Page 94 of Knotted

Then she shoots me a look that says,Don’t make this harder than it already is.

We breeze past the kitchen, which is full of life—the chatter bouncing off the walls, mixing with the clatter of pans. I’ve learned to steer clear, or risk getting dragged into an impromptu showdown of who’swhatever dishis better: Eomma’s or Halmeoni’s.

And we all know, there’s no right answer.

On the patio are plates of colorful banchan lining the table—kimchi, japchae, pickled radish—and there’s a platter of hot wings in the middle, most likely Colby’s contribution.

I set down the cake and spot Jules’s dad across the room, already frowning in my direction. Classic.

Leaning in, I murmur in her ear, “If they find me floating in the river, take care of my 1952 Mickey Mantle rookie card, will you?”

She deadpans. “You have a Mickey Mantle rookie card? And have not yet shown this to me? Wow, you’re lucky I don’t toss you into the river.”

Innocently, I shrug.

She rolls her eyes, but a smile creeps in. “Just charm Eomma and Halmeoni in Korean, and maybe don’t mention the card to Dad. He doesn’t need another reason to throw you the hairy eyeball.”

“For the record, I don’t want him throwing his hairy anything at me.”

“Just don’t set him off.”

“Got it. No mentioning to Papa Spenser how when his daughter’s really fired up, she moans like a shewolf to themoon.”

“Brian!” Her playful smack on my arm can’t hide her giggles.

Halmeoni approaches, her smile wide as she shuffles over.

“An-yong ha-se-yo, Hal-mo-nee,” I say, offering her a respectful bow. “Happy Birthday.”

She beams, eyes sparkling as she reaches out and cups my cheeks with both hands. Eagerly, I lean down a little and grin. “You look so much like your father,” she says, her voice thick with nostalgia.

I choke up, unprepared for the sudden wave of emotion. When my parents passed, people said things like that all the time—how I looked like my dad. It was just something to say when they didn’t know what else to say.

But she means it. Halmeoni’s not just making conversation. Our families were close. It’s part of why I clung to the Spensers so hard. Her dad and mine were tight, and I wedged myself into their world, desperate for any shred of the family I lost.

I blink, swallowing the lump in my throat, and pull a small gift from my pocket—a delicate lavender silk scarf folded like a crane. I know it matches her favorite sweater.

Halmeoni’s eyes light up when I hand it to her. She unfolds the scarf carefully, smoothing it out before knotting it delicately around her neck. “Eotteoke boyeo?” she asks, her voice light with excitement.How do I look?

“Areumdawoyo.” Beautiful.

Colby, spotting the teary, touchy-feely guy on the verge of a full emotional meltdown while chatting with his grandma, swoops in to cut the tension.

He wraps his grandma in a hug, flashing a wide, teasinggrin. “Come on, Halmeoni, you can tell me. How old are you? Twenty-nine, right?”

Halmeoni swats his arm, her expression playfully affronted. “Twenty-nine? Trytwenty-two,pungk-uh!” she says, calling him a punk with a smirk.

We all laugh, the mood instantly lighter as her playful sass fills the room.

The day kicks off with a late lunch—easygoing and casual. Then it’s team games like ping pong or corn hole, which inevitably get competitive.

After that, photos—lots of them.

Then Eomma has a small team come in for manis, pedis, and massages. The whole spa treatment, because of course, she does. Meanwhile, us guys are left to lug tables, set up decorations, and “man the grill.”

Which is complete bullshit.

Hey,Icould use a mani and a foot rub just as much as the next person. But nope, we “menfolk” are relegated to prepping for the after-dinner festivities. And with what Colby has planned, it takes the better half of two hours.

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