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“I remember when I was a teenager,” Four says with a chuckle, “Couldn’t blast my music loud enough! It’s why I can’t hear a damn thing anymore.”
Mr. King doesn’t seem to hear Four, though. He’s staring directly at his son. “Jason,” he says smoothly, “would you like to try that again?”
Jason’s hands stop moving. The table lapses into a silence, except for the small clatter of forks and knives moving.
“What?” he asks.
Mr. King’s fingers lace together. “Your apology. Would you like to try that again?” He smiles, but the nice mask of his face doesn’t match the intensity of his words. “With meaning, this time.”
I don’t understand what he’s asking for, but Jason’s expression sobers completely, like he’s been hit with a pail of ice water. Slowly, he puts his utensils down. He rises to his feet and puts his palms flat on the table, like something practiced.
“My actions were irresponsible and immature,” he recites to the table. “And they’ve ruined the ambiance of this dinner. Please accept my apology.”
My breath is caught in my throat, and I can’t look at Jason. The secondhand embarrassment is unreal. Mr. King may as well have put him over his lap and spanked him in front of all of us—that’s how embarrassing this feels.
I want to say something to let him off the hook, but my words are stuck in my throat. And, honestly, I’m afraid of Mr. King in this moment. I’m afraid of drawing his wrath, afraid of saying the wrong thing and being forced to put on some self-debasing performance in the same way. After all, who am I? Just a stranger on his boat. Jason is his son—by the look of it, his favorite son—and even he doesn’t get an inch of mercy from the man.
The tension is ugly, and, for once, I’m grateful for Four’s lack of tact, because he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to get how awkward this is. “What’s that, boy?” he jokes. “You’ll have to say that into my good ear.” Then he laughs. “I’m only fooling! These ears, though, not what they used to be.”
Pearl forces a laugh. “Terry, you’re incorrigible.” The Kings offer obligatory chuckles of their own.
Jason, however, doesn’t move. I can see his arms still braced beside me, locked in position, unwavering. I don’t know if he’s even breathing at this point.
Finally, Mr. King releases him with an “Apology accepted.”
Jason drops his arms and returns to his seat. He goes back to his food, but he doesn’t say another word at dinner after that. His hand is stuck a fist, and it doesn’t unclench.
Conversation returns. Every now and then, someone will direct a sentence Jason’s way, and he’ll offer a smile. But I’ve seen Jason King smile. His smiles come with a healthy dose of arrogance and mischief, dimples in his cheeks, a twinkle of danger in his eyes.
This smile has none of that. His face is a mannequin, empty. His body is here, but his soul has left the dinner table for the night.
Conversation moves listlessly from one topic to the next, like a paper boat bopping in the water. I lapse in and out of focus, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Jason King took the rap for me. And he took it hard. But why?
When we finish up dinner, Jason finally speaks. “Is everyone finished? Can I clear the table?”
“Yes,” Pearl says with a sweep of her hand. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”
I don’t think it has anything to do with him being kind, though—I get the feeling he just wants to exit as quickly as possible, and I can’t blame him for that.
He stands and picks up his plate. He touches mine. “Can I take your plate?”
I grip it. “I’ll help.”
Together, we clear the table. Jason and I go downstairs, into the belly of the Healing Touch. We dump the dishes in the sink.
“I’ll wash, you dry?” Jason offers.
“Works for me.”
We find a rhythm—he suds and scrubs, and I dry everything off with a towel before putting it on the dish rack.
“So,” I start. “You didn’t tell your dad that I cast off your boat?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Dad’s version of grounded is making me do laps in the pool and play table tennis. I think I’ll live.”
