DAMIAN
One Month Later
I attendfamily brunches the way I attend minor surgeries—efficiently and without expectation of enjoyment.
The Baylock estate looks deceptively serene in daylight. It’s late summer, so the bright green grass contrasts with the ivory stone exterior that towers over it. Staff members move discreetly across the patio to set out champagne flutes and silver trays. Preparation for the after-brunch gossip spell that always follows.
Jason insisted on hosting this one. A “new tradition,” he called it. I suspect Faith had more to do with that than he did. She clearly enjoys being the center of attention.
Inside, the dining room is loud in the way only family gatherings can be. My mother holds court near the head of the table, assessing linen choices as if they’re reflective of Faith’s moral decisions. Jason moves through the room with performative ease, arm wrapped around Faith’s waist.
He looks content. He also looks restless. That tracks.
I take a seat near the end of the table and accept coffee from one of the staff. My shift ended four hours ago, and I slept for exactly one of them.
Jason clinks a glass lightly. “Thanks for coming, everyone.”
I resist the urge to point out that attendance was less invitation and more summons.
Faith beams beside him, radiant in a pale sweater that makes her look softer than my son deserves. “We wanted something intimate. Just family.”
The conversation drifts toward wedding plans—venues, floral arrangements, guest lists that read like a donor registry for every charity imaginable. I contribute to the conversation when required. It’s not that I don’t care—of course I do. But considering I doubt they’ll make it down the aisle, I’m not as invested as I could be. I never am at these things, no matter the topic of conversation. I care about my family, but our priorities don’t align.
I save lives. They save dinner parties.
Then someone darkens the entryway to the dining room. I don’t turn immediately. The house has been receiving guests all morning. But something shifts—subtle, like a current redirecting.
Jason’s posture changes.
Faith stiffens just slightly, then pastes on a forced smile.
There she is. Temperance Lawson. Perry.
She steps into the room as if she knows exactly the effect she has, though her expression is polite, almost demure. Dark hairis loose over her shoulders. She wears a flowered dress and a casual smile.
For a split second, I think I’m imagining it.
Then Faith crosses the room, smiling brightly now to cover her earlier expression. “Perry! You made it.” She turns to face the rest of us. “For anyone who doesn’t know, Perry is my older sister.”
The resemblance is clearer in daylight—shared bone structure, similar eyes. Faith is softer, gentler around the edges. Perry is sharpened by something else entirely.
And then it all clicks. Perry… I know the name because she’s Jason’s ex-girlfriend. I never met her when they were dating. Too busy at the hospital, and he never made it seem imperative. Said she was just someone he was casually dating.
That tracks even more, because of course he ends up engaged to her sister. My son and his wandering eyes. The last girl he was engaged to was his ex’s best friend.
What little hope I had for Jason and Faith’s wedding actually happening has now dwindled to zero. But my pulse ticks up once more, while Perry peruses the room. She sees me and pauses. Then her casual smile broadens ever so slightly as we lock eyes.
Brunch just became significantly more interesting.
Jason delivers the introduction like he’s presenting a former investment. “Dad, Perry,” he repeats, tone casual but not quite relaxed.
“We’ve met, briefly,” I say, extending a hand.
She takes it. “Dr. Baylock,” she says lightly.
“Ms. Lawson,” I reply.
“Perry,” she corrects.
