Story code: ST-001341
Part 2: The Unlocked Screen
The small green oak leaf logo on the screen did not stop Brandon, even as the couple at Table 12 whispered to each other and shook their heads. The restaurant’s dining room had grown noticeably quieter around our section, the normal chatter of a weekend rush replaced by the sharp, focused attention of nearby diners. A man two booths down leaned out into the aisle to get a better view of the confrontation.
“Don’t play word games with me, Dad,” Brandon said, his voice dropping slightly but retaining its hard edge. “You put that outreach app on there as a cover. I know what these apps look like. You set up a profile. I saw the photo of you in your blue suit-the one you wore to Mom’s funeral, of all things. Why else would you use that photo for a local parish group?”
I cleared my throat, placing the final steak plate in front of Clara, who didn’t even look at the food. “Can I get you anything else to start with, or should I hold the side dishes?” I asked quietly, attempting to offer a brief exit from the confrontation.
None of them looked at me. Brandon kept his gaze locked on his father, his hand hovering over the table. “Unlock the phone, Dad. If it’s just a church group, let us see the profile. Let Clara see it. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize right here in front of everyone.”
Clara looked down at her plate, her shoulders hunched. She reached out and touched Arthur’s sleeve, her fingers pressing into the fabric of his oversized shirt. “Dad, maybe just show him so we can eat. People are starting to stare at us.”
Arthur looked around the dining room. His eyes lingered on the neighboring tables, where several patrons quickly averted their gaze back to their meals. The public judgment was already set; the whispers carried words like “disgraceful” and “already moving on.” The reputation of an old man who had spent forty years in this town was shifting over a piece of plastic on a steakhouse table.
“I shouldn’t have to prove anything to my own son,” Arthur said. His voice was cracked, the defensive tone fading into something weary and hollow.
“Because you can’t,” Brandon said, a triumphant, cold smile flickering on his face. He leaned closer, his chest pressing against the edge of the table. “Unlock it, or I’m leaving. And I won’t be coming to Sunday dinners anymore. I mean it. We either see what’s on that screen, or we’re done.”
Arthur’s hand moved slowly. He picked up the cheap smartphone. His thumb hovered over the fingerprint scanner. The screen lit up, casting a pale blue glow over his weathered face. He looked at Brandon, then at Clara, and finally down at the device. He pressed his thumb to the glass, and the lock icon slid open. Brandon snatched the device from his father’s hand before Arthur could turn the screen back toward the table. Brandon stared down at the open application, his finger poised to scroll, his face set in a hard mask of vindication. But as his eyes scanned the top lines of the profile screen, his posture stiffened, and the triumphant smile vanished from his face.