My breath stops. He smiles at the sight.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. “See you in your room, Em.”
The MedBay lights dim as we step into the corridor, only to part ways. Walking toward my quarters, I let the news settle in my mind. My readings are normal. I’m…normal. What my mother had to do didn’t cause any dysfunctions in me.
6
Nil
By the time we sit for dinner, Stan has everyone in the mess hall listening to him, even the ones who showed up looking ready to glare at a Song-Smith.
Only a few hold onto that anger. The rest look like they’re enjoying the free entertainment. Some are on the verge of becoming fanboys.
I scoff into a spoonful before stuffing my mouth with meat.
They’re trying not to look like it, but it’s obvious. A guy at the end of the table keeps stealing glances at Stan’s arms like he’s trying to memorize his muscles. Another one keeps laughing a beat too late, like he’s scared to be caught enjoying jokes from Clo’s son.
Stan doesn’t seem to notice the tension. Or he notices and doesn’t care.
He’s in the middle of telling some story with his hands, describing a “family game night” that somehow ended with a burned coffee table.
“So then Damon pulls out this spreadsheet—an actual spreadsheet—and assigns everyone fun roles for the evening,” Stan says with dramatic hand gestures. “And Kaye threatened to stab him with a fondue skewer if he tried to project manage joy again.”
A couple of the guys snort into their food. Someone outright cackles. At the far end of the table, one of the few who aren’t charmed keeps his eyes on his plate. Jaw clenched. Shoulders rigid.
To give my hands something to do, I take a bite of food. The meal’s simple—pasta, meat, sauce, some vegetables—but it’s real food, not hospital mush or charity gala canapés that are really poison.
While I eat, I watch Stan take over the room without trying, the same way he caught my attention the first day we met half a year ago.
Across from me, Stan’s plate looks ridiculous. It’s mostly empty, but there are bones he rearranged into a smiley face.
“Anyway, long story short, Damon banned charades,” Stan finishes. “Because Kaye’s version of ‘acting out a word’ is basically foreplay to him.”
A wave of laughter rolls down the table.
The guy with the clenched jaw doesn’t laugh. He lifts his eyes instead and looks straight at Stan. “You think any of this is funny?” the guy says, his knife clattering onto his tray.
Laughter dies. People go still. I grip my own knife a bit tighter while I glare at the guy.
Stan lifts his brows and smiles. “I think most things are funny, Jon,” he says. “Helps with thenot screaming into the voidpart. Why, you offended for the coffee table? I only asked Sterling to burn it ‘cause I swear I saw jizz stains—”
The guy cuts Stan off. “I’moffendedfor the people your goddamn family hurt!”
The air gets colder. But I’m running hot now, about to get up, give the guy a talking to and a stab to go with it. Stan’s hand reaches over mine and makes me put my knife down.
The guy’s voice carries across the mess. “Your mother destroyed thousands of lives!”
Heat snaps at my chest. In a flash, I picture Jon on the floor. My fist connecting. Bone giving way.
It scares me how fast the thought comes.
I force it down just as quickly.
My hand goes to my left ear before I think about it. My finger finds the cool gold there.
It relaxes me for a second. Then my muscles tense. I’m halfway prepared to get between Jon and Stan, because I know how much weight that sentence carries, and I know who people should really aim it at. Stan didn’t make Kys. Clo didn’t make it either. She just made it worse.
The blame falls on my family. On my stepdad, Otis, who helped make the first version of Kys, when it was only meant to help, but it kept getting twisted and twisted—
