Chapter 23
Never in my life have I witnessed an atmosphere shift so fast. One second, the room is buzzing with conversation and laughter, and the next—dead silence. As if the moment Jiho’s grandfather shuffled into the living room, someone hit the mute button.
John, Jina, Hyung-chul, and Sook-ja go rigid, their faces draining of color. My parents and Michelle exchange wary, confused glances while Mandu beelines off the couch and up the stairs. And I swear the temperature just plummets, like some kind of arctic wind blasted through, freezing everyone in place.
I even feel cold.
Holy shit—does Grandpa have magical ice powers or something? They’d be the perfect complement to his uncanny ability to scare the fuck out of everyone.
Creepy.
Jiho’s mom snaps out of it first, springing to her feet and saying something in Korean. Sure, I’ve been studying the language here and there, memorizing a few key phrases—like how to say nice to meet you in a way that might impress Jiho’s grandfather. But fluent? Not even close.
If fluency were a spot on the floor, I’d be chilling happily on Mars, drinking a Martian margarita in blissful ignorance.
So imagine my surprise when I actually recognize three words: why, how, and here. It’s enough to piece together that Sook-ja just asked her father-in-law why he came, and how he got here.
He barks something back with exactly zero recognizable Korean words, but one English word comes through loud and clear— Uber.
I glance at Jiho, hoping he’ll fill in the rest, but my attention snaps to his hand, his grip on mine tightening with every second. If I don’t do something, I’m afraid I’ll lose my dominant hand. I need that hand. But more than anything? I’m afraid he’ll spiral again.
I hated seeing Jiho like that—panicked, pale, and desperate, physically pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion just to reset his system.
Why do men do that? Why can’t they just curl up in a ball, hyperventilate, and ugly cry like the rest of us? Different standards, I guess. Not to mention different hormones, chromosomes, brain chemistry—
Doesn’t matter.
Michelle clears her throat, and I catch her worried gaze just as the doorbell rings again. Her face reads, Do you want me to get it?
I answer with an urgent, double-flick of my eyes toward the door. She knows I’ll pay her back, not that she’d ever let me.
Thankfully, our decades of silent, sister communication pays off, because she nods once, stands, and heads off to collect the food. At least, I hope it’s the food. If one more older Korean person suddenly appears at my door when I’m expecting something else, I might just strip naked and run around like a madwoman.
Then, no one would come over. Ever. Just me and Jiho, alone together forever.
Not bad, Morgan. Not bad.
I further mull over the idea as the volume of the Korean conversation—argument—kicks up a notch, ricocheting around the room. In my periphery, Jiho flinches when his grandfather’s voice flares.
This isn’t good.
Through our prior conversations about the man and Sook-ja’s warning, I understand Jiho and his grandfather didn’t have the best relationship. But this? It’s almost like fucking PTSD.
Squeezing his hand three times, I push up on my toes and whisper, “Baby, are you okay?”
It’s subtle, but he shakes his head.
Dammit, I knew it .
Is he even breathing?
My eyes drift to Jina, curious whether Grandpa has the same effect on her. Sure enough, I don’t think she’s breathing either—until John wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him. And just like that, Jina inhales a sharp breath, John’s touch the antidote to the poison of the old man’s presence.
So why isn’t my touch working? Maybe, like John, there needs to be more than letting Jiho death grip my hand. Maybe there needs to be a steady arm wrapped around him too.
Somehow, I manage to wrench my hand free—missing the touch, but also savoring the feel of freely flowing blood again.
The lack of contact gets Jiho’s attention, his wide eyes shifting to our now unjoined hands. I get the feeling he’s completely misunderstanding my intentions, so I move quickly, my arm snaking around his middle, holding tight.
A bit of tension leaves his body, his muscles somewhat relaxing under my arm, but that’s when dearest Grandfather shouts his name—loud and livid.
“Jiho!” More angry, Korean yelling I can’t understand.
Sweet Jesus.
Ragey Grandpa may give ragey Morgan a run for her money. But as much as I’d love to daydream about how that might play out, I have to focus on my boyfriend. A man who deserves all things good and wonderful in the world. A man who should be laughing and smiling, not shaking from…fear? Shame? His own kind of rage?
I lean in, wanting to whisper something else and to read his blank face—to pinpoint the emotion. But Jiho slips out from my hold before I can utter a single word. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me or anyone else. Doesn’t hesitate.
Just turns and walks away.
My stomach sinks as I watch him disappear down the stairs to the gym, hearing a door slam at the bottom. A door that hasn’t been closed since I’ve moved in. Honestly, I didn’t even know it existed until now.
I know better than to take his walking away personally. This isn’t about me. If I had to guess, it’s about his grandfather undermining him in his own home, taking over the place like it’s his, and Jiho feeling like his hands are tied.
It’s another cultural thing I don’t understand—and probably never will, no matter how hard I try—but fuck that.
Every culture has pros and cons. Beauty and ugliness. And this? At least to this degree? Definitely an ugly con.
Still, watching Jiho disappear to the basement, shoulders stiff, hands clenched into fists, my heart breaks. I’m clearly standing on the shoreline, watching an ominous, unstoppable storm rolling in.
But I’m not helpless.
I may not be able to stop the storm, but I can at least delay the motherfucker—an old, tried-and-true strategy coming to mind.
As if right on cue, the strategy walks back in the room with two giant bags of Chinese food. Too bad. I don’t think anyone’s hungry anymore.
I walk straight toward Michelle with a loud, “Here, let me help,” taking one of the bags. Then, I whisper into her ear, “Operation: Get the Fuck Out is a go. But everyone else leaves. Not me.”
Michelle’s eyes narrow. “Ragtag?” she whispers back.
“Ragtag.”
“Good or bad?”
“Bad.”
“Good choice. Everyone will leave faster. But…” Michelle pauses, eyebrows bunching.
“But what, Michelle?” I press.
“But there’s a chance it’ll backfire.”
Now I pause. “What kind? Get someone hurt backfire? Like the time Uncle Dave sprained an ankle running away from a rabid bear you saw?”
My sister shrugs in the finest nonchalance. “He was being creepy and staring at my boobs. He deserved it.” Bracing one of her hands on her hips, she adds, “It’ll be fine. Trust me, okay?”
I shake my head, sighing. “Okay.”
Her face lights up, then she glances down at my pockets. “Do you have your phone on you?” I nod. “Then text our parents, John, and Jina. Tell them to play along.”
Whipping out my phone, my fingers fly on the screen. “Done.” Within a minute, I get two nods from John and Jina, an annoyed look from my dad, and a mouthed What do you mean? from my mom.
“Here,” Michelle says, shoving the other bag in my hands. “We’ll wait for the next lull in Mr. Old-and-Angry-Pants’ monologue.”
Counting the seconds under my breath, I hope this still works. Last time we invoked Ragtag was two years ago at a family reunion. But we wanted to leave then. Now, it’s the other way around.
Only ten seconds pass before Jiho’s grandfather takes a long, drawn-out breath.
Go time.
Michelle seizes the moment, yanking out her phone and gasping like she just got news of a world-ending asteroid heading our way. Then she shouts, “Oh my God—nobody move a muscle!”
We all freeze. Even Grandpa, sensing something, stiffens. Oh, the power of body language.
“What is it, Michelle? Is everything okay?” Jina asks, eyes flicking between her and the phone.
Michelle fake-sobs, swallowing hard for effect as her eyes instantly well with crocodile tears. “No. No, it’s not okay.” I’ve always been jealous of and impressed with her ability to cry on demand. “I need everyone to listen closely. Jina, translate for your parents and…and the old, pissy guy.”
Jina nods, but I catch both her and John barely holding back smiles.
Michelle inhales deeply, pressing her hand to her chest like she’s gathering courage. “There’s been an outbreak of a highly contagious pathogen at the hospital.” Her voice cracks beautifully. “Apparently, it happened during my shift, so I was exposed.” Shutting her eyes and breathing in, a lone tear streaks down her cheek. “Which means…you’re all exposed too. I’m so, so sorry.”
Hyung-chul, Sook-ja, and Grandpa cock their heads in unison, and Jina quickly translates. Then their eyes widen in unison, too, and now I’m the one biting back a smile.
Grandpa curses—of course I know all the curse words in Korean—while Hyung-chul’s eyebrows disappear into his balding hairline.
Sook-ja gasps so hard I think she might faint, asking, “Dead sick?”
“No,” Michelle chokes out, wiping at her eyes. “It’s not deadly, but we all need to go home and quarantine for twenty-four hours, per the CDC guidelines.”
Jina relays the message again in Korean, to which everyone seems to relax. Definitely not moving to the door. Not leaving. Not getting the fuck out.
Shit, it’s backfiring, isn’t it?
How the hell am I going to—
“What are you all doing?!” Michelle hysterically cries to the group. “Didn’t you hear me? Go home. Now.”
Never mind.
I watch in pretty-damn-impressed horror as chaos erupts.
Sook-ja lunges for her purse like she’s reaching for a life raft. “We need to go, Appa, Siabeoji. Now!”
Hyung-chul clutches the collar of his shirt, muttering in Korean, while Grandpa’s cursing turns into more barked orders, pointing wildly at his son and daughter-in-law. Jina and John dutifully play along, ushering the others. John shoots a wink to me and Michelle as the four of them pass by. He mouths, good luck, before whistling for Mandu, the furball appearing on his heels a few seconds later.
Surprisingly, my parents play along, too, though their acting skills leave a lot to be desired.
Mom clutches her chest, gasping, “Oh dear! However shall we survive this?” in the most dramatic, soap-opera-worthy voice imaginable.
Dad, on the other hand, bellows with the exhausted frustration of a man who has been through this far too many times, “Goddammit, Michelle. Again?!”
But, it works. Within three minutes, everyone’s out the door, except my sister.
I use the moment to breathe before turning to her, asking, “What if Jiho’s parents call the hospital? Will you get fired?”
She shrugs. “Meh, they can’t afford to lose me. Boobs equal money, and in my field, I bring in a lot of boobs.”
“You’re insane, Sis,” I say with a chuckle. “But in the best way.”
“I know,” she beams, then pulls me in for a hug, kissing my cheek. “Now go take care of that man of yours. I don’t have to speak Korean to know that crusty old man did a number on him tonight. Oh, and I’m taking the Chinese food, considering I paid for it and all.”
“You’re going to eat all of that?”
“No, I’m going to drop it off at the hospital for the night shift nurses, excluding my chow mein and Jiho’s sweet and sour chicken, of course.”
“Of course,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Look at you being all nice.”
“What are you talking about, Morgs?” she asks, picking up the bags of food. “I’m always nice.”
Rolling my eyes, I see Michelle out, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, silence—save for muffled grunts coming from the basement—settles over the house. Like the calm after a storm. The kind that leaves everything standing, but with cracks in the foundation.
Probably the same storm I saw rolling in.
That was stressful, and my poor head feels it too. Exhaling, long and deep, I rub at my temples.
But, mission accomplished—Jiho’s grandfather is gone. His parents are gone. My family’s gone. John and Jina are gone.
Everyone’s gone, leaving us with the space needed for whatever the hell comes next.
I glance anxiously toward the stairwell, where Jiho disappeared minutes ago. The storm really did land. I just don’t know if it’s done—or if we’re in the eye of it.
Either way, I need to talk to Jiho. To somehow wrap my head around how a frail, old man can affect my strong, confident boyfriend in such a way.
I knew Jiho and his grandfather had a tense history. Knew there were wounds—deep, jagged ones he never let completely heal. But tonight, I saw something different—the weighted burden of it. The exhaustion of carrying something too heavy for too long.
Just as I turn from the front door in the direction of the stairs to hopefully confront it head-on, something on the floor snags my attention. Something I’m certain wasn’t there before the mass exodus.
A…letter?
With my name on it.
Frowning, I hinge at the waist and snatch it up, holding it at arm’s length. After the night I’ve had, I wouldn’t put it past the universe to make our fake biohazard problem a real one.
My eyes roll again on their own accord. Michelle and her constant state of murdery have officially rewired my brain. Maybe it’s time to retire Ragtag before I start carrying a scalpel around.
Slipping a finger beneath the envelope flap, I tear it open, pull out the contents, and unfold the letter.
No deadly pathogen.
Just good, old-fashioned mail.
From none other than Grandpa.
Quickly scanning the letter, I realize it’s not just good, old-fashioned mail—but good, old-fashioned hate mail. I read it twice, scoffing at every single sentence, typed out on some retro translation service letterhead with the original Korean version attached.
Got to give Grandpa credit. At least he’s thorough and motivated when begging me to get the fuck out of his grandson’s life.
Trying to wrap my head around this ordeal, I’m about to read it a third time when a loud crash from the basement jolts my priorities back into order. Quickly folding the letter of hate, I shove it into my back pocket and sprint for the stairs.
His two cents don’t matter to me anyway. Sook-ja told me to ignore him, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
And stay strong for Jiho—the only man whose opinion truly matters.