42. Brian
CHAPTER 42
Brian
We pull up in front of the Spenser family home, and I’m already fighting the tension creeping up my neck. The place looks exactly how I remember it—warm and welcoming. For everyone but me.
She kills the engine and glances over at me. “You look worried.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair, avoiding her gaze. “Worried? Why would I be worried?”
Maybe because her father has me pegged as a dirtbag who ruined her life. You know, no reason at all.
I suck in a breath and remind myself that I’m not here for him. I’m here for her.
“It’ll be fine,” she says softly, but I hear the edge in her voice.
Once we’re out of the car, cake in hand, Jules nudges me toward the door with all the gentleness of yanking a stubborn mule .
Then she shoots me a look that says, Don’t make this harder than it already is.
We breeze past the kitchen, which is full of life—the chatter bouncing off the walls, mixing with the clatter of pans. I’ve learned to steer clear, or risk getting dragged into an impromptu showdown of who’s whatever dish is better: Eomma’s or Halmeoni’s.
And we all know, there’s no right answer.
On the patio are plates of colorful banchan lining the table—kimchi, japchae, pickled radish—and there’s a platter of hot wings in the middle, most likely Colby’s contribution.
I set down the cake and spot Jules’s dad across the room, already frowning in my direction. Classic.
Leaning in, I murmur in her ear, “If they find me floating in the river, take care of my 1952 Mickey Mantle rookie card, will you?”
She deadpans. “You have a Mickey Mantle rookie card? And have not yet shown this to me? Wow, you’re lucky I don’t toss you into the river.”
Innocently, I shrug.
She rolls her eyes, but a smile creeps in. “Just charm Eomma and Halmeoni in Korean, and maybe don’t mention the card to Dad. He doesn’t need another reason to throw you the hairy eyeball.”
“For the record, I don’t want him throwing his hairy anything at me.”
“Just don’t set him off.”
“Got it. No mentioning to Papa Spenser how when his daughter’s really fired up, she moans like a shewolf to the moon.”
“Brian!” Her playful smack on my arm can’t hide her giggles.
Halmeoni approaches, her smile wide as she shuffles over.
“An-yong ha-se-yo, Hal-mo-nee ,” I say, offering her a respectful bow. “Happy Birthday.”
She beams, eyes sparkling as she reaches out and cups my cheeks with both hands. Eagerly, I lean down a little and grin. “You look so much like your father,” she says, her voice thick with nostalgia.
I choke up, unprepared for the sudden wave of emotion. When my parents passed, people said things like that all the time—how I looked like my dad. It was just something to say when they didn’t know what else to say.
But she means it. Halmeoni’s not just making conversation. Our families were close. It’s part of why I clung to the Spensers so hard. Her dad and mine were tight, and I wedged myself into their world, desperate for any shred of the family I lost.
I blink, swallowing the lump in my throat, and pull a small gift from my pocket—a delicate lavender silk scarf folded like a crane. I know it matches her favorite sweater.
Halmeoni’s eyes light up when I hand it to her. She unfolds the scarf carefully, smoothing it out before knotting it delicately around her neck. “ Eotteoke boyeo? ” she asks, her voice light with excitement. How do I look?
“ Areumdawoyo. ” Beautiful.
Colby, spotting the teary, touchy-feely guy on the verge of a full emotional meltdown while chatting with his grandma, swoops in to cut the tension.
He wraps his grandma in a hug, flashing a wide, teasing grin. “Come on, Halmeoni, you can tell me. How old are you? Twenty-nine, right?”
Halmeoni swats his arm, her expression playfully affronted. “Twenty-nine? Try twenty-two, pungk-uh! ” she says, calling him a punk with a smirk.
We all laugh, the mood instantly lighter as her playful sass fills the room.
The day kicks off with a late lunch—easygoing and casual. Then it’s team games like ping pong or corn hole, which inevitably get competitive.
After that, photos—lots of them.
Then Eomma has a small team come in for manis, pedis, and massages. The whole spa treatment, because of course, she does. Meanwhile, us guys are left to lug tables, set up decorations, and “man the grill.”
Which is complete bullshit.
Hey, I could use a mani and a foot rub just as much as the next person. But nope, we “menfolk” are relegated to prepping for the after-dinner festivities. And with what Colby has planned, it takes the better half of two hours.
The evening descends in a wash of gold and purple, the sun dipping behind the mountain, casting long shadows across the yard as the last streaks of light paint the sky.
In the background, the football game hums, but no one’s watching. The final hand of Texas Hold’em is down to the wire, and somehow, Halmeoni’s winning.
We’re letting her, of course—not that it’s easy. The woman plays like she’s never heard of poker in her life.
She’ll call out “Go Fish!” and ask if we want to trade cards like kids do with properties in Monopoly. But it’s her birthday, so, obviously, we do. Because on her special day, she has to win.
That’s the rule.
When she scoops up her pile of chips, grinning from ear to ear, she looks around the table with a sparkle in her eyes. “I’m ready for Vegas.”
Dead silence. We all freeze, eyes flicking nervously at each other, and Colby’s eyes lock on mine, his expression practically screams, She’s joking, right?
Her bright eyes say otherwise.
Then Jules breaks the tension with a nervous laugh, and soon, the rest of us are chuckling, too, because we know better.
If Halmeoni says we’re going to Vegas, we’re going to Vegas.
Jules’s dad stands, pats me on the back, and gives a subtle nod toward the back door. “Let’s grab some air.”
Here we go.
We step outside, and the cool air slaps me in the face, a welcome reset from the tension inside. Jules’s dad reaches into his pocket, pulling out a couple of cigars. He hands me one like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You smoke?”
I take it. “Every now and then.”
He lights both, and we each take a satisfying drag. Silence stretches out like a wad of chewed gum. And after what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks. “Did you tell her?”
I shake my head. “I promised I wouldn’t, and I won’t. For now,” I add. “What happened with Angi is ancient history.” Not to mention, I have no idea how I’d even start to explain.
He lets out a long, relieved sigh.
Taking another drag, he blows smoke into the night air, his expression softening. “I’m surprised, honestly. The two of you being married and all. I figured my Jules would’ve mind-melded it out of you by now.”
“I’m keeping it from her for now, not forever. First, we find Angi. Then either you tell her, or I will. Jules deserves the truth.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound almost bitter. “Angi always did know how to put the people closest to her through hell, didn’t she?”
“That she did,” I say, regret creeping into my own voice.
“And Colby?” His voice sharpens, cutting to the quick. “You’re helping him?”
I don’t even blink. “You’re damn right, I am.” I know he’s caught between a rock and a hard place, but that’s not my problem. He can hate me all he wants, but I’m not picking Angi over Colby.
Not today. Not ever.
His frustration tightens. “What happens if you catch her?”
“What happens if I don’t?” I shoot back. “Colby’s career is on the line. His whole future. Yeah, she needs help, and I get that you’ve done what you can. But I’m not letting her drag him down with her just because she decided to take him along for a joyride on the Titanic.”
And I see it in his eyes. The moment he gives up. “You’ve got the resources now. The connections. If you’re set on finding her, I can’t stop you.” He pauses, glancing at me. “Just don’t be too hard on her. Please. I know how she always gets under your skin.”
“Yeah. Like a damn spider.”
After another stretch of silence, I pull out my phone, scrolling through the places Angi’s been spotted recently. “Do you want to see what we have so far? Where we think she’s heading?”
He hesitates for a moment before his eyes soften with worry. “All right,” he says quietly, voice almost fragile. “Where’s my little girl?”
I hand him the screen, watching as the weight of it sinks in. A map of bad choices, one after another. The anger’s gone, replaced by something deeper—fear. He’s just a dad now, wanting his daughter home safe and sound.
The door creaks open, and Jules steps out, her voice cautious. “Everything okay? What’s going on out here?”
When the awkward silence settles over us, I pocket a hand and stay silent. I wait for her dad to say something—anything—because it’s not my place to display the family skeletons. It’s his.
Just as her dad’s about to speak, Colby swoops in, grabbing his dad’s cigar like he’s been eavesdropping the whole time. “What does it look like? Man-time. No girls allowed.”
Jules rolls her eyes, unfazed. “More like caveman time.” Her gaze softens as she turns to me. “You ready?”
I nod. “Five minutes.”
She heads back inside, and the air shifts between her dad and me, a quiet understanding passing without a word. Colby leans against the railing, grinning. “Do you two need a moment? Or a room?”
“Smart ass,” his dad mutters, yanking the cigar back. He gives me a pat on the back. “Well, boys. Let’s light ‘er up.”
Jules’s mom gently guides Halmeoni to her seat, while Jules watches me, her eyes dancing in the soft glow of the evening. And with no makeup and hair in a ponytail, she’s breathtaking .
“Do the honors,” her dad says, handing me the lighter with a grin and a nod toward the fireworks setup.
Right. Because nothing says Fire Marshall nightmare like three guys with zero pyrotechnic experience and a handful of YouTube tutorials.
Fuck it. Here goes nothing.
I light the fuse with my cigar, stepping back as the sparks fizzle and sputter down the line.
We all wait, staring at the dark sky, holding our breath. A beat passes. Then another. Then...
Nothing.
We’re all about to give Colby hell when boom —a million colors explode across the mountain sky, lighting it up like the universe just birthed a Technicolor star.
The bursts of reds, blues, and golds reflect off the peaks, to the point where the world is magic and light.
Jules slides under my arm, her head resting on my shoulder as we watch in awe.
A perfect end to a perfect night.
It’s late, past midnight, and I’m wide awake.
Something about that email from Sydney Sun keeps poking at my brain like a sharp twig, refusing to let me rest. So, I sit alone, in my den, sipping rye and reading her email again and again until the words blur together.
When I blink my eyes open, there’s a new email sitting in my inbox.
A small smile tugs at my lips before I glance at the door .
Is Jules asleep?
I’m tempted to go to her when curiosity gets the better of me, and I click it open.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Media Excellence Gala Invitation
Thanks for the RSVP.
See you at the gala.
xoxo
A knot tightens in my chest. See you at the gala.
No mention of going together. Is that what she wants? Separate entrances, separate...everything?
And the email. A Herald email. So why would Jules say Sydney’s no longer with them?
Confusion twists in my gut as I shut down the computer and drain my glass. For a long while, I don’t go to my wife, and I don’t email back.
I simply sit in the quiet, letting the darkness wrap around me, and I think.