Story code: ST-001341
Part 3: The Reading
I stood by the edge of the booth, the heavy tray of side dishes still balanced on my forearm. The heat from the creamed spinach radiated against my wrist, but I remained still, waiting for an opening to place the bowls down or walk away. The neighboring tables had gone entirely quiet. The clinking of silverware at Table 15 had stopped.
Brandon stood frozen, the phone held a few inches from his face. The blue light from the screen reflected off his glasses. His eyes darted back and forth across the glass display, scanning the text. He didn’t read it aloud. The tight, angry line of his mouth slowly slackened, his lips parting slightly. He swiped his thumb once, twice, as if trying to find a hidden menu or another tab that would validate the accusations he had just broadcasted to the entire section of the restaurant.
Clara leaned forward, her elbows on the edge of the table. “Brandon,” she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, private whisper. “Put the phone down.”
“He’s got a bio, Clara,” Brandon said, though the volume had drained from his voice. He looked up, his gaze shifting between his sister and their father. “He has a profile picture. Look at this. It says he wants to meet people. It says he’s looking for a companion to spend Sunday afternoons with.”
“I know what it says,” Clara replied. Her hand was steady as she reached across the table, her palm up, waiting for him to return the device. “I wrote it with him. I sat at his kitchen table last week and helped him type it.”
Brandon didn’t give the phone back. He held it closer to his chest, his knuckles white against the dark plastic case. “Why would you do that? You helped him set up a dating account? A year, Clara. It’s only been a year since we buried Mom. You’re both just ready to replace her?”
At Table 12, the woman in the red dress turned her chair slightly, her shoulder angled toward our corner to catch every word. The man she was with stared openly now, his fork resting on his napkin.
Arthur did not move. He kept his eyes lowered, looking at the pattern of the tablecloth between his fork and his plate. The skin around his knuckles was dry and pale, his fingers remaining perfectly still. He did not defend himself. He did not look at the neighboring tables. Arthur finally reached for his napkin, slowly wiping a drop of condensation from his water glass. He looked at the unlit candles on the cake, their white wicks standing straight and unused.
“Brandon,” Arthur said, his voice barely a murmur. “Just give your sister the phone.”
“No,” Brandon said, though the sharpness had left his tone, replaced by a defensive strain. “I want to know why this is on your phone. I want to know why you have a profile at all. Clara, you shouldn’t have helped him with this. It’s wrong.”
“Read the header, Brandon,” Clara repeated. She didn’t raise her voice, but she didn’t lower her palm. “Read it so the whole room knows what you’re yelling about.”
Brandon looked down at the screen again. His thumb hovered over the display, but he didn’t swipe. He stood there, his breathing audible in the sudden lull of the dining room’s background music. His shoulders slowly sank, the rigid posture he had held since standing up beginning to fold. He looked at the screen, then at the older couple staring from Table 15, and then back down. He did not read it. He simply stood by the booth, the phone clutched in his hand, his mouth working silently.