“Do you think he’s right? You think it’s anything more serious than that?” I ask.
“He’s the doctor. I’m sure he knows.” Jacob lets out a long breath. “We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.”
The sandwiches come out with thick, hot chips served on the side, and Jacob helps me carry everything back to the table.
I pass my father the curried chicken and push the plate with the jeely piece in Jacob’s direction.
His eyes soften when he sees it, and when my father’s not looking, distracted by his own meal, Jacob mouths a silentthank you.
Warmth spreads through my chest.
We look up the bus schedule on our phones and realize we’ll have to do a bus-train-bus combo tomorrow morning, because it’s too late for anything to leave from here now. In total, it’ll take longer than a direct drive there, but when I look at my dad, at the clear exhaustion on his face, I think that spending the night here and giving him a chance to rest is probably a good idea anyway. Besides, I don’t think we’re in the same hurry as before, now that we know that Maggie’s safe and at least physically okay.
“Have you talked to Maggie since the car broke down?” I ask Jacob.
He swallows his bite of bread and jam and nods. “I sent her a text when the car stalled. Told her we’d take longer than an hour, but that we’d keep her updated. I should tell her we won’t be getting there tonight after all.”
He dials her number, and while Jacob talks to her, I check my flight information on my phone. There’s no world in which I’m getting back to Aberdeen in time for my return flight. I push it back another two days.
Jacob fills Maggie in on the car situation and tells her that we’ll be able to get there tomorrow via the bus and train, but she says something that makes him stop.
“You—you want to talk to Ajit?” Jacob asks.
He looks at my father, who’s wearing an identical expression of surprise.
“Sure, that’s—yeah,” he says. “I’ll pass it to him now.”
My father takes the phone from him, his eyes bouncing between the two of us, then he gets up and steps outside. He doesn’t go too far, though; Jacob and I can still watch him through the glass door.
“Do you know what she wants to talk to him about?” I ask.
“Not a clue.”
We eat quietly for a moment, then Jacob clears his throat. “This was nice,” he says. “The jeely piece.”
“I’m glad.”
“Something familiar even though we’re someplace new,” he says. “I get it now.”
I go still. I think this might be the first time he’s intentionally referenced that night we spent together, quoting what I said about ordering Caesar salad everywhere I go.
“And I understand the appeal of the jeely piece now,” I say, lifting my own. “It’s comforting.”
“It is.” The corners of his mouth tilt up, and there’s a smear of red jelly beneath his bottom lip. He must feel it, though, or notice me staring at it, because he wipes it away with a paper napkin before I can say anything.
“He looks better now that he’s eaten something,” Jacob says, inclining his head toward the window.
I follow his gaze, watching my father. He’s hunched over slightly, half turned away. I can’t tell whether he’s hearing good or bad news.
“I think so too,” I say. I polish off the rest of my sandwich, crumbs accidentally falling on the table. I sweep them away into my open palm. “I don’t know too much about his health situation. I only know what he’s told me, but he’s been doing okay, right? Since the surgery?”
The soft curve of Jacob’s mouth flattens. “Yes,” he says, his voice and posture stiff. “He’s been fine.”
Fine. That same answer, as if my father’s instructed Jacob not to say anything more or share anything real about him. As if they’ve made some silent pact to keep me at arm’s length.
“Good,” I say, but my voice sounds just as hard and unnatural as his.
A minute later, my father returns. He runs a hand over his thinning hair, then passes the phone back to Jacob.
