Chapter 34
The second a pair of lips touched mine, I knew—without a fucking shadow of a doubt—that they didn’t belong to my girlfriend.
I hate sleeping in anything, let alone day clothes. So I stripped off my shirt and shorts, crawled into bed in nothing but my boxer briefs, a cold rag draped over my eyes, and waited for my migraine to go the fuck away.
And it did, only to be replaced by an even bigger headache.
I woke to warmth and weight—someone’s body on top of mine. Instinctively, my hands moved for Morgan, brushing against bare skin. Soft. Warm. Definitely naked.
And then her hands grabbed my wrists, slamming them above my head. Followed by a mouth that wasn’t Morgan’s.
Fuck, it happened so goddamn fast.
Kelsey’s voice. Morgan’s face. My fucking boner.
I sigh, bringing my glass of downtrodden whiskey to my lips, reminding myself to offer at least an ounce of fucking grace in that particular area. If my eyes couldn’t tell what was going on, my dick sure as hell couldn’t either.
It took a solid minute for my fucking feet to move after Morgan walked away, telling me not to follow. My brain couldn’t process fast enough, not with everyone simultaneously calming Kelsey and yelling at me.
Sixty fucking seconds.
If it weren’t for John shoving my clothes into my hands—and then my ass out the door—I probably would’ve stayed there forever. Eyes locked on the spot Morgan had stood. Now abandoned. Cold. Bleak.
Like all the goddamn color had leached from the world. Like my life got stripped back to grayscale the second she left.
I ran straight to my car and rushed home. Hoping. Praying. Fucking begging. But nothing. Just as bleak as the rest of the world.
I hear the tap of Mandu’s claws on the floor before I hear John.
“You look like hell,” he mutters when he spots me from the stairs, right where he left me last night—sitting on my couch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, glass in the other.
I told him to leave me the fuck alone, but of course, he didn’t listen, crashing in a guest room and intruding on my goddamn misery.
Scoffing bitterly, I bite out, “Always telling me what I already fucking know.”
I can’t remember the last time I put a fist through a wall, but last night sure as fuck reset the count to zero. John, at least, gave me privacy for that.
As my friend walks by, he sets a box of tissues next to me.
I yank one out, then chuck the whole damn box at his head. “I don’t need this shit.”
He catches it without blinking, completely unfazed, and drops onto the couch a few cushions away with a sigh.
“You didn’t sleep, did you?” he asks as Mandu curls up at his side.
My head slowly shakes. Of course, I didn’t fucking sleep, spending every hour of the night trying to get in touch with Morgan. Driving around the city like a goddamn maniac, hoping I’d spot her at our usual places. Hoping I’d somehow—without knowing the fucking address—find Michelle’s house, where I knew she went.
Twenty-three calls. Thirty-eight texts. Zero goddamn replies.
Until both Michelle and Elaine messaged me, telling me to give Morgan space. That’s when I grabbed the whiskey. Because how the fuck am I supposed to give her space when her flight leaves in—I look at my watch—forty-seven minutes and counting?
Fuck.
Downing the rest of my drink, I immediately refill the glass. I’ve consumed three-quarters of this fucking bottle, but I feel neither numb nor drunk.
Stone. Cold. Sober.
John looks at the nearly empty bottle, then at me. “You should eat something, Hyung. Anything. I’ll make it. Eggs and rice? Soup? Hell, filet mignon?”
“Not hungry.”
“At least pause the booze and drink some water,” he says, reaching for the bottle.
“Take this fucking bottle from me,” I growl, keeping the whiskey out of reach, “and I’ll throw you over the goddamn balcony.”
“Jesus,” John scoffs, standing and marching off somewhere, only to return seconds later with an empty whiskey glass. He extends it my way. “When in fucking miserable Rome.”
“We’re Korean, not Italian.”
“Just give me some damn whiskey, Hyung.”
I oblige him, filling two fingers’ worth into his glass, and then we sit in silence. Painful silence. The kind that hangs in the air, heavy and sharp, weighed down with every fucking thing we can’t or don’t want to say. Seconds tick by. Or maybe hours.
I don’t fucking care. Not when the woman who colored my world with warmth and laughter is about to disappear for good.
I look at my watch again.
Scratch that—she’s already gone.
With one last threadbare hope, my eyes flick to my phone, fingers tapping the screen. No texts. No missed calls. No voicemails.
And that last bit of hope shreds, ripping clean through the remaining piece of my fucking heart.
Sighing, I shoot back the last of the whiskey and stand. Without looking at him, I mutter quietly to John, “I’m going to bed.”
But only one step toward the stairs, the doorbell rings. And somehow, like a goddamn idiot, that shredded bit of hope starts stitching itself back together.
I run for the front door. What if it’s Morgan? What if she changed her mind? What if she came to talk things out before moving to the other side of the world? Fuck, does this mean she still loves me? Forgives me? Still wants me? Still—
I wrench the door open with a shaking hand and freeze.
Never fucking mind.
Because instead of the woman I love, two old-ass faces peer back at me.
My dad…and my grandfather.
I blink a few times, just to make sure I’m not fucking hallucinating.
But I know I’m not when my grandfather huffs in Korean, “Well, are you going to let us in or not?”
My shoulders sag, the weight of defeat pulling at every last cell in my body. I don’t open the door wider—I just walk away. Leave them to push it the fuck open and walk the fuck in.
Why are they even here? Especially him?
Whatever.
My feet carry me back to the couch like they’ve got nothing left to give, my head falling back against the cushion. I’m tired. Not tired tired—just fucking done. Exhausted in the way that seeps into your bones.
“Who was it?” John asks, two goddamn seconds before my dad and grandfather walk into the room. He immediately stands, bowing to my grandfather like the kiss-ass we both know he is—eager, respectful, and completely full of shit.
“Sit the fuck down, John,” I grit in English as the patriarchs join us on the couch.
I have to remind myself to hold my fucking tongue. Because if someone says intervention in either English or Korean, they’re all going off the goddamn balcony.
My grandfather picks up the empty bottle of whiskey, his lips curling as he sniffs the top.
“If we’re going to drink away our problems, at least let’s drink good alcohol,” he grumbles in Korean.
Somehow, my whiskey-logged brain makes the language switch, scoffing, “That is good alcohol, Harabeoji.”
“Wrong.” He leans down, pulling something from a bag I didn’t even notice and setting it on the coffee table. “This is good alcohol.”
“Oh, shit,” John mutters. “Is that Andong soju?”
My grandfather grunts his answer as my eyes flick to the bottle in his old, withered hands.
There’s no mistaking the heavy ceramic flask—pale green, shaped like a traditional mask, its stern features frozen in a permanent scowl. Almost like it’s judging me.
Well, get in fucking line, soju bottle, right behind me.
John stands again. “I’ll get soju glasses.”
He returns a moment later, four small glasses clinking in his hands. Without a word, he pops the bottle and pours it with two hands, filling each one almost to the brim.
I lean in with a sigh that feels more like surrender than anything else and take a glass. The old man may not be entirely welcome here, but the fucking soju is.
My father, John, and I wait until my grandfather drinks first. Then I down mine in one burning gulp, turning away and covering my mouth purely from muscle memory. All the cultural rules still hardwired—whether I fucking care or not.
In an instant, John has all our glasses refilled, but my grandfather doesn’t drink this time. Instead, he reclines back against the sofa, his pleased groan of comfort filling the room.
I watch him intently for the sole purpose of knowing when I can drink again. If the whiskey couldn’t numb my entire goddamn soul, then maybe the Andong soju can.
One more old man groan, and he finally takes a sip. Fucking thank God. Just like the first, I shoot mine back, relishing the ninety-proof burn.
But John doesn’t refill my glass—my grandfather still has liquid in his.
Fuck me.
“Did I ever tell you how I met your grandmother, Bok-ja?” my grandfather asks, pensively eyeing the soju in his hand like he can see the memory in the liquid.
“Many times, Dad,” my father says, already wearing his not again face. “You met her in Seoul during the war at a… Shit, where was it?”
“A hospital,” I say dryly, already wanting this told-too-often love story to be over and for him to take another goddamn fucking drink.
My grandfather nods slowly. “Yes, yes, that’s the official story.”
John and I exchange a glance just as my father frowns, asking, “What’s that supposed to mean? The official story?”
“Your mother and I had our secrets, Hyung-chul. One of them, she made me swear to take to my grave.” He turns to me, gaze cautious. “But I think she’ll forgive me in this instance.”
That makes me meet his eye, saying, “Halmeoni was a saint. What could she possibly have to hide?”
“It’s true that we met in a hospital. But it wasn’t in Seoul. It was in the north.”
My father and I look at each other, trying to fucking understand, but it’s John who gets there first. “Wait… Halmeoni was from North Korea?”
“No,” my grandfather says, voice low and steady. “But, had I not smuggled her and her sister across the demarcation line a week before it was drawn, she would’ve been. Bok-ja and I married shortly after, so no one would know where she came from.”
“But why would she want to hide that?” John presses. “Where she came from isn’t something to be ashamed of.”
“It was a different world back then, John. A lot of mistrust and fear. But after we married, Bok-ja felt guilty, thinking I had given everything up to be with her.”
“Did you?” I surprisingly ask, despite my fucking wretched self.
My grandfather chuckles softly. “My father certainly thought so. He gave me an ultimatum—end the marriage or end my connection to the family and its resources. Of course, I chose her.” Glancing apologetically at my father, he adds, “Growing up, you always asked why we never saw your grandparents. Now you know.”
My eyes narrow on my grandfather, a hunch worming its way into my booze-filled brain. His confession isn’t just some old man passing time with a story. It’s a message. A fucking mirror he’s holding up to my face, telling me I should do the same and give up everything for Morgan.
But there’s no fucking way. Not after the hate he spewed, not after the goddamn letter.
And yet, if this is what he’s really saying—if he’s trying to undo it, even a little—then what the hell happened between then and now?
My dad’s frown deepens. “Fine, but I still don’t understand why she made you keep her family roots a secret.”
“She didn’t want to hinder our family. However ridiculous it may seem now, she carried that fear her whole life. She even made me promise that you, and any son you might have, would marry true South Korean women. To rebuild what she thought she broke.”
He pauses, swallowing hard, the clear pain on his face raw and unguarded as he looks between me and my father. But his old eyes settle on me.
Lifting his chin, he says, “I loved her. I would’ve done anything for her. I tried to make her understand—she didn’t break anything. And yes, I sacrificed a lot to be with her, but in return, she gave me everything.”
Spite rises in my chest like an ugly wave, and I let out a scoff filled with every ounce of resentment I’ve carried for him over the years. “Do you really expect me to listen to whatever the fuck you’re trying to say right now? You hate Morgan.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t hate her.”
“Then why the fucking letter?” I snap, my voice rising to a shout, echoing around my full, yet empty fucking house. “Why did you stand in this very room and say she’s not worthy of us? That if I married her, I’d be your biggest fucking disappointment?”
My chest heaves. My hands ball into fists. My vision blurs, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. All the while, my grandfather holds my stare, expression unreadable.
Good. I don’t fucking care anymore.
I don’t care what he’s thinking. I don’t care if I committed a cardinal fucking sin by disrespecting him, and now I’m going to hell. Pretty sure I’m already there anyway.
I don’t give a flying fuck about anyone, myself included.
The only care of mine is thirty thousand feet in the goddamn air, heading toward the Pacific.
“I was desperate to keep my promise to the woman I loved,” he says finally. “But then Morgan said something.” He chuckles lightly, shaking his head like he still can’t believe it. “She reminded me of your grandmother.”
That chuckle grows into a laugh. A real one. And all I can do is gape, having seen that smile only a handful of times in my life.
My grandfather continues between laughs, “It was like Bok-ja came back from the grave just to yell at me.”
Scratching behind Mandu’s ears, John eyes me like he expects me to read his fucking thoughts and say the shit for him. “But, Harabeoji… You don’t, well… You don’t speak English.”
My grandfather rears back, confused, like we’re the crazy ones. “What do you mean? Of course, I speak English. I just choose not to because I don’t like the language.”
Now I’m the one confused.
Maybe it’s my indignant ass, or maybe it’s the need to call the old man’s bluff, but I ask in English, “Since when do you speak English?”
“I was a translator during the war,” he replies—in perfect fucking English. “It’s why I was in the hospital where I met Bok-ja. To translate for the American soldiers. It was on my old translation service letterhead, I wrote that letter.” His brows bunch, eye darting between me and John. “You really didn’t know?” Then to my father. “You never told them?”
My dad only shrugs.
“Holy shit,” John says, blinking, shaking his head.
“Holy shit,” I repeat, because same, John. Same. Shoving away the surprise, I keep going—still in English, because why the hell not? “What did Morgan say to you?”
My grandfather’s eyes—the same onyx shade as mine—search my face. And for the first time in my life, he looks at me like an equal. Not as his grandson. Not as an obligation. As someone he sees and respects.
“Those words,” he says, “were for me and me alone.” He places a withered but steady hand on my shoulder. “But I can say this—with those words, she showed me her strength, the same as Bok-ja.” The words catch in his throat, and he swallows. “I was wrong, Jiho. Morgan is worthy of you. But now you have to find the strength to be worthy of her.”
John mutters under his breath, “I think he’s calling you a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” I snap, the words spilling out without thinking. Because I’m not. Since the day I met her, being worthy of Morgan is all I’ve fucking wanted. Even on the days I fall short.
My grandfather smirks and fucking chortles, giving my shoulder a firm pat as he says in English, “Then what the fuck are you still doing here drinking with two old men and John?”
“Appa, I’m not old,” my dad deadpans in Korean.
“Yes, son. You are.”
A smile threatens my scowl, but grief still presses on my chest. “She’s gone, Harabeoji. Her flight already left.”
“That’s true,” John says, standing. Mandu’s eyes track him as he offers a hand to me. “Good thing there’s a flight leaving in two hours.”
I blink up at him, a small, hopeful flame sparking, burning through the edges of the grief. “You think we’ll be able to get seats? International flights are usually sold out.”
“Hell yeah, man. I bought the fuckers last night.”
My grandfather’s hand squeezes my shoulder, drawing my attention back. He nods just once and then, with a steady voice, says the one word that cuts through everything—resentment, spite, regret, all of it.
“Go.”
“I can’t,” I rush out, shaking my head. “Not with my business and the family and—”
“Go,” he repeats, cutting me off. “Business is business. Family is family. Both will be here when you get back. But finding a woman to share it with is something you cannot afford to lose.”
Relief hits me so hard that I forget how to breathe. I don’t know why I needed to hear him say those words, but I did. More than I realized. They spoke to the part of me that’s been trying so fucking hard my entire life—to be good enough, responsible enough, trying endlessly to meet his expectations.
And in one breath, he told me it’s okay to stop.
To want something for myself.
To just. Fucking. Go.
I return his nod, setting my soju glass on the table with a hard clink. No more wallowing. No more sitting on my couch, drinking the pain away.
Swatting John’s hand away—I can get off my own damn couch—I stand to my feet, firmly clasping his shoulder.
Looking my friend—my brother—in the eye, I say, “You’re the best friend a man could ask for.”
He blinks. Then grimaces. Then shoves me off. “Yeah, yeah. Enough with the fucking sentimental heart-to-heart. Go get your shit. Morgan’s waiting.”
“Yes, son,” my father adds in English, smiling. “Go get shit. And remember, backward Notting Hill.”
My far-off smile finally breaks through. Through the fog. Through the wreckage. Through the fucking endless misery.
And fifteen minutes later, sliding into John’s Tesla with Mandu curled in the back seat, all I can picture is Morgan’s face.
Her golden-brown, honey eyes. Her bright, sunny smile. My name on her full, pouty lips, welcoming me home.