoey let out an exasperated growl at the automated voicemail.

“Where is she?”

The arrival hall was a symphony of chaos—a chorus of crying toddlers, the percussive clatter of suitcase wheels, and the frustrated, staticky announcements about misplaced baggage. Zoey sat hunched over, her elbow propped on her bouncing knee and her teeth chewing at her thumb.

It had been two hours since they landed in LA.

Her phone screen lit up, casting a blue glow on her tired, anxious face.

No new messages.

“Maybe her chariot turned back into a pumpkin,” Abby mused from the floor. He was cross-legged, phone propped against his carry-on as he watched the fourth TikTok dance video he shot in the last hour.

Zoey scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, right. Next, you’re going to say, ‘she was probably kidnapped by some guy who’s straight out of a BookTok dark romance novel.’”

“I mean….”

Zoey looked up, unimpressed. “Really?”

“Hey! BookTok girlies are insane. I’ve read Twisted Love and Fifty Shades of Grey, and I can confidently say—the standard of men is in the trenches,” he said.

Zoey groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Abby, focus. My best friend — who swore on our friendship bracelet she’d be here — is currently MIA in a city that’s a thirty-to-forty-minute drive without traffic, and forty-five minutes to an hour with traffic.” She sighed. “I just hope she hasn’t told my parents I’m coming home.”

Abby looked at her and arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t told your parents?”

Zoey winced, rubbing the nape of her neck and avoiding his gaze. “I wanted it to be a surprise?”

That was a lie. And Abby knew it.

“Zoey.”

She froze mid-neck rub, her shoulders tensing at his sharp tone when he called her by her full name.

“What?” she said in a small voice, finally meeting his gaze.

“You’re doing that neck rubbing thing when you’re lying or hiding something,” he replied.

“My neck is sore.”

“Bullshit. You roll your neck or ask for a massage whenever your neck hurts.”

Zoey’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. She stared at her sneakers—bright white against the scuffed airport floor. “I was going to tell them the week before…” She admitted quietly. “But I kinda chickened out."

Abby softened, scooting closer on his suitcase. “How come?”

“I dunno.” She sighed. “Imagine your daughter — who hasn’t spoken to you properly in two years — suddenly texting that she’s coming home after four. They’re gonna ask questions about where I’ve been and why I’ve lost touch with them. And I’m not ready to answer any of that.”

“Is it because you don’t have the answers, or you’re worried about your parents not liking your answers?” he asked.

There was a pause.

“Maybe both?” she answered.

Abby nodded slowly, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Okay. So worst case scenario—we walk into your childhood home like two undercover agents on a doomed mission." He flashed a lopsided grin. "I'll distract them with my devastating charm while you ninja-roll upstairs to burn all incriminating evidence."

Zoey snorted despite herself. "You are so dramatic."

“What can I say? I bring, I bring all the drama-ma-ma-ma,” he sang, earning a shoulder shove from Zoey.

“You are so corny for quoting songs.”

“You take that back. Drama is a certified banger, and you know it. Red-haired Winter still lives rent-free in my head!”

Zoey rolled her eyes. "Didn't realise you were such a hardcore MY."

Abby gave her the look. It was the type of look he always had when he was about to go on a sassy and passionate tirade. "I’ll have you know that I am a very cultured human being with flawless taste in music. Not that you’d know.”

Zoey let out an audible gasp like he had personally attacked her. “Excuse you! Not only am I a rising underground rapper, I also wrote and produced music for Rumi Kang, who, by the way, is pop royalty,” she playfully jabbed at his chest. “On top of that, I introduced you to half of the groups you stan. So, my taste in music is far superior by default.”

Abby threw his hands in surrender and said nothing, but the smirk never left his lips.

“Yeah, that’s what the hell I thought,” Zoey said, staring him up and down before switching on her phone.

Still no messages. She groaned, exasperated.

“We could call an Uber,” Abby proposed.

Zoey made a face. “Well... I’d rather not have my wallet fight for its life. Taking the bus is also a no-go coz the buses here are a fucking nightmare. So, I’m kinda at an impasse here.”

Before Abby could respond, a familiar, warm voice cut through the terminal din. “Well, look what the 14-hour flight dragged in.”

The duo turned, and before them was a short, pudgy middle-aged man approaching them, dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a safari hat and a shirt with palm leaves print on it.

Zoey’s eyes widened. “Bobby?”

“In the flesh,” his grin grew wider, opening his arms as she jumped in them to embrace.

“No way,” Abby grinned, springing to his feet and joining in on the hug.  “What are you doing on this side of the planet, man?”

“Vacation mostly,” Bobby said, his eyes crinkling. “I may be Seoul’s greatest manager, but I deserve a much-needed rest and get away from the constant phone call and PR nightmares. Oh, and did you know that your friend Gigi is getting married soon? I’ve been invited to the wedding.”

Zoey’s eyes widened. “Wait, seriously?”

“How do you know her?” Abby asked.