"I’m okay," Jax groans, wiping his mouth. "I feel... much better actually."
I help Jax stand. I wrap an arm around him to steady the swaying world.
"We are leaving," I announce.
"You can't leave," Mother shrieks, her voice climbing an octave. She lunges forward, her hands reaching out as if to physically drag me back to the table. "The dessert course! The pianist! You cannot walk out of your own rehearsal! I forbid it, Maxwell!"
Before she can reach me, a wall of white linen and magenta silk interposes itself between us.
Alistair York steps in front of Mother. He blocks her path completely. He doesn't touch her. He doesn't need to. He simply occupies the space with the immovable gravity of a man who has decided, finally, to be a father.
"That is enough, Catherine," Alistair says. His voice is low, but it carries to the back of the room, silencing the murmurs of the Senators. "Let the boy go."
"He is ruining the event!" Mother hisses, trying to step around him, but Alistair mirrors her movement, keeping himself between her and us. "He is humiliating us!"
"He is not humiliating us," Alistair corrects her, holding up ahand to stop her advance. "He is escaping you. And frankly, darling? I’d like to escape you too."
Mother gasps, recoiling as if slapped. "Alistair!"
Alistair turns his head to look at me, Preston, and Jax. He jerks his chin toward the door.
"Go," Alistair commands. "Get off the boat. Take the doctor. Take the sequined nurse. Go find a pizza that doesn't cost fifty dollars a slice."
"But the shoes!" Mother wails, looking down at her ruined Chanel. "Jackson ruined the shoes!"
Alistair laughs. It is a loud, booming sound that echoes off the ceiling, devoid of malice but full of absurdity.
"Consider it a critique of your footwear, Catherine," Alistair says, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. "And don't worry. I’ll pay for the cleaning. I’ll pay for the carpet. I’ll pay for the therapy you’re going to need when you realize your sons are happier without you."
He steps closer to her, lowering his voice, but in the silence of the room, I hear every word.
"You tried to calibrate him, Catherine. You spent thirty years trying to fix the packaging. But you missed the best part. You missed the man inside. And that is your loss. Not his."
He turns his back on her—the ultimate dismissal—and faces us. He spreads his arms wide, a protective barrier of silk and fatherhood.
"Run!" Alistair roars, grinning wildly. "Run, you magnificent disasters! Go get some sleep! I’ll see you at the altar!"
I look at him. I look at Preston, who gives Alistair a sharp, respectful nod. I look at Jax, who is leaning on me, pale but smiling.
"Thank you, Father," I say.
"Don't be late on Saturday!" Alistair calls out. "And wear the comfortable shoes!"
I turn around. I wrap my arm tighter around Jax.
"Let’s go home, Jax," I say.
"Please," Jax whispers. "Get me off this death trap."
We walk out of the dining room. As the heavy doors swing shut behind us, cutting off the murmur of the crowd and the scent of expensive despair, I don't feel guilt.
I feel silent. I feel clear.
Behind the door, Alistair York is pouring himself another tequila, standing guard over the wreckage, while Catherine stares at the butter dish, finally understanding that the parrot has flown the coop.
Chapter 10
After the Rehearsal
