Chapter 4
I was going to yell fuck off to whoever was on the other end of the phone until my dad’s broken English came through the speaker.
He sounds confused when he says, “Jiho? It’s Appa. Why you at the Flexy Factory? No mind. There’s emergency. Come to home.”
Then the old man hangs up, leaving my heart rampant and questions flying through my head. I just hope Eomma didn’t fall again. I run out of my office to grab my keys, remembering last second that Morgan’s—
Never mind. She’s gone.
Dammit. Fuck.
I should’ve known by that panicked look on her face that she wouldn’t actually stay. I always plan my days down to the very second, but I’ll be damned if I don’t have words with her about it soon. And only after we finish what I started. If she lets me, anyway.
At my parents’ house, fifteen minutes later, I step up on a little stool and retrieve a giant stainless-steel bowl from the top shelf of the pantry.
“ Appa ,” I say, stepping down, “needing the kimchi bowl isn’t an emergency. An emergency is when someone’s hurt or in the hospital.”
My dad squints and leans in, whispering, “But son, if Eomma no has kimchi bowl by tonight, Appa will be hurt or in hospital.”
I smile. “Good point.”
My parents are now in their sixties, and my dad unfortunately has progressive arthritis, and my mom’s worsening eyesight gives her vertigo. It’s difficult and dangerous for both of them to move, even with simple tasks like getting down the kimchi bowl. The omnipotent they never tell you how much it sucks to watch your parents age. All the worry. All the doctors’ visits and hospital trips. No wonder Koreans ingrained special first-born-son duties into their culture.
Jina’s offered to take some of it on, but I always tell her no. She needs to focus on her business and herself. It’s my job to take care of the family, Jina included. Appa and Eomma know it, too. It’s why they always call me.
“I try to call Jina at her Flexy Factory. Why you pick up phone?” my dad asks.
Well, shit. Never mind. “Jina’s getting John from the airport.”
Appa nods, drawing out the standard old Korean man ahhh, ending with, “Are they married yet?”
“If they were, I’m sure you’d know,” I jab.
“Who is married?” my mom asks, peering around the pantry door.
I sigh. “Jina and John, and they’re not married.”
My mom’s eyes widen with surprise. “Jiho, why you here? I thought Appa call Jina.”
“She’s with John.” Quickly losing my patience, I sigh again.
“I like John. John good man. Jina and John should get married. They very good for each other.” She looks at me. “You hurry get married, too. I want grandchildren.”
I roll my eyes and side-step her, placing the kimchi bowl on the kitchen island. “Well, if Appa hadn’t called, I may have been one step closer to one of those two things.”
It’s a total joke, but my mom gasps and slaps my dad’s shoulder. “ Appa, Jiho was with girl, and you interrupted.” My dad rubs his shoulder, wincing, and she turns her attention back to me. “Who is she? Where you meet? Is she pretty? Smart? Does she have good job?”
“Whoa, whoa, Eomma. It’s not that serious. I only met her yesterday, and she’s a client of mine. Well, of Jina’s, but I’m training her.”
Mom braces her hands on her hips, repeating the same questions I have yet to answer. “You meet at Flexy Factory, but who is she? Is she pretty? Is she smart? Does she have good job?”
I slump onto a bar stool next to the island, one hand scrubbing at my face, the other tapping the counter. “Her name is Morgan. Yes, she’s very pretty. And she must be smart because she works at K-Tech.”
An old, gruff voice sounds from the hall just beyond the kitchen, my spine going rigid, my body tensing, as my grandfather shuffles in on a cane. “Morgan is not a Korean name,” he says in Korean, switching all of us to the language. “Don’t waste your time with a woman who is not Korean. Jina’s friend is a good choice.”
I breathe in deeply, composing myself because not fucking this again. “Her name isn’t Korean either.”
My grandfather shrugs. “Yes, but at least she’s half Korean. Half Korean is better than none.”
“And the fact that I can’t stand her?”
He shrugs again. “You will learn to like her over time.”
I can only blink at that sentiment because what the fuck? Since the day I turned twenty—the official adult age in Korea—he’s been saying the same thing. It got worse since he moved stateside and in with my parents after my grandmother passed. Especially with the added marry-Jina’s-friend thing.
The antiquated old man doesn’t seem to care that we live in the United States, nor that I consider myself more American at this point than Korean. Hell, I’ve lived here since before I can remember.
No, all my grandfather wants is for me, the first-born son, to marry a South Korean woman to carry on the family line in the purest sense possible. And I hate to admit it, but something in me keeps from pushing back too hard on the matter. I blame him for that, too.
My parents moved here to put some distance between us and the strictest nature of Korean culture. But my grandfather made up for it every time we saw him throughout my life, teaching me to obey, obey, obey. Nothing less than perfection accepted.
No wonder I have control issues.
My mom slaps her father-in-law’s shoulder this time. “Siabeoji, enough. Jiho can marry any girl he loves. All we want is for him to be happy.”
“Hyung-chul,” he calls my dad’s name slowly, a withered hand massaging my mom’s found mark. “Decades later, and your wife still doesn’t know how to respect her elders.”
“I do know. I just choose not to bestow it on you,” my mom mutters, and I swallow down a laugh. My dad remains eerily quiet, though, fighting the same internal battle that’s plagued him his whole life. Another reason they chose to move here.
If they moved here to distance themselves, then why let the old man move in, you ask? Surprise, surprise—my dad’s the fucking first-born son. And in the old traditions my grandfather keeps, the first-born son must care for his aging parents, especially now that my grandmother’s gone.
My parents may have fled from him and Korea, but generational curses run deep. In other words, my dad said yes out of a habitual obligation, and my mom acquiesced. But she’s tough as fucking nails and never lets my grandfather get away with his outdated, holier-than-though shit.
My mom turns to me and switches back to English because my grandfather barely understands it… I think. I actually have no fucking clue.
“Ignore him, Jiho,” my mom says. “You bring Morgan here next weekend for dinner. I cook. Me and Appa meet her. We send Grandpa to poker room.”
I guess he understands that much because my grandfather narrows his eyes, his labored breathing kicking up a notch.
But I fucking speak up first in Korean, redirecting his judgmental attention from my mom to me. “I understand, Harabeoji, but there’s no need to worry. She’s leaving in three months for Seoul. K-Tech is sending her there for a year.” I turn back to my mom and add in English, “Is there even a point in pursuing her?”
“Yes, Jiho,” she also says in English, now slapping me. Jesus, no wonder my dad and grandfather rubbed their shoulders—that shit hurts. “She go to Seoul, but that easy to fix. You go to Seoul with her. Tell him, Appa.”
“Yes, very easy to fix. Go to Seoul,” he agrees in English, but with an I’m-sorry-I-have-no-choice look on his face. Whether for me or my grandfather, I don’t know.
At this point, my grandfather curses in Korean, slowly stands, and shuffles back out of the kitchen. I breathe for the first time since he set foot in the room.
Drumming my fingers in a rhythm of fours, I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale sharply. Regardless of my grandfather, I’m always fucking sighing around my parents.
Inhaling, ready to do so again, I drone, “It’s not that easy. I have my gyms to run and have to be here. And again—here’s the most important part, so listen closely—I only met her yesterday.” I bite my cheeks to stifle a smirk. Sure, I only met Morgan yesterday, but that sure as hell didn’t stop me from trying to fuck her on the gym mat. But I’m one hundo percent not going to tell my parents that.
My mom waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Who cares?”
“Morgan might,” I deadpan.
“No, Jiho,” my dad pipes up—seemingly breathing for the first time too. “Women like men to, to…purjoo them.”
“Pursue,” I correct. “And following a woman you just met halfway around the world is more like stalking.”
My mom shrugs. “Only if she no like you. Does Morgan like you?” Before I answer, she adds, pinching my cheeks, “Of course she like you. You so handsome.”
“Thanks, Eomma,” I say, swatting her hands away.
“Beside,” Mom offers, “you always work so, so hard. Now time for fun. To take rest with Morgan.”
Fun, rest, and Morgan sound really fucking nice if I’m being honest. But all three at once is a total impossibility. Shit, even one at once seems unlikely.
My eyes flick to my watch—nearly 10:00 PM—and the reality of my fucking fatigue hits me. Morgan’s to blame. Thanks to that body of hers, I barely slept last night. And now that my hands got to personally explore it, I’ll need another shower session to relieve the worst case of blue balls I’ve had to date.
I sigh exaggeratedly— again— and mumble with a fake yawn, “I should go. It’s late, and I’m very tired.”
I stand with two slaps to the countertop, my mom wasting no time to hug me goodbye, saying, “Yes, go take some rest. You need strength to purjoo Morgan.”
“Pursue,” I correct again with another goddamn sigh.
My dad beckons me. “I walk you to door.”
Mom releases me from her death grip, and I follow my old man out of the kitchen and into the foyer. But before I can even reach for the handle, he places a hand on my shoulder.
“Jiho,” he says my name way too seriously for comfort. “Like Eomma said, ignore Grandpa. He always unhappy man. Now, you say to Morgan… I’m just boy, standing in front of girl, asking her to love him.”
My brows pinch as I mull over those vaguely familiar words. “Is that… Notting Hill? But backward?”
My dad nods as if it’s completely normal for a man to know a chick flick quote by heart. “Yes, son. You be boy who ask Morgan to love him.”
I sigh one more fucking time and say dryly, “Goodbye, Appa .”
Sliding into my Supra, I can’t help but think my dad has a point, however weirdly executed. Seriously, Eomma needs to stop watching nineties rom-coms for her own sake unless she—
What the fuck, Jiho?
Don’t finish that thought.
I don’t know about love. I’m not saying it’s impossible. Considering the fact I haven’t been able to get her out of my damn mind since laying my eyes on her…
Falling in love with Morgan Asterman will probably happen at some point.
But I should definitely start smaller, like asking Morgan to spend time with me outside of the gym. But how?
She ran the fuck away, and I may not be the smartest man on the planet, but I sure as hell know that means she doesn’t want to see me. Right?
Good thing I’m stubborn as fuck, and love the chase. She doesn’t even know what she started.
A moment later, my phone lights up with a text, and a flicker of hope warms my chest that it’s Morgan.
But of course not—it’s fucking Jina.
Hell yeah, fucking Jina. She really is the best sister ever.
Quickly, I flip to my calendar, ready to pencil Morgan in—only to find it completely fucking full.
Meeting after meeting.
And a couple of gym visits.
Goddammit.
Without even a second thought, my fingers respond for me:
So again—fucking Jina…
Replying with a thumbs-up, I then inhale for four seconds. After holding for four, my lungs release the air slowly, trying to relieve some of the anxiety I’ve felt since I got Appa ’s phone call. And since Morgan bailed. At least she didn’t say anything to Jina, and that means I still have a chance.
Maybe she does like me. The way she moaned when she ground her pussy against my cock earlier certainly makes me think so. Hell, the succulent woman met me more than halfway, move for move, touch for touch, moan for fucking moan.
So what’s next? Purjoo—I mean, pursue the hell out of her.
But first, a shower.