Chapter 32
The restaurant is quiet in a rehearsed way, everything hushed and deliberate.
Polished silver, crisp tablecloths, muted voices.
The kind of bland, tasteless silence his parents thrive in.
Sitting across from them now is like sitting across from a judge after being charged with disobedience.
With his father being a cut-throat lawyer, the metaphor is hardly an exaggeration.
Ash cuts into his barramundi and half-listens to the same arguments he’s been subjected to intermittently ever since he left home for uni.
“So much wasted potential,” his father says, cutting into his steak with surgical precision.
Ash briefly wonders if having that knife slice through him would hurt less than having to listen to the same arrogant crap again.
“With your abilities, you could dominate the courtroom. Or business. Imagine knowing exactly what your competitor is thinking before they open their mouth. Instead, you waste it all on this—” He waves a hand dismissively. “Therapy nonsense.”
Ash takes a sip of water. He doesn’t bother correcting him just yet, knowing very well that offering no response is rebellious in itself.
He stabs another piece of fish, wondering what Kieran’s doing right now.
Probably pacing the apartment, cursing Ash with every profane word he knows.
He’s vocal about the things he hates. He doesn’t glide through the world, smooth and unnoticed.
He barges. He stomps. He talks too loud and laughs even louder.
He burns bright and fierce, like a star.
He’s everything Ash isn’t.
It’s not true that Ash didn’t want him here—there’s nothing he’d want more right now. He just couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face when he realizes how spineless Ash really is. Or worse—when he realizes how much he and his father are alike.
His father’s grating voice forces him back to reality.
“All those private schools, all those…abilities, and you sit in a chair while someone cries at you.”
He could argue—again—that having access to people’s minds is exactly why he’s good at helping them crawl out of pits they’ve been trapped in for years. That sometimes what he does is the only thing keeping someone alive.
Not that any of that would interest his father. If something doesn’t bring you money, reputation or power, there’s no point.
“I help people,” is all he says.
“Do you? How is listening to people whine about their problems helping them? You’re just an enabler, making them feel good about the mess in their heads. If you want to help them, you need to take action. Not sit there and listen to nobodies complain about how life is unfair to them.”
His hands curl around the cutlery. “They’re not nobodies to me.”
Doing what he does is the main reason why he hasn’t turned into a complete 2.0 version of his dad. Cultivating empathy—that’s what saved him. That, and spending lots of time with Gabe when they were kids.
His mother sips her wine delicately, not looking at either of them.
That’s her role; quiet neutrality. Or maybe absence is a more suitable word.
She doesn’t step in. She doesn’t defend.
She doesn’t agree or disagree out loud, but Ash knows where she stands—by her husband, as she always has.
Even with the trail of affairs he never bothered to hide.
Yet here she is, firmly by his side, wearing indifference as an elegant dress.
Their marriage is a performance for appearances’ sake, and they’re nothing more than two actors playing their roles.
A shudder runs through Ash. The thought that he was one reckless decision away from leading the exact same life will haunt him to his death.
The waiter comes to collect their plates, returning shortly with dessert.
Its arrival marks the final act of the play.
After that, Ash can go home to Kieran, and spend the rest of the day and night trying to redeem himself.
It will be another year or so before he’ll have to subject himself to this shitstorm again.
Speaking of…this isn’t the first time his parents reached out to him since he met Kieran. They ‘requested he join them for dinner’ last year too, but he managed to sneak out and get through the whole thing in one piece without ever alerting Kieran.
He wonders, though, did Kieran know? Back then, did he know Ash was purposefully keeping something from him? It’d make sense, with the time-travel paradox and all. But if so, why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he rage and demand Ash let him get involved back then too?
In the past two years, Ash hasn’t said much about his parents—about his past in general, and yet Kieran never asked. He must have known, having come from the future, so why has he let Ash get away with it? It’s just…strange. It doesn’t fit Kieran at all.
Ash digs into the dessert just to give himself something to do, even though it tastes like nothing. No amount of sugar in the world could wash away the sour taste lingering in his mouth.
He’s about to take another bite when a different waiter appears.
“Excuse me, sir.” He’s addressing Ash’s father with that careful respect people default to when they sense authority. “There’s a gentleman at the front who claims he’s having lunch with you.”
Ash’s heart stutters, hope flaring up in his chest. He shouldn’t assume, it could be a coincidence, but then he catches the flicker of a thought in the waiter’s mind.
Messy hair. Sharp glare. Scowl like armor.
You stubborn little brat. What shall I do with you?
Ash’s heart answers for him, fluttering pathetically.
“Send him away. We’re not expecting anybody,” his father says curtly, already turning back to his plate.
“No, it’s fine. He’s with me,” Ash says quickly, before the waiter leaves. He tried his best, but he can’t push Kieran away any longer.
His father’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in displeasure. His mother just blinks, as if surprised they’re deviating from the script.
Ash doesn’t offer them an explanation, for once enjoying the tension filling the space between them.
And then, Kieran is there, in all his fiery glory.
He zig-zags between the tables, making his way over with the aura of a man about to declare war.
Ash can’t help it—the sight gets him a little hard.
It doesn’t help that Kieran’s wearing tight, black jeans and a dark purple dress shirt that clings to him like a second skin, accentuating every curve and line of that gorgeous body.
He comes to a halt, sliding into the chair that’s been placed next to Ash. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was murder,” he says, as if he’s been expected this whole time.
Ash stifles a laugh. Not just because of the delivery, but because they live just a few blocks away.
His father stares at Kieran like he’s an intruder—technically, he’s not wrong.
His mother tilts her head slightly, polite confusion etched onto her face.
Kieran doesn’t pay attention to either, his sole focus on Ash. He scoots his chair closer and flashes a grin. “Miss me?”
You have no idea. “I told you I didn’t want you to see this.” The protest is weak, just for the sake of it.
“Is that why you’re practically vibrating with joy now? I mean, I get it. I’m irresistible.”
A small laugh escapes Ash before he can stop it. As always, he’s powerless to the effect Kieran has on him. How could he not? Kieran’s the exact opposite of everything else in his life. He’s warm where everything else is cold, loud where there is only deafening silence.
He’s the one real thing in his world made of lies and pretense.
Ash never stood a chance.
His father clears his throat. There’s a quiet storm in his gaze, hard to spot unless you know him as well as Ash does. The man doesn’t appreciate being ignored, nor is he used to it.
“I believe introductions are in order.”
Kieran flashes a smile so fake he could star in a reality show. “Indeed. I'm Kieran. Emberton. No need to introduce yourselves. Ash talks about you all the time.”
Ash nearly chokes on his own saliva.
“Oh?” His mother brightens, the sarcasm completely flying over her head. “What does he say?”
Kieran doesn’t miss a beat. “That you’re very…consistent.” He nods, as if this is the highest compliment possible. “He can always count on you to bring up the same topic, over and over.”
Damn. He’s making it up, but he has no idea how spot on he is. Then again, Kieran’s always been a smart cookie. He must’ve put the pieces together.
Ash’s father’s expression flickers at the underhanded jab, a crack in the ice.
Their original waiter reappears with a menu and fills Kieran’s glass with water. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Oh right. Hm…” Kieran scans the contents of the menu too quickly to register any words. “I can see I’m right on time for dessert. What’s the most expensive item on the menu?”
Ash laughs silently, both at the question and the waiter’s wide-eyed look as he points at something, his nervous gaze flickering towards Ash’s father.
“Brilliant, I’ll have that,” Kieran agrees easily, handing back the menu.
The waiter nods and scurries away. “What was I saying? Right. Consistency,” Kieran continues cheerfully, “is such an underrated quality, don’t you think?
Some people might call it disregard for other people’s feelings and opinions, but I think it’s admirable to stand your ground no matter how many times you’re met with pushback. ”
Ash’s mother sips her wine delicately, though her eyes are sharper now, darting between them.
“What do you do, Kieran?” his father asks, the words clipped.
“I live on coffee, tequila, and spite,” Kieran says breezily.
“Oh, you mean for work? I dabble in IT when I can be bothered. Nothing very respectable by your standards, I’m sure.
But I manage to get by without needing to tear down other people’s choices to feel better about my own. You should try it sometime.”