Chapter 11 #2
"I don't know. My mom took me to a store to paint pottery once when I was younger. I liked that." She glances at her mother, but Caroline is focused on Dean.
"You should keep it up," I say. "It's good to have something creative."
Devon nods, but she doesn't say anything else.
She picks up her fork and pushes a piece of potato around her plate.
Asher still hasn't said a word. He's eating in silence, his body angled slightly away from the table.
Away from Devon. When she glances at him, he doesn't notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care.
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of small talk. Caroline mentions a charity event she's planning. Dean talks about a business acquisition. I ask Devon a few more questions, trying to draw her out, but she stays quiet. Asher contributes nothing.
Toward the end of the meal, Dean sets down his fork and turns to me. "So, Julie. Don't think I've forgotten. How's married life treating you? Is my son making you happy?"
He asks this every single time I see him, and it always lands weird. Like he's a parole officer or something. Beside me, I feel Asher go completely still. His entire body locks up. His jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jump. He hates this as much as I do. Maybe more.
"He's wonderful," I say, reaching over and squeezing his arm. "I love being married to him."
Dean nods, satisfied. "Good. That's what I like to hear. His priority should always be taking care of you."
Asher doesn't respond. Doesn't move. He just sits there, frozen, so I pick up the slack and start talking to Caroline about shoes.
By the time dessert arrives, I'm exhausted from carrying the conversation and feel like I’ve used all of my available words for the next week.
We leave at nine. Dean walks us to the door, his hand on Caroline's lower back.
Devon trails behind them, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Thank you for coming," Caroline says. "It was lovely to meet you both."
"You too," I say.
Dean shakes Asher's hand. "We'll do this again soon. Family dinners are important. Son, take care of your wife."
Asher nods but doesn't respond. In the car, he's silent. I wait until we're on the highway before I speak.
"That was intense."
"Yeah."
"Your dad was pretty brutal to Devon."
Asher's hands tighten on the steering wheel. His knuckles go white. “The little teenage bitch? Who cares. Devon is fucking irrelevant. Fuck her.”
I freeze. "What?"
"I don’t care how he acts towards her. Didn’t you hear what he said?" His voice is low, controlled, but there's something dangerous underneath. "About my mother?"
"Asher—"
"He said I had tantrums about her death." The words come out sharp, bitten off. "Like I was some spoiled kid throwing a fit because I didn't get what I wanted. She died of lung cancer when I was eight years old, and he called my grief a fucking tantrum."
I've never heard him sound like this. Raw. Wounded.
"And he was cheating on her," Asher continues, his voice rising.
"While she was dying. While she was in bed, too weak to get up, he was fucking a series of women back in the guest house. He couldn’t even take it off property.
And tonight he sits there with his new wife, looking at her like she's the center of the goddamn universe, and he has the audacity to weaponize my mother's death to make a point about moving on? "
"Asher, I'm so sorry?—"
"He dismissed her. Like she was nothing. Like losing her was nothing." His jaw clenches. "And then he turned it around on me. Made it sound like I was the problem for caring that she died."
The car feels too small. I reach over and put my hand on his arm, but he doesn't respond. He's somewhere else, somewhere I can't reach. "Your father is… tough," I say quietly. "What he said was cruel and wrong."
"He's always been like this." Asher's voice drops. "Cold. Dismissive. Nothing is ever real to him unless it serves a purpose. My mother wasn't useful anymore, so she didn't matter. Her death didn't matter. My grief didn't matter."
I squeeze his arm. "You matter to me. Always. So does your grief. Everything you’re feeling is valid."
He doesn't answer. Just keeps driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I look at him—at the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.
I think about Dean's cruelty, the way he weaponized Asher's pain so casually.
The way he fawned over Caroline while dismissing the memory of his first wife.
No wonder Asher is so angry. No wonder he's been cold and distant all night. I settle back in my seat, my hand still on his arm. All I can do is be here for him. Love him through this. He'll process it eventually, and I'll be right at his side when he does.
Six weeks later, we're back. I’ve been dreading tonight all week.
The drive over is quiet in a different way than before.
Before, Asher's silence felt like dread.
Tonight it feels like something that has settled in and made itself comfortable.
He doesn't grip the wheel. He just drives, and I watch the streetlights pass, and neither of us says much.
Caroline opens the door this time. She's wearing a deep green dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. There are diamonds at her ears and throat, stones large enough they’re impossible to ignore. She looks like she was born in this house.
"Julie. Asher." She kisses the air near my cheek. "Come in, Dean's just finishing up a call."
Devon is already in the dining room, standing near the window with her phone in her hand. When she sees us, she smiles. "Hi."
Asher says hello, but walks away. He’s not himself and hasn’t been since we found out Dean got married. It’s up to me to make small talk with his stepsister, clearly.
"How's Lakeside?"
"Fine," she says.
I wait for more. It doesn't come. "Fine like actually fine, or fine like you don't want to talk about it?"
She snickers. "Fine like it's fine."
I let it go. Clearly she doesn’t want to talk. I remember being a distracted teenager. I get it.
"Dean got me a car," she says excitedly. "A Mercedes. It's in the garage."
"That's generous," I say.
"It's awesome," she answers. “It makes having to go to a new school almost worth it.”
Across the room, I notice Asher standing near the doorway with a glass of water he hasn't touched.
He's watching Caroline move around the table, adjusting a centerpiece, speaking quietly to the server.
His expression is unreadable, but his stillness has a quality to it.
The way the air goes still before a storm.
Dean arrives, shaking hands with Asher, kissing my cheek.
He's in his element. He always is. Dinner is the same caliber as last time.
Different menu, same precision. Caroline sits at Dean's right again, and she occupies the role with total ease now.
She directs the server with a small gesture.
She redirects a conversation about Devon's school with the smooth efficiency of someone who has been managing rooms like this for years.
The diamonds at her throat catch the candlelight every time she moves.
She is the lady of this house. Completely. It happened fast.
Asher eats. He answers when spoken to. He doesn't volunteer anything. Once again, I find myself talking more than I’d like, filling the gaps he leaves, laughing a beat too quickly at Dean's jokes. It's exhausting, and I'm aware of doing it, and I can't quite stop.
At the end of the meal, Dean puts his cloth napkin on the table and looks my way. I prepare for the question I always know is coming.
"Julie." His voice is warm, unhurried. "Are you happy? Is my son taking good care of you?"
I feel Asher still beside me. I think about the right answer, the true one.
I think about the way Asher has been lately.
There’s a disturbance in the force, so to speak.
He’s not cruel, nothing like that. Just not quite there.
Like something in him is running on a different frequency than it used to, and I keep turning the dial on my end and not quite reaching him.
"Yes," I say. "Always."
The words come out easily. It's not a real lie, I tell myself. He isn't treating me badly. He's just not as present. Not as invested. That's not the same thing.
Dean watches me for a long moment. His expression tightens and something behind his eyes shifts. He's reading me the way he always does, like I'm a document he's been handed and he's found ten grammatical errors and wants to red line them.
The silence stretches. Then he looks at Asher. Asher looks back at him. Nothing is said. No expression passes between them that I can name. It lasts only a few seconds, but it feels longer, the way certain silences do.
Dean lifts his glass and takes a slow sip. "You just let me know if he steps out of line,” he says finally. "Your happiness is the most important job he has.”