I set my hand over his knee.
Not to still him. Just to touch.
He glanced down, then put his hand over mine.
“What’s your favorite movie?” he asked.
The question came out of nowhere, which meant it came from exactly where Jace lived.
“My favorite movie?”
“Yeah. And don’t say some documentary about a captain overcoming adversity.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You considered it.”
“I did not.”
“You have the face of a man who owns motivational hardcovers.”
“I own normal books.”
“Books about discipline are not normal.”
I gave him a look.
He grinned. Tiny’s head began sliding off his lap, and Jace caught it automatically, like the dog’s pride mattered. “Movie.”
“The Fugitive.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“What’s wrong with The Fugitive?”
“Nothing. It’s just very dad of you.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“You have emotional dad posture.”
“You asked.”
“I respect Harrison Ford running from authority. I feel represented.”
“What’s yours?”
His mouth opened, then closed. His gaze drifted away for a second, thoughts crowding the exit at once.
“Depends,” he said finally. “Comfort movie, The Mummy. Brendan Fraser, Rachel Weisz, perfect cinema. If Harper’s there, Emperor’s New Groove, because she does every line and gets pissed if I miss my cues. If my brain won’t shut up, anything loud where cars explode and nobody has to learn a lesson.”
“That tracks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He told me about watching movies with Harper when their dad had late shifts and they were supposed to be asleep. About Harper throwing popcorn at his head whenever he talked over the good parts, which apparently meant all parts. He told me about being thirteen and deciding he could make pancakes before school because he’d seen his mom do it a hundred times, then burning three, undercooking one, and presenting it like a five-star breakfast.
“She ate it?” I asked.
