FORTY-TWO
Jason rapped on Phuong's door, curling his lip at the pathetic sound of his knuckles tapping glass. Now, if it had been a proper wooden door, he could've produced a much more manly knock, the sort that echoed through the room and announced his presence. One that said, "Your husband is here," instead of some pathetic loser whose knock sounded like an apology for his very presence.
Kind of like the difference between tapping your glass with a knife to get a room's attention or just raising your voice and letting out an almighty, "Oi!" He wasn't one to pussyfoot around, but he didn't want to break Phuong's door, either. She was just so fragile, ready to shatter into a million pieces if he did the wrong thing. And he didn't intend to screw this up. It was his wedding day, for f**k
