He laughs. “You think it’ll calm down after the wedding?”
“History suggests no.”
He grins at that.
I study him quietly while he talks. He looks comfortable. Assured. There’s no flicker of concealed panic. No suppressed calculation. If he is lying, he’s doing so flawlessly.
But the timeline he gave me is medically sound. Conception in winter. Separation in August. I want to believe him.
“You good?” he asks suddenly.
“Yes.”
“You look like you’re diagnosing something.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He smirks. “You always overthink.”
And you always underthink.“How are you and Faith?”
He launches into praise—how supportive she is, how grounded, how she balances him. The script is polished, like he’s being interviewed by the media instead of speaking to his own father.
It tracks. We’ve never been one of those close families. Sure, we do brunches and host each other, but it’s not as though we’re close. It’s one thing to share a meal. It’s another to share thoughts and feelings.
He talks about Faith like she is stability incarnate. Perhaps she is. But I’ve watched him grow restless in stability before.
Then he drains the last of his drink. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not screwing this up.”
NotI love her. NotThis is right. JustI’m not screwing it up.
I have a sneaking suspicion that this will be another in a long line of soured relationships, and that is also a problem for me. If he fucks this up and makes Faith hate him, what will come of me and Perry? How can she date the man whose son broke her sister’s heart?
Troubles for another day, I suppose. “I hope you’re right about that, Jason. Faith seems like a lovely girl.”
He checks his watch. “I should get back. Faith hates when I disappear for too long.”
We stand and exchange a brief, masculine half hug that feels more habitual than intimate.
“Dad,” he says before leaving, “whatever you’re worried about? It’s not that. I’ve got my head on straight with Faith.”
I nod and smile once. We part ways, and his words echo in my mind.
I remain outside the bar for a moment longer, the cold air sharp against my face. I consider calling Perry, but I don’t. Not yet.There’s one more variable I need to weigh. And it has nothing to do with my son.
I walk home instead of driving. The cold is sharp enough to clear the residual noise from the bar, and I prefer the quiet when I’m thinking. Snow Valley at night is deceptively peaceful—streetlamps casting halos over clean sidewalks, windows lit warmly behind heavy drapes.
Small towns preserve secrets poorly.
If Perry dates me—if this continues—people will talk. They already do. They will sort through the timelines. They will speculate about the twins’ father.
Is it too soon to ask her about that?
The question isn’t idle curiosity. It’s strategic. If Jason is not involved, then the remaining possibilities are simple.
But Jason is a practiced liar. He learned it early. From Amber. From my mother. Two women hell-bent on ensuring their status and their position in Snow Valley society. Perception is a weapon they wield better than anyone, which is why they’ve stayed on top for so long.
And Jason watched them manipulate people his entire youth.
