She’s quiet for a long time. “That’s either brave or catastrophic,” she says finally.
“Why not both?”
I tell her good night, then hang up and sink back onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at me in waves. Eyes closed, I listen to the soft, synchronized breathing of my boys.
One thing at a time.
I can handle one thing at a time. Or, well, I’d like the chance to handle one thing at a time for once in my life.
10
DAMIAN
I am accustomed to complication.I’m less accustomed to caring about it.
Perry occupies my thoughts with an efficiency that irritates me. During charting. Between consults. In the quiet moments before sleep.
I like her. That’s the simplest and most troublesome truth.
The patient boundary concerns me, but only academically. In a town this size, overlap is inevitable. Her care concluded cleanly. No ongoing treatment. No dependency. The ethical lines are clear enough.
The larger issue is Jason.
My son has dated carelessly his entire adult life. He moves through women the way he moves through opportunities—confident that something better is always approaching.
Perry fits the pattern. Another one in the line of women he dated, cheated on, and discarded. It makes me wonder too many ugly things.
I stand at the window of my study, looking out at the early frost settling over the grounds. Cold Octobers always come fast. Snow Valley looks deceptively pristine this time of year. The town thrives on appearances. Stability. Predictability.
I suspect this situation is neither.
I consider doing nothing or stepping back, but avoidance has never suited me. Instead, I text Jason:Drink tonight?
He responds almost immediately:Sure. What’s up?
Nothing, I type back.Just catching up.
We meet at a quiet bar downtown after my day shift ends. It’s dim and mercifully empty of anyone who might care about the Baylock name. They serve high-end fare alongside fries and burgers, so the bar suits my purposes just fine.
Jason is already there when I arrive, beer in hand, posture relaxed. He smiles easily. “Dad.”
“Jason.”
For a moment, it’s almost normal. Sports. Work. The wedding. He complains about vendors. I let him talk. Then I pivot. “How are things with Faith?”
“Good,” he says quickly. “Really good.”
I study him. He doesn’t flinch, but that doesn’t mean anything. In the past, he’s talked about how much he liked a woman, only to also be sleeping with her mom. My son, for all his skills, is as duplicitous as they come.
“Have you spoken to Perry recently?” I ask casually.
There it is—the smallest hesitation. Less than a second. Most people wouldn’t notice.
“No. Why?”
“She was at your brunch.”
“Faith invited her,” he replies. “She’s her sister.”
