Page 85 of The Doctor's Truth

“You have pesto on your mouth,” he murmurs.

“You have mouth on your pesto,” I murmur back.

We break into a fit of laughter that no one else understands.

42

Jason

As Mom clears the plates, Dad gets up from the table. I feel his strong grip on my shoulder, a squeeze.

“Come up to my study. It’ll only take a minute.”

Dad’s study is non-negotiable. I grew up dreading the words see me in my study. His study was where I got reprimanded for less than perfect grades. It was where I got sent to when I’d pulled another foolish stunt over at the marina. It was where we sat down for big conversations, where I decided on where to go to college.

The last time I’d been called into his study was the night I told the family I’d proposed to Nadine. He’d closed the door and told me sternly, Is she pregnant? Because you know we can handle that.

“Oooh, he’s in trouble,” Kenzi says, and Donovan cackles. They’re both flying high…but at least they’re having fun.

“Be right back, losers,” I tell them. The loser is meant to be a term of endearment, but it makes Donovan frown. Words come out different in the King house.

Nadine rises from the table as well, and even though she hasn’t been instructed to, she follows my dad and me upstairs. It’s then that it hits me—this is planned.

Whatever this is, it’s something they’ve been cooking up. Together. I turn my bones to steel and inwardly brace.

Dad’s study is upstairs, the last door on the right. The door is always closed. He opens it, and when I walk through, I immediately feel the temperature drop a couple of degrees.

He has his own zone and his own heating and cooling system in here.

It’s—literally—his own private domain.

The doors close behind us.

The walls are the dark blue of Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. He has a bookshelf and a filing cabinet on one side and a glass case of achievements on the left. Awards and honors the hospital has received over the years from the medical community. Framed photographs of him shaking hands with important people—politicians, society men.

My dad takes his place behind his desk—stained oak, decorated. His diplomas hang on the wall over his shoulders like bodyguards.

Nadine takes the chair on his left—a high back, usually my spot of choice, but it’s fine. I settle into the one beside her. Neither of us look at each other.

My father strokes his beard once, as he always does before launching into a serious conversation. “Nadine,” he starts, “we’re so glad you could join us for dinner, as always.”

“Happy to be here.” She smiles and crosses one leg over the other, like she’s the guest on a talk show.

My father’s eyes shift to me. “I got the promotional images back from the production company. Take a look.”

He pushes a folder across the desk, and I open it up. I fan out four shiny prints. They share the same header, “On the Cutting Edge with Dr. Jason King,” and the subtitle, “As seen on the Dr. Mazie Show!” The images are different, though: there’s a few of me with my hands in the middle of a pretend surgery.

It’s so fake, so put-on, and the images make my stomach churn in a bad way.

Nadine leans in, and her arm brushes against mine. She taps her nail on a photo: one of me sitting on a stool, my sleeves pulled up at my elbows, stethoscope hanging around my neck, smiling for the camera. “That’s my favorite,” she says.

I’m not quite sure why she’s here, or why she has an opinion in the matter, and it rubs me the wrong way. I close the folder. “So what next?” I ask.

“Next, they’re flying a small crew to Lighthouse Medical. They’re going to interview you, as well as a few staff members. If that goes well, they’ll pitch the footage to their team.”

Nadine’s phone buzzes at her side. She shifts her attention, pulls it out, and starts going through it while my father talks.

My skin buzzes. He would never allow me to disrespect him like that.

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