Chapter 10 Damian
DAMIAN
I am accustomed to complication. I’m less accustomed to caring about it.
Perry occupies my thoughts with an efficiency that irritates me. During charting. Between consults. In the quiet moments before sleep.
I like her. That’s the simplest and most troublesome truth.
The patient boundary concerns me, but only academically. In a town this size, overlap is inevitable. Her care concluded cleanly. No ongoing treatment. No dependency. The ethical lines are clear enough.
The larger issue is Jason.
My son has dated carelessly his entire adult life. He moves through women the way he moves through opportunities—confident that something better is always approaching.
Perry fits the pattern. Another one in the line of women he dated, cheated on, and discarded. It makes me wonder too many ugly things.
I stand at the window of my study, looking out at the early frost settling over the grounds. Cold Octobers always come fast. Snow Valley looks deceptively pristine this time of year. The town thrives on appearances. Stability. Predictability.
I suspect this situation is neither.
I consider doing nothing or stepping back, but avoidance has never suited me. Instead, I text Jason: Drink tonight?
He responds almost immediately: Sure. What’s up?
Nothing, I type back. Just catching up.
We meet at a quiet bar downtown after my day shift ends. It’s dim and mercifully empty of anyone who might care about the Baylock name. They serve high-end fare alongside fries and burgers, so the bar suits my purposes just fine.
Jason is already there when I arrive, beer in hand, posture relaxed. He smiles easily. “Dad.”
“Jason.”
For a moment, it’s almost normal. Sports. Work. The wedding. He complains about vendors. I let him talk. Then I pivot. “How are things with Faith?”
“Good,” he says quickly. “Really good.”
I study him. He doesn’t flinch, but that doesn’t mean anything. In the past, he’s talked about how much he liked a woman, only to also be sleeping with her mom. My son, for all his skills, is as duplicitous as they come.
“Have you spoken to Perry recently?” I ask casually.
There it is—the smallest hesitation. Less than a second. Most people wouldn’t notice.
“No. Why?”
“She was at your brunch.”
“Faith invited her,” he replies. “She’s her sister.”
“Of course.” I take a slow sip of my drink. “Are the twins yours?”
Jason stares at me. “What?”
“Perry’s twins,” I repeat evenly. “Are you the father?”
His expression shifts from confusion to incredulity. “No,” he says flatly. “Absolutely not.”
I hold his gaze. Rarely have I ever been able to tell when Jason was lying. Now is no exception.
His posture hunches slightly. “I did the math. Faith and I were engaged by the time Perry would’ve conceived, so they’re not mine.”
I don’t respond. Just because he was engaged doesn’t mean they aren’t his.
He leans back in his chair, defensive now. “Why would you even think that?”
Because you have a wandering eye. Because your history does not inspire confidence. But I don’t say that. Not yet. “Best to know all the players in the game, don’t you think?”
Jason exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You really think I’d knock up my ex while I’m engaged?”
“I’m not accusing,” I say calmly. “I’m clarifying.”
“There’s nothing to clarify,” he replies. “It’s not possible.”
“Walk me through it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He leans back, jaw tightening. “The last time Perry and I slept together was August.”
“And?”
“And it’s October, and the twins are a month old. So, they were conceived in the winter. December or January. Faith and I were already together by then.”
Already together does not mean exclusive.
“And you have been faithful to Faith,” I say evenly.
“Yes,” he snaps.
I meet his gaze. “You don’t have a strong record in that area.”
His expression hardens. “That’s not fair.”
“Fairness is not my concern on the matter. Accuracy is.”
He looks away first. A tell he’s had since he was a teenager. “I messed up before,” he says defensively. “That doesn’t mean I always do.”
“That’s true. But you also have a history of dishonesty regarding your fidelity, Jason. Forgive me for judging you on your own behavior.”
He leans forward now, elbows on the table. “You think I’d lie to you about something like that?”
I consider the question honestly. “You have before. Why not now?”
He recoils slightly. “Wow.”
“You’re very good at telling people what they want to hear,” I continue. “It’s a skill. You inherited it.”
He doesn’t ask from whom, but we both know it’s not me.
“You’re being paranoid,” he says after a moment. “There’s no way they’re mine. Unless sperm can survive inside someone for four months.”
“It cannot,” I reply.
“Exactly.”
The logic is clean. Clinical. Difficult to argue with. And yet.
I have seen men lie with perfect composure or convince themselves of narratives that serve them best. The best liars don’t even consciously know they’re doing it. They’ve told themselves their lie so often that it becomes their truth.
I’m not sure what kind of man my own son is.
Jason takes a long swallow of his drink. “Why does this even matter to you?”
That question is more complicated.
“It matters,” I say carefully, “because she’s connected to this family.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like surprises.”
He studies me now, suspicion creeping in. “Are you seeing her?”
“I’m speaking to her,” I reply.
His jaw tightens. “She’s my ex.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you aware that it’s weird?”
“Your fiancée’s sister is your ex. That’s also weird. Don’t throw stones from your glass house, Jason.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
The truth sits between us, uncomfortable and unspoken. Jason discards. I consider. We have two very different approaches to women.
“Look,” he says finally, softer now. “They’re not mine.”
“You’re certain.”
“Yes.”
“And if they were?”
“They’re not,” he repeats.
I let it go. For now. “How is work going?”
Jason relaxes once I change the subject.
It’s subtle—the loosening of his shoulders, the way his posture shifts from defensive to conversational.
He prefers safer terrain. He prattles on about his job—finance bores me, so I tune him out but listen just enough to know when to nod and when to smile. Offer mild commentary when required.
But my mind remains elsewhere. Perry. The twins. Nicholas Graham. Walker Finn. The names echo in my head with inconvenient clarity.
“Faith wants something intimate,” Jason is saying. “But Mom’s turning it into a donor gala.”
We have apparently shifted back to the topic of his wedding. I wonder when that happened. “Sounds like her.”
He laughs. “You think it’ll calm down after the wedding?”
“History suggests no.”
He grins at that.
I study him quietly while he talks. He looks comfortable. Assured. There’s no flicker of concealed panic. No suppressed calculation. If he is lying, he’s doing so flawlessly.
But the timeline he gave me is medically sound. Conception in winter. Separation in August. I want to believe him.
“You good?” he asks suddenly.
“Yes.”
“You look like you’re diagnosing something.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He smirks. “You always overthink.”
And you always underthink. “How are you and Faith?”
He launches into praise—how supportive she is, how grounded, how she balances him. The script is polished, like he’s being interviewed by the media instead of speaking to his own father.
It tracks. We’ve never been one of those close families. Sure, we do brunches and host each other, but it’s not as though we’re close. It’s one thing to share a meal. It’s another to share thoughts and feelings.
He talks about Faith like she is stability incarnate. Perhaps she is. But I’ve watched him grow restless in stability before.
Then he drains the last of his drink. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not screwing this up.”
Not I love her. Not This is right. Just I’m not screwing it up.
I have a sneaking suspicion that this will be another in a long line of soured relationships, and that is also a problem for me. If he fucks this up and makes Faith hate him, what will come of me and Perry? How can she date the man whose son broke her sister’s heart?
Troubles for another day, I suppose. “I hope you’re right about that, Jason. Faith seems like a lovely girl.”
He checks his watch. “I should get back. Faith hates when I disappear for too long.”
We stand and exchange a brief, masculine half hug that feels more habitual than intimate.
“Dad,” he says before leaving, “whatever you’re worried about? It’s not that. I’ve got my head on straight with Faith.”
I nod and smile once. We part ways, and his words echo in my mind.
I remain outside the bar for a moment longer, the cold air sharp against my face. I consider calling Perry, but I don’t. Not yet. There’s one more variable I need to weigh. And it has nothing to do with my son.
I walk home instead of driving. The cold is sharp enough to clear the residual noise from the bar, and I prefer the quiet when I’m thinking. Snow Valley at night is deceptively peaceful—streetlamps casting halos over clean sidewalks, windows lit warmly behind heavy drapes.
Small towns preserve secrets poorly.
If Perry dates me—if this continues—people will talk. They already do. They will sort through the timelines. They will speculate about the twins’ father.
Is it too soon to ask her about that?
The question isn’t idle curiosity. It’s strategic. If Jason is not involved, then the remaining possibilities are simple.
But Jason is a practiced liar. He learned it early. From Amber. From my mother. Two women hell-bent on ensuring their status and their position in Snow Valley society. Perception is a weapon they wield better than anyone, which is why they’ve stayed on top for so long.
And Jason watched them manipulate people his entire youth.
It speaks to my lack of influence as a father, perhaps. I was too busy—always working, as Amber used to whine—so I wasn’t there to rein him in or counter their guidance. If I had been around more, he might not be the liar he’s become.
I stop at the edge of the park, hands in my coat pockets, breath visible in the air.
Perry is not na?ve. She’s not passive. She entered my life deliberately. I can see that clearly now. She chose to flirt with me and continues to choose it. The woman is interested in me, and I in her. I am confident of her attraction to me.
What unsettles me is the unknown variable of the father.
If he exists in this town, he will surface eventually. Men talk. Women talk more efficiently. If he doesn’t live here, that could make things simpler, but men tend to show up when things get interesting, and he could try to walk back into her life the moment the twins interest him.
Or, if he decides she interests him again.
I dismiss the thought. Speculation without evidence is indulgence.
I resume walking.
The larger issue is simpler: I like her. That is the axis everything else rotates around. Which brings me back to my original question. Is it too soon to ask who her sons’ father is?
Perhaps.
But in a town this small, waiting too long can be just as reckless as asking too soon.