Stan kicks me under the table, tearing me out of my thoughts. My gaze snaps from Jon to Stan, and his gray eyes curve down with his lips lifting up. That’s when I take a breath in and let my thumb brush my earring again.
My eyes track Stan getting up and walking over to Jon. “True,” Stan says. “She did a lot of terrible things. Which I regret on her behalf because she’s not here to take customer complaints. But since you’re aiming at me, I’ll help you out.”
He spreads his hands like he’s presenting himself as a prize for some sick game he wants to play. I frown, waiting to see what he’ll do, still gearing myself to fight if that’s what it comes to.
“I didn’t make Kys. Hell, I didn’t even make my bed this morning. You can ask my roomie,” he says, nodding at me.
Some stares land on me, and I push my shoulders down, alert to their attention.
“But if you need to punch someone to feel better, I’m here,” Stan continues with a chuckle. “I mean, my main contribution to societyhas been bein’ the family fuck-up. I think a punch is overdue.”
A ripple of laughter breaks through the tension. Someone snorts so hard he chokes on his juice.
Jon doesn’t laugh. His eyes are locked onto Stan. “You joke about this shit too fucking much.”
“That’s because if I stop joking,” Stan says, “I’ll remember that my mother used Kys to make me do things I didn’t even know I could say no to. That’ll make me cry. And trust me, you donotwant to see a man my size sobbing during dinner. It’ll ruin everyone’s appetite.”
I can feel the moment Jon’s anger starts to simmer. But something in me still builds. I fight back my flinch and bite down my frown.
Because Jon’s words should be aimed atme. At my family. At my stepdad.
The others don’t know that about Kys. Stan does. But he still pulls the blame toward himself.
Jon grits his teeth, clear from here. “You really think offering yourself up fixes anything?”
“Fix? No.” Stan grins. “But if you need a good fight to unclog some emotional plumbing, I could stand it.”
I knit my brows, shocked by his blatant offer. But Jon’s not rising to the bait.
Stan sees it. “Look, man. You want someone to blame, go ahead and dump it on me. I can take it. I’m built for abuse. Once had a priest choke me with a rosary. Loved every second of it.”
“Stan,” I whisper sharp.
“What?” He holds his palms up. “It’s called spiritual healing. And he got time in prison for it. Don’t worry, I’m sure he loved dropping the soap there.”
Jon presses his lips together in what might be a smirk if he weren’t trying so hard to hold on to his anger. “You’re dumb as rocks, Song-Smith.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Stan says with a wink. “Thanks, bud.”
A few seconds pass. Cutlery clinks. Someone clears their throat. Everyone goes back to eating.
Stan kicks me under the table again. “See,” he whispers, leaning over. “Crisis averted.”
“You didn’t need to protect me,” I whisper back. “I’ll live.”
“Big words from someone who almost didn’t.”
I shake my head, but my mouth betrays me with a small smile.
“Knew you were into my sense of humor, Ocean Eyes.” He leans back in his chair with a smug, devastating grin. “Now, what do you say about having frozen coffee for dessert?”
That’ll cool me down, so I say, “Yeah, count me in.”
***
After a long night of chatting over frozen coffee in our cabin, I fall asleep without thoughts weighing me down. Guess I have Stan to thank for that.
But what I don’t have to thank him for, is how I wake up to the sunlight on my face and the sound of him talking loudly in our room.To himself…?
