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“It’s just TV, Jason,” she says. “It’s not personal.”
They’re cyborgs—emotionless, cut from the same cloth. They draw clear lines between business transactions and real life. They don’t mind peddling lies to get what they want.
How can they both sit there so calmly while I feel like a ripped sail flapping in the wind?
“Our marriage,” I growl. “Was that not personal, too? Just for show?”
“Nadine.” My father’s deep voice cuts through the heated conversation smoothly. “I think I should talk to Jason alone for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
Nadine’s gaze fixes on me, but she rises from her chair obediently. “Calm down,” she murmurs to me on her way out.
Calm down. My two least favorite words in the English language. I curl my fingers tightly around the arms of my chair and try to remember to breathe.
I am Jason King. Top surgeon at Hannsett Island. I am enough.
The door softly clicks closed behind her.
We’re alone, and there’s a little more space in the office. My rage has room to stretch, and my jaw unclenches.
“I know your relationship with her is complicated,” my father says smoothly.
“It’s not complicated,” I tell him. “We’re divorced. It’s simple. And it’s over.”
“All I’m asking is for you to wear your ring and stand next to her and smile. For one night. Surely you have the capacity to think outside yourself for one night.”
“I can’t,” I repeat. “I’m seeing someone.”
Someones, technically.
My father’s frown deepens. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Jason—”
“I can’t do it. Okay? I’m a surgeon. Not an actor.” I stand. “Can I go now?”
His lips tighten. I don’t wait for him to respond. I turn and put my hand on the door handle.
“You’re being selfish,” he says. “You have been since you were a child. You always think of yourself first.”
“I’m not. I’m just doing the right thing.”
“Think about it,” my father says.
“Sure.”
I open the door and exit, closing it hard behind me.
I don’t get too far down the hall, though. Donovan is standing there, arms crossed, shoulders hunched around his ears.
“Hey…you okay?” I ask.
He shakes his head. He’s got that on-pins-and-needles look.
My old bedroom is right here, so I open the door for him. “Here…let’s chat.” I touch his arm, but he leans away from it. He ducks into the room instead, and I follow him inside.
They’ve changed it up. It’s a guest room now. Sheets are made, the whole thing smells like Febreze. There are still traces of me, though. My shelf of first-place trophies—everything from third grade science fair to the college track team. A couple of old family photos. There’s a picture of me and Nadine on our wedding day, which Mom must’ve framed and put in here while I was gone. Wishful thinking?
