Chapter 30
“BLUUURGH —Oh my God, baby, I’m— BLUUURGH —so sorry,” Morgan sobs with her head in the toilet.
She’s been crying since the club, holding it together just long enough for us to get home. As for me, I’m holding her hair, accepting the newly learned fact that my girlfriend can’t hold her liquor for shit.
I honestly never would’ve fucking guessed, considering her tolerance for wine and beer. But after two drinks, she affectionately dragged my ass from the dance floor to the bathroom.
Yeah, that was all her.
After three, affection turned into intoxication.
And after four—inebriation. I blame myself, having handed her the goddamn fourth and told her to drink up.
“BLUUURGH —I’m so sorry,” Morgan cries again, her voice echoing from the toilet.
I trace circles along her back, trying to bring some sort of comfort to my—clearly—shit-faced girlfriend. “It’s okay, baby. Lift up your head for me.” It takes her a second, but when she finally lifts her mascara-stained, puffy face to mine, I quickly flush the toilet and then grab her a towel, wiping her mouth.
Her brain somehow puts two and two together because she wails, “Oh nooo. I’m so gross,” before dipping her head back in the toilet with another echoing BLUUURGH.
My hand circles kick back up again, not quite knowing what to fucking do. The only other people I’ve seen this drunk are myself and John. I mean, we’re close, but not hand-circles close. Never—with him or any other dude.
“You’re not gross, baby,” I gently reassure her. “You’re just drunk. But I need you to try to stop crying, okay?”
“I can’t— BLUUURGH —help it.” Another whimper. “It smells so baaad.”
I sigh, “Head up,” then flush, then wipe, repeating the sequence for the next fifteen minutes until Morgan’s labored breaths and crying ease.
Bracing one hand on the toilet seat, she gestures for the towel with the other, lifting her head and wiping her mouth when I hand it to her.
“I think,” she sniffles, voice cracking, “I’m okay now.”
A smile tugs at my lips. This just proves that Morgan Asterman could do anything—even fucking hurl up her guts in a toilet—and I’d still think she’s cute.
I run a hand over her curls, tucking them behind her ears. “And I think we now know your whiskey sour limit is two.”
Her bleary, honey-brown eyes search my face, and for a second, I think she might cry again until frustration pinches her brows. “How are you not drunk? You drank more than me.”
“I’m a little drunk,” I offer with a chuckle, “but I’m also Korean. Drinking well is in my blood.” Looking up, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. “That and a deficient ALDH2 enzyme.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Wh-what does that mean?”
I point to my bright, cherry-red face. “The Asian glow, baby. Koreans are blessed with many wonderful genetics, but the ability to fully metabolize alcohol isn’t one of them. You’ll see a lot of it when you get to Seoul.” Morgan stares, equally digesting my face and words, her alcohol-infused gears working overtime. “What is it?”
Her mouth pops open several times before she whimpers, “I want to see it with you.”
I point to my face again. “You are right now.”
“No,” she whines, lightly swatting me with the motor skills of a toddler, her fingers balling in my shirt. “I want to see Seoul with you.”
“You will, baby. When I come to visit, I’ll take you everywhere. Show you everything.”
“Nooo,” she groans louder, her eyelids sagging, fighting the blackout. “Come with me for the year. Damien said you won’t, but I want you to.”
Shock slams into my lungs, clogging my throat.
She…wants me to come to Seoul? For the whole year?
She’s never once voiced that desire. Never once made me think it was even a possibility. I shake my head—this is just the alcohol talking—and shake my head harder when I remember drunk words are sober thoughts.
Even so, I can’t just drop everything. Not anymore. At one point, it may have been a possibility. Me, flying with her, waking up next to her in a new city, exploring side-by-side. But I never asked, never brought it up. I’d convinced myself she didn’t want me there the whole time, that she wanted to walk this journey alone. Grow alone on her own adventure.
But what if she was waiting for me to ask? Try? Fucking plead? Because I would have. I would’ve gotten on my knees and begged.
Now that she’s leaving in two fucking weeks, that window of opportunity no longer exists—it’s closed, slammed shut by my own goddamn hands.
I can’t help the anger that shoots through me because, fuck, I’m mad at her for not saying anything sooner. But I’m even more pissed at myself for not saying it first.
Morgan chuckles, her head bobbing as her grip on my shirt loosens. “Shit, Damien was right.”
“Baby, I—”
“Shhh,” she interjects, cutting me off with a staggering finger to my lips. “It’s okay, Jiho. I’m used to this.”
Her finger falls from my lips as she cradles her head in her arms on the toilet.
A sharp pull twists deep in my chest, but I ask anyway—already knowing I’m not going to like the answer. “Used to what, Morgan?”
She hums softly, her eyes closing, giving in to the drunken sleep calling her name, too tired to lie. “Being a choice, but never the choice.”
I swallow hard, my throat burning as my own tears sting the backs of my eyes. I stare at her, curled up small against the toilet like that’s where she belongs, instead of in my arms.
I’m the biggest fucking failure.
I love this woman, so intensely it guts me. And yet somehow, I made her feel like she wasn’t enough. Like she isn’t always my choice— the choice. Like every single thing I do isn’t for her.
Fuck, how do I fix this?
Morgan exhales softly, already asleep, her cheeks streaked with mascara and a heartbreak I unknowingly put there. Whatever the answer is, there’s nothing I can do tonight except get her through to the other side of this drunken mess.
Then maybe we can talk, and I can drill it into her brilliant head, letting her know exactly where she stands with me.
***
I have something new to add to my list of things I hate most in this world—sobering up conscious.
God, it fucking sucks, but my mind wouldn’t let me sleep, not after what Morgan said. So, after ditching my clothes for a pair of gym shorts, I settled in a chair and watched her sleep, monitoring her for any sign she might need the trash can I stashed by my feet.
Morgan stirs, letting out a deep sigh in her sleep, and my eyes lock on her face. I did my best to wipe off her makeup with a washcloth, but that damn mascara nearly took me down with it. I gave up halfway through—figured it’s better smudged than waking up with zero fucking lashes. My goal is to figure out a way to prove I’ll always choose her, not give her another reason to leave me.
Because if she really feels like a secondary choice, then hell...
Maybe she should walk.
You’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot. Her words from weeks ago clang around in my pounding head. Jesus. I really am a fucking idiot, without a clue that the woman I love was actually hurting this whole time. Breathing in deep, I can only hope she’ll want to keep me and give me another chance to be the man she needs.
A flash from the window gets my attention, spying the morning sun between the leaves. Fuck, what time is it? And where’s my phone? Spotting Morgan’s on her nightstand, I reach for it. 7:07 AM. And under the time, a long string of texts from a freaked-out Elaine.
Correction—a still-freaking-out Elaine because Morgan’s phone buzzes in my hand. Looking at my unconscious girlfriend, then back to Elaine’s face lighting up the screen, I surrender to my fate and take one for the team.
My thumb hits the green button as I stand and slip out of the room, closing the door behind me before whispering into the microphone, “Hey, Elaine. It’s Jiho. Morgan’s still sleeping.”
“Oh, thank God,” she breathes into the phone, relieved. “I was so worried.”
“Yeah, sorry.” I lean against the wall, right outside the bedroom, my voice raspy from both my hangover and lack of sleep. “We got home around 1:00 AM, but Morgan didn’t get into bed until 2:00 because…well…”
“She had more than two mixed drinks, didn’t she?” Elaine deadpans. “How many?”
“Four.”
She sighs, “Yep, that’ll do it. Our girl’s usually a pro at keeping to her limit, but sometimes, two turns into three, three turns into four, four turns into—”
“Her head in the toilet for an hour straight?”
“I was going to say floor for a badass rhyme, but yeah. That, too.” Silence fills the other end of the line before she adds, “Are you feeling okay?”
I swallow the frustration. This is Morgan’s best friend, but I’m way too hungover to hold an entire fucking conversation. “Tired, but fine. I stayed up all night to keep an eye on Morgan.”
Silence again. “Wow. I didn’t think it was possible to like you any more than I do, but you proved me wrong, Prince Charming. Reginald used to just leave her to her own devices, or yell at her for making any kind of noise. Got to the point where she’d turn on the shower to mask any sound.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not fucking Reginald,” I rasp a little too harshly, trying to convince myself more than Elaine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. My head just fucking hurts.”
She chuckles, “Hey, no harm, no foul. I’ll let you go. Thanks for letting me know she made it home safely. Bye, Jiho.”
“Wait, Elaine,” I blurt before I can think otherwise.
“Yeah? What’s up?”
Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but Elaine knows Morgan better than anyone. Better than Michelle and her parents. Apparently even fucking better than me, however shitty that feels to admit.
Clearing my throat, I force out the question. “Morgan said some things last night. Things that—”
“Let me stop you right there, Jiho. Inebriated Morgan is a rarity to behold, but when she comes out to play, she says a lot of shit she doesn’t mean or even remember. Hell, she once called me Medusa’s evil spawn and ran away when the wind blew my hair.”
A smile cracks through the pain in my head. “Why’d she run away?”
“She thought my hair was snakes. Go ahead, you can laugh.” I do—hard—muffling the sound with my hand until Elaine continues, her own smile carrying through the line. “My point is, chances are she won’t remember, and if she does, she’ll be too embarrassed to bring it up.”
“But I don’t want to be like him,” I admit, my laughter ceasing to fucking exist at the thought. “He would’ve ignored this.”
“Who? Reginald?” I picture her popping a hip, just like Morgan. “Honey, you couldn’t be like Reginald if you tried. The fact you’re even worried about that proves it.” A beat, a sigh, and then she continues, “Look, you’re a good man, Jiho, and I don’t say that lightly. I always pictured Morgan with someone like you. Someone who brings her to life. If you think you should talk to her about the shit she said, then trust yourself with that. But in my experience, it’s better to just let it go.”
A high-pitched child’s voice sing-songs through the background on Elaine’s end, shouting, “Let it go! Let it go! Mooom?! Can I watch Frozen again?!”
“Sure, sweetie,” Elaine chimes sweetly before muttering, assumingly to me and not her child, “Goddammit. This will be the twelfth time I’ve watched fucking Frozen in two days, and I blame you.”
A chuckle rumbles through me. “Sorry, Elaine. How can I make it up to you?”
“Keep me posted on Morgan, and I’ll call it even. Talk to you later.”
When the line goes quiet, my fingers flex around the silent phone, my hand falling from my ear. I wish it were that simple—to just let it go—but I made a promise to tell Morgan everything. Including things she may not want to remember.
What she said isn’t Medusa-spawn-level shit—it’s heartbreak shit. Words only brought to the surface because the alcohol lowered her guard.
My head falls back against the wall, the pounding intensified by the hard pressure. I need ibuprofen. And water. And the greasiest fucking meal.
But the muffled sound of running water hits my ears, my eyes flying open when I realize it’s the shower.
Shit.
She’s trying to hide from me like she did with Douche-Face Supreme, but I won’t let her.
I’m not him.
I’ll never be like him.