46. Epilogue #2
“Oh god, I was so thankful for that, what with work, the kids and Macy, who was driving me crazy over the different shades of white; I needed her more than anything,” I laugh, recalling the stressful memory of planning a wedding in less than a year.
“My favourite part was the dress Gran picked out for you,” Oliver smirks, glancing at me when we reach an intersection. I gasp, slapping his hand away from my thigh, but it doesn’t budge.
“So you saw it? It was practically underwear. All that mesh and lace that left nothing to the imagination.” I shake my head.
I love my body, but I wasn’t the type to flaunt it and wearing that expensive lingerie was far too much, nor did I want to explain to any of our wedding guests that my Gran was the one who picked it out.
“Of course, I saw it. She sent it to me and asked if I could buy it in secret so she would convince you otherwise.” Oliver reveals, moving the car forward the moment the light turns green.
“You didn’t, did you?” I snap my head towards him so fast, I think I got whiplash. Oliver remains silent for a few seconds, giving me my answer.
“We can find out when we get home, but one of you in it? You’ll have a baby in you if it’s the last thing I do,” he declares, and being his wife, I know he means every word.
I know the moment I go back home to London and check our closet, that dress will be waiting for me in a garment bag.
To which I turn away with a hidden smile and gaze out the window.
It’s pointless to try to change a billionaire’s mind; money isn’t something we’ll ever have to worry about, but it is frustratingly sweet that he spent money on something my Gran wanted me to have.
Let’s not even talk about what he spent on my actual wedding dress, which he had custom-made right here in Italy by one of the top designers in the world, although I’ll only wear the thing once; on top of what the wedding cost as a whole, it makes me feel dizzy.
“I was planning on getting you to wear it on our next Stay-at-home dates,” Oliver adds, slowly moving his skilful fingers up my thigh. I grab his wrist before he can slip his fingers inside my cycle shorts.
“Oh, you were, were you? Well, I’ll think about it while you focus on the road. I really don’t want to explain to eomani (mother-in-law) that we were late picking her up because you were too busy trying to finger me rather than focus on the road.” I state, putting his hand back on my thigh.
“You and I know I am more than capable to do both,” he recites in a sultry tone, as I press my thighs together at the memory of a few months ago when we came home from a parents evening at the children’s school, Oliver was whispering dirty things in my ear, whilst shamefully taking advantage of the coat covering my legs to tease me during the teacher’s speech.
“J-just drive,” I stutter, trying to ignore the heat rising to my bikini region.
****
By the time we reach the airport and park in the arrivals car park, we reach the gate just in time. The airport is buzzing with life as some were here to reunite, and others were here to say goodbye.
The building was filled with endless stories we know nothing about, but it was easy to get attached to the excitement of others as people came piling out of the arrival gate and looked around for their friends and loved ones.
Oliver and I are waiting near the front, knowing eomani (mother-in-law) likes us to be the first thing she sees after a long flight; it puts her at ease and distracts her from the long commute.
One that probably entailed twelve hours of asking her other son when she was going to meet her other daughter-in-law.
Min-Joon wasn’t in a relationship, but as his other best friend, both Oliver and I were aware he wasn’t quite ready for marriage yet.
The word “?!” is yelled at the top of eomani (mother-in-law)’s lungs as she is buried behind a group of large Swedish men trying to figure out where to find their taxi service.
Tears fill my eyes as I’ll never get over the fact that she refers to me as her daughter in Korean.
It’s exactly what I know my mum would have done if she were still alive, and it makes me think their spirits are somehow connected.
“Eomani (mother-in-law)!” I call with my arm raised, even though I know she probably can’t see me as I’m too short, but I know she called for me after noticing Oliver’s giant stature.
I still can’t see her, but I can hear her cursing in Korean, getting frustrated that the men in front of her are blocking her way and rudely standing in the way.
Eventually, Oliver looks up to see her abandon her luggage for Min-Joon to collect as she beelines around the bear-type men and heads straight for me.
The impact of her almost knocks me off my feet as she embraces me tightly, but Oliver knows the drill, standing behind me and has a hand firmly pressed on my back to keep me upright.
“Oh, it’s been far too long. How are you, my daughter?” She asks in Korean, squeezing the air out of my lungs.
“It has been a long time. I am well, eomani (mother-in-law) and you?” I ask.
“I’m okay, okay,” whilst patting my back. I turn to look at Oliver, trying to hide how salty he is that she came to me first, as he looks up to try and find Min-Joon, who is still stuck behind the Scandinavian men.
“You look too thin. Is Oliver feeding you properly? Is there a baby yet?” Eomani (mother-in-law) asks as she pulls away from the hug to take a good look at me, her eyes landing on my stomach for a few seconds, then turns to make eye contact with Oliver.
“Hello to you too, Umma.” Oliver rolls his eyes as eomani (mother-in-law) scoffs before pulling him into a hug.
“??,” she hums with a smile as Oliver bends down, making sure the hug is comfortable and easier for her to wrap her arms around his back.
Watching Oliver embrace the person he refers to as his real mum is always a luxury to see. As much as Oliver tries to convince me that it doesn’t bother him that he won’t have this same type of affection with his own mother, I’m glad he can still experience it regardless.
Joan is barely in contact these days; she doesn’t really make an effort to see Theo or us anymore, but she does check in to let us know how she’s doing and sends us a postcard once a year.