Chapter Seven
I’m pouring coffee into a travel mug and scrolling through my phone with my other hand when I hear the telltale crash of Sungyoon’s bedroom door hitting the wall, followed by the heavy thud of feet moving way too fast for this hour of the morning.
I look up just as he rounds the corner into the kitchen looking like he lost a fight with his pillow, his hair sticking up in about six different directions, his uniform shirt untucked on one side and his tie hanging loose and unknotted around his neck.
There’s a crease from his pillowcase stamped across his left cheek.
“I didn’t know you were still home,” I say, frowning as I cap the travel mug. “I assumed you’d already left for school.”
Sungyoon makes a sound that’s closer to a growl than actual words, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a carton of banana milk.
“I slept through my alarm,” he says, his voice thick with frustration as he stabs the straw through the top.
“I’m going to be so late. Mr. Park is going to make me run laps again.
” He takes a long pull of the milk and then mutters under his breath, “Old bastard lives for making us suffer.”
I smirk into my coffee. “Come on, I was just heading out to meet my client anyway. I can drop you off on the way.”
The relief that crosses his face is instant, his shoulders dropping as he grabs his school bag off the counter where he must have dumped it last night and shoves his feet into his sneakers by the front door without untying them, crushing the backs down under his heels.
I open my mouth to tell him to put them on properly but he’s already launching into a rundown of the interschool soccer tournament as we head into the hallway, his earlier irritation evaporating completely now that he’s on his favorite subject.
“So we made it to the semis,” he says, slinging his bag over one shoulder as we step into the elevator.
“If we win today we advance to the final round next week. Their center midfielder is the one we have to worry about, he’s this tall kid from Hanyang Prep who plays dirty, like he’ll slide tackle you from behind when the ref isn’t looking.
” He takes another sip of banana milk and continues without pausing for breath.
“But Woonil figured out that if we press high on their left side we can force them to play through the middle where our defense is strongest, and then I can cut in from the wing when they overcommit.”
I nod along, genuinely enjoying the way his face lights up when he talks about this, the animated hand gestures and the small detail that tells me he actually thinks about the game seriously and doesn’t just run around kicking the ball like I did at his age.
We reach the parking garage level and the elevator doors slide open, and I pull my key fob out of my jacket pocket as we step onto the concrete, heading across the garage toward a different spot than where I usually park.
Sungyoon is still talking about the opposing team’s goalkeeper when he trails off mid-sentence, his steps slowing. He looks around the row of parked cars, then back at me, then around again.
“Where’s your car?”
“There,” I say, and click the fob.
Two rows ahead, a brand new foreign model sedan flashes its headlights and chirps, sleek and dark and gleaming under the fluorescent garage lights.
It’s still wearing temporary plates. The paint is so glossy it reflects the overhead lights in clean white streaks across the hood, and the interior, visible through the tinted windows, is cream leather and brushed metal trim.
Sungyoon stops dead. His jaw drops, the banana milk carton frozen halfway to his mouth.
I walk past him, pop the trunk, and toss my bag inside. The trunk closes with a soft expensive click that sounds nothing like the rusty slam of my old sedan.
“What is that,” Sungyoon says. It’s not really a question.
I clear my throat. “My car.”
Sungyoon stares at me. “Dad. That is not your car.”
“It is now,” I say, pulling open the driver’s side door.
Sungyoon shakes his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on the car like he’s waiting for it to dissolve into a hallucination. “How? Where did it come from?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the heat creep up toward my ears despite my best efforts to stay casual. “My new client bought it for me,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can manage, which isn’t very even at all.
Sungyoon’s eyes narrow. A sharp look that’s entirely too perceptive for a fifteen-year-old that he gets sometimes, the one that makes me feel like I’m the child being interrogated. “Your new client?” he repeats, his tone flat with suspicion. “What kind of client gives a car as a gift?”
“Well,” I say, opening the passenger door and gesturing for him to get in, “he’s kind of the heir to the car brand, so it’s not that big of a deal.”
Sungyoon gapes at me. He repeats it back slowly. “He what?”
“Get in the car, Sungyoon, you’re going to be late.”
He climbs in but he’s still staring at me as I settle into the driver’s seat and start the engine, which turns over with a smooth quiet purr that I’m still not used to after years of my old sedan’s asthmatic coughing.
I pull out of the spot and navigate toward the garage exit, muttering under my breath, “It’s not like I could refuse. ”
Which is true. Hongjoong had been relentless about it after seeing my old car for the second time, calling it a deathtrap on wheels and a rolling health hazard, insisting that this particular model was just sitting around collecting dust in their company warehouse and that it would actually be doing him a favor if I took it off his hands.
The bullshit was so transparent that I couldn’t even argue properly because every rebuttal I came up with was met with an infuriating cat-like smile and another perfectly reasonable-sounding excuse for why I absolutely had to accept a car that outvalues my car by like a billion times.
Sungyoon, meanwhile, has completely forgotten about being late to school.
He’s pulling open every compartment within reach, his fingers running over the stitched leather of the center console, pressing buttons on the dashboard display that bring up navigation screens and climate controls and a sound system interface that makes his eyes go wide.
He twists around in his seat to examine the backseat like it might contain further treasures, then twists back and runs his palm flat across the dashboard with reverence.
It makes me smile despite myself, a warmth spreading through my chest as I watch his unguarded delight from the corner of my eye.
Sungyoon has never complained about what we had.
He never asked for more than I could give, never threw a fit about the secondhand clothes or the cramped apartment or the ancient car that rattled ominously every time I took it above sixty.
But he’s always had a thing for cars. Always.
I could never afford anything nice, but I didn’t fail to notice the way he lingered over automotive magazines at the convenience store when he thought I wasn’t looking, his fingers tracing the glossy pages.
I noticed the clippings he cut out and pinned to his bedroom wall, sports models and racing vehicles arranged in neat rows above his desk.
I noticed the way his head turned to track expensive cars on the highway, his eyes following them until they disappeared from view.
Much like his biological father.
I’ve always found it cruelly fascinating, the way things like that can pass through blood, traits inherited from a father who doesn’t even know his son exists.
Sometimes I’ve wished I could tell Sungyoon about his paternal grandparents and their automotive legacy, about the family name printed on the hoods of cars that he idolizes, about the fact that the blood running through his veins connects him to an empire he’ll probably never know he belongs to.
But I can’t, so I just watch his joy and swallow the ache that rises in my throat.
“The heated seats have three settings,” Sungyoon announces, jabbing at the controls on his side with barely contained glee.
“Don’t break anything,” I say mildly.
As I pull up to the school gates the new car causes an immediate commotion.
Students on the sidewalk turn to stare, conversations dying mid-sentence as heads swivel toward the gleaming dark sedan rolling up to the curb.
A cluster of boys who were sitting on the low wall by the entrance abandon their bags and jump to their feet, already moving toward us from the magnetic pull that an expensive car exerts on teenage boys everywhere.
“I might be out tonight,” I tell Sungyoon as I put the car in park.
He grins at me so wide that his dimple cuts deep into his left cheek, and the sight of it hits me the way it always does, a quick sharp pang right behind my sternum. “Got it,” he says, already unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing his bag from the footwell. “Thanks for the ride, Dad.”
He bolts out of the car and his classmates swarm him before he even gets the door shut, voices raised in excitement, hands pointing at the hood and the rims and the badge on the grille.
I can hear fragments of their questions through my open window as I check my mirrors.
Sungyoon is already holding it down, gesturing at the car with the glow of a kid who just became the most interesting person in his grade, and I pull away from the curb with my mouth twitching in amusement.
That’s sure to earn him some serious reputation points at school, so I can’t begrudge Hongjoong’s flashy gift too much.