Chapter 9 The Rehearsal #3
Mother is holding court by the ice sculpture. She is flanked by two Senators and a man who I am eighty percent sure is a spy for a pharmaceutical conglomerate.
I leave Jax on the bench under Rosa’s supervision ("Breathe, honey, think of dry land") and walk toward the bar. Preston falls into step beside me.
"Target acquired," Preston murmurs.
Alistair York is holding court at the bar.
He is wearing a white dinner jacket, a black bow tie, and a cummerbund that is... electric pink. It matches the silk pocket square that is exploding from his chest pocket like a tropical bird.
"Maxwell! Preston!" Alistair booms, spotting us. He spreads his arms wide, nearly knocking over a tray of champagne. "My boys! The Heir and the Spare! Come here!"
He pulls us both into a hug that smells of expensive cologne, salt air, and tequila. It is suffocating and strangely warm.
"Father," Preston says, extricating himself and smoothing his lapel. "You are wearing pink. It is... a choice."
"It is magenta, Preston," Alistair corrects him, beaming. "It is the colour of a specific orchid I found in the cloud forest. It screams 'vitality', does it not?"
"It screams," Preston agrees dryly.
Alistair laughs, slapping the bar top. "Bartender! Two more of these! The 'Spicy Helmut'!"
"Please do not make us drink anything named after Helmut," I say.
Alistair waves a hand. "Fine, fine. Tequila on the rocks. For the nerves."
He hands us the glasses. Then, his expression softens. The boisterous "Jimmy Buffett" mask slips just a fraction, revealing the man underneath—tired, a little sad, but looking at us with a fierce, undisguised pride.
"Look at you two," Alistair says quietly. He reaches out and adjusts Preston’s tie, his touch gentle. "Preston. You look sharp enough to cut glass. Your mother says you’re 'difficult', but I tell her you’re just... curating. You have an eye, son. You see the things the rest of us miss."
Preston blinks, clearly taken aback. He stiffens, then relaxes. "I see the cracks, Father. Someone has to."
"And you," Alistair turns to me, his hand moving to grip my shoulder. "The Ice King. But you’re melting, aren't you, Max? I see it. The way you look at that green boy on the bench."
"Jax is not a boy," I say automatically. "He is a Trauma Surgeon."
"He’s your chaos," Alistair corrects gently. "I’m glad you found him, son. I really am."
He takes a long sip of his drink, looking out at the water.
"I know I haven't been... present," Alistair admits, the joviality gone now.
"I let Catherine build the walls. I let her write the scripts.
I thought if I just paid the bills and kept the peace, it would be enough.
But watching you two lately... fighting for the cake, fighting for the venue. .. fighting her..."
He looks back at us, his eyes shining.
"You’re better men than I am," Alistair whispers. "You’re breaking the cycle. And I am so damn proud of you. Both of you."
"Father," Preston says, his voice unusually soft. "Are you drunk?"
"I am lubricated," Alistair winks, the sparkle returning. "But I am also honest. Don't let her win tonight, boys. If she tries to flatten you... you flatten her back. You have my proxy."
"We have more than your proxy," I say, patting the pocket where the NDA documents still are, ready to be used.
Alistair grins. It is a conspiratorial, mischievous grin. "Even better. Give 'em hell. Now, go save your fiancé. He looks like he’s about to hallucinate a sea monster."
We are seated at a long table covered in white linen. Jax has returned, looking pale but medicated. He is gripping my hand under the table.
"I’m floating," Jax whispers. "Max. I’m on a cloud. A nauseous cloud."
"The scopolamine is working," I assure him.
Mother stands up. She taps her glass with a spoon. The sound is sharp, piercing. The room falls silent.
"Welcome," Mother says. "To the rehearsal of what promises to be a... memorable union."
She smiles. It is the smile of a shark that has just scented blood.
"When Maxwell was born," she begins, her voice pitching into a practiced, gentle register, "we knew he was... unique. He didn't like to be held. He didn't like loud noises. He required... adjustments."
My stomach tightens.
"We worked very hard," Mother continues, her eyes misting over with performative martyrdom. "To mold him. To ensure he could function. It wasn't easy. There were doctors. There were specialists. There were... costs. We spent years smoothing out the edges, calibrating the responses."
She looks at me. Her eyes are cold.
"And now, watching him marry a man who is so... vibrant... so unstructured... I worry. I worry that the calibration will fail. That the chaos will be too much. That Maxwell will revert to the broken child he was before we fixed him."
The room is deadly silent.
Jax’s grip on my hand tightens until it hurts. Preston looks ready to throw a steak knife. Rosa is reaching into her purse.
But I don't need them. I look at Alistair across the table. He nods once. Flatten her.
I stand up.
"Sit down, Maxwell," Mother snaps. "I am speaking."
"You are finished," I say. My voice is the Ice King’s, but powered by the fire Alistair just lit.
I reach into my pocket. I pull out the receipt.
"You didn't fix me, Mother," I say, holding the paper up. "You billed me."
Mother freezes.
"My mother speaks of 'calibration'," I announce to the room. "She speaks of 'specialists'. What she means is that she paid Dr. Aris fifty thousand dollars in 1996 to hide my autism diagnosis so that I would be palatable to the Board."
The Senators gasp.
"She didn't mold me," I continue. "She masked me. She paid for silence. But the warranty has expired."
I look down at Jax.
"I am not broken," I say. "And I am not 'calibrated'. I am autistic. I am a surgeon. And I am marrying the most chaotic man on earth because he likes me unmasked. He likes the glitches. He likes the noise. He doesn't need me to be the Standard. He just needs me to be Max."
I drop the paper on the table. It lands in the butter dish with a soft splat.
"So," I say, picking up my glass. "To the happy couple. And to the end of the NDA."
I drink.
The silence lasts for three seconds.
Then, Alistair York stands up. He begins to clap. It is a slow, rhythmic clap.
"Bravo!" Alistair shouts, his face beaming with pride. "Bravo! That is my son! That is the blood of the parrot!"
Rosa stands up. Preston stands up. Luke stands up.
Mother stands alone. She looks at the paper in the butter. She looks at the room turning against her. She looks at me. For the first time in thirty years, she has lost control of the asset.
"You have ruined the toast," she whispers, trembling.
"I fixed it," I correct her.
"I’m going to throw up," Jax announces loudly.
And he does.
He leans over the side of his chair and vomits, with impressive volume, onto Mother’s Chanel shoes.
The room erupts.
"Oh my god!" Mother shrieks, jumping back. "My suede! My vintage suede!"
"Medical emergency!" Rosa shouts, grinning. "The groom is down! And the shoes are a total loss!"
"I’m okay," Jax groans, wiping his mouth. "I feel... much better actually."
I help Jax stand. I wrap an arm around him to steady the swaying world.
"We are leaving," I announce.
"You can't leave," Mother shrieks, her voice climbing an octave. She lunges forward, her hands reaching out as if to physically drag me back to the table. "The dessert course! The pianist! You cannot walk out of your own rehearsal! I forbid it, Maxwell!"
Before she can reach me, a wall of white linen and magenta silk interposes itself between us.
Alistair York steps in front of Mother. He blocks her path completely. He doesn't touch her. He doesn't need to. He simply occupies the space with the immovable gravity of a man who has decided, finally, to be a father.
"That is enough, Catherine," Alistair says. His voice is low, but it carries to the back of the room, silencing the murmurs of the Senators. "Let the boy go."
"He is ruining the event!" Mother hisses, trying to step around him, but Alistair mirrors her movement, keeping himself between her and us. "He is humiliating us!"
"He is not humiliating us," Alistair corrects her, holding up a hand to stop her advance. "He is escaping you. And frankly, darling? I’d like to escape you too."
Mother gasps, recoiling as if slapped. "Alistair!"
Alistair turns his head to look at me, Preston, and Jax. He jerks his chin toward the door.
"Go," Alistair commands. "Get off the boat. Take the doctor. Take the sequined nurse. Go find a pizza that doesn't cost fifty dollars a slice."
"But the shoes!" Mother wails, looking down at her ruined Chanel. "Jackson ruined the shoes!"
Alistair laughs. It is a loud, booming sound that echoes off the ceiling, devoid of malice but full of absurdity.
"Consider it a critique of your footwear, Catherine," Alistair says, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. "And don't worry. I’ll pay for the cleaning. I’ll pay for the carpet. I’ll pay for the therapy you’re going to need when you realize your sons are happier without you. "
He steps closer to her, lowering his voice, but in the silence of the room, I hear every word.
"You tried to calibrate him, Catherine. You spent thirty years trying to fix the packaging. But you missed the best part. You missed the man inside. And that is your loss. Not his."
He turns his back on her—the ultimate dismissal—and faces us. He spreads his arms wide, a protective barrier of silk and fatherhood.
"Run!" Alistair roars, grinning wildly. "Run, you magnificent disasters! Go get some sleep! I’ll see you at the altar!"
I look at him. I look at Preston, who gives Alistair a sharp, respectful nod. I look at Jax, who is leaning on me, pale but smiling.
"Thank you, Father," I say.
"Don't be late on Saturday!" Alistair calls out. "And wear the comfortable shoes!"
I turn around. I wrap my arm tighter around Jax.
"Let’s go home, Jax," I say.
"Please," Jax whispers. "Get me off this death trap."
We walk out of the dining room. As the heavy doors swing shut behind us, cutting off the murmur of the crowd and the scent of expensive despair, I don't feel guilt.
I feel silent. I feel clear.
Behind the door, Alistair York is pouring himself another tequila, standing guard over the wreckage, while Catherine stares at the butter dish, finally understanding that the parrot has flown the coop.