Chapter 115.1

Chapter 115.1

When she loitered around the study while he worked, André would pull her onto his lap. Then he would bring up one of the computer’s built-in games, Minesweeper or FreeCell, for her to play.

While she clicked away, he would circle one arm around her waist and use the other to skim through documents, signing them with an elegant flourish of his expensive fountain pen.

Whenever she hit a mine and let out a frustrated groan, he would rest his chin on her shoulder and chuckle against her neck. And before she knew it, she would end up on top of his desk, or standing with her hands gripping the bookshelf while his body pressed her helplessly back.

Miran hadn’t liked the games as much as she had loved the fact that André wanted her close even while he worked. Because he never put his feelings into words, she had clung to every little action, giving it meaning, taking comfort wherever she could find it.

Remembering that now made a wave of bitterness rise in her chest. He had told her to be his mistress while he married another woman, and now he wanted to send her letters?

Miran glared at him.

“Well. You can send them if you want, but don’t expect a reply. I’m busy with my part time job and studying for the flight attendant interview. And once Mom has her surgery, I’ll be taking care of her.”

André smiled softly at her sharp answer.

“Just read them. That’s enough.”

Catching that smile at the corner of her eye, Miran quickly looked back at the freesia. Her heart thudded wildly, just like before.

***

That night, the moment Juran saw Miran’s face, she badgered her about what had happened outside. Miran narrowed her eyes at her suspicious stare.

“Mom, can you read minds now?”

Juran snorted and tapped the tip of her nose with a finger.

“Why would I need that when everything is written right on this face?”

Miran pouted and rubbed her nose with her palm, making Juran laugh out loud.

In the end, she confessed everything. She had gone to film the final scene of Flushing Video and on her way back, she had run into André, who had come to Korea.

“He said… the wedding’s canceled. I think he wants to start over with me, and he said he’s not going back to New York. But he looked like he’d had a rough time. He lost a lot of weight and, uh… he couldn’t really breathe.”

Juran lifted a brow.

“He couldn’t breathe?”

Miran, now on the verge of tears, poured out everything that had happened that evening in a jumble. And as always, once the tension wore off, the tears began to fall in streams. Juran wiped her cheeks, smiling gently.

“He’s got it bad.”

“Hic—what kind of bad?”

“Sounds like André’s madly in love with you. What else would make a man stop breathing because he misses someone? That’s classic lovesickness.”

Miran’s mouth opened and closed in disbelief as Juran continued.

“He canceled a wedding, gave up a department store… What kind of businessman trades love for a department store? That’s on the same level as Prince Edward giving up the throne to marry Mrs. Simpson. And then he invests in some short film that barely shows your face and won’t make a cent, and takes a thirty two hour round trip flight just to have dinner with you. That’s one spectacular kind of love. What does he like so much about you? Did I give birth to you too pretty?”

She tilted her head and examined Miran’s face with a teasing smile she couldn’t contain.

“Ugh, stop teasing me!”

Face blotchy with tears and snot and now burning crimson, Miran shoved Juran away and bolted into her room. Juran’s laughter rolled after her, warm and relentless, like a tail she couldn’t outrun.

Late Monday afternoon.

A large box was delivered to Miran’s home. On one corner of the box, right next to the picture of a computer, was the logo she kept seeing on TV lately: Intel Pentium Pro Processor.

“I never bought a computer. I think you’ve got the wrong address.”

Poking her head out the front door, Miran shook her head with an apologetic look. The deliveryman, flustered, wiped the sweat from his forehead and set the box down on the floor. He fished a yellow slip from the pocket of his vest.

“Let’s see… Is there a Kang Miran living here?”

“…Yes?”

Miran’s voice shot up.

“Recipient, Kang Miran. Address, Sunshine Villa, Unit 201. Ah, here. The person who ordered it is listed as ‘Andurae.’”

Miran took the slip from his hand. In the sender box, neat handwriting spelled it out clearly.

‘Andurae’