Chapter 4: The Dinner and the Tin Box

At the dinner table, the atmosphere was tense and awkward.

The sound of silverware clinking was the only thing that filled the space between us.

My parents tried their best to liven things up.

My dad poured everyone sweet tea from the big plastic pitcher, the way he did on Sunday nights. Mom asked Jason about his new job in New York, but no one answered with more than a word or two.

But Jason Grant only ate in silence.

He cut his steak into perfect pieces, methodical and detached, like he was somewhere else.

His posture was elegant and distant.

He barely touched the bread, and his napkin stayed spotless. Every move was deliberate.

He had no intention of making conversation.

If anyone tried, he’d nod, offer a clipped answer, and go back to eating. Even Rachel didn’t try again.

Their enthusiasm only made the awkwardness more obvious.

The air was thick, every laugh forced. It was like watching actors who forgot their lines.

My sister sat with a dark expression, not saying a word.

She picked at her salad, stabbing lettuce with her fork, lips pressed thin.

I didn’t dare reach for any dishes, only took tiny bites of mac and cheese.

I kept my eyes on my plate, focusing on the familiar taste. It felt safe.

Finally, when the meal was over, both my parents looked visibly relieved.

Dad even wiped his brow, and Mom tried to smile, her hands shaking as she cleared the plates.

Just as Jason Grant was about to leave, I suddenly remembered something and called out to him.

The words slipped out before I could stop myself.

"Mr. Grant, wait a moment."

Everyone looked at me in surprise—including Jason Grant.

Forks clattered. Rachel’s eyes widened. Jason turned, his gaze sharp.

His brow furrowed slightly, clearly impatient.

He looked at his watch, then back at me, frowning.

"Just a second, okay?" I gestured with my fingers, showing a gap about a half inch wide.

My hands trembled so badly, I almost dropped the box. This was all that was left of the girl I used to be, but I tried to act casual.

Saying that, I ran upstairs and quickly came back down holding a tin box.

It was dented and old, covered in faded stickers from when I was a kid.

All eyes were on me.

The room went silent. Rachel pursed her lips. Mom’s eyes narrowed.

I opened the lid of the tin box and asked,

"Mr. Grant, is this yours?"

I held it out with both hands, careful not to drop anything.

Inside were more than a dozen school photo booth strips, old Polaroids—some wallet-sized, some larger.

They were arranged haphazardly, some slipping out of the elastic band I’d wrapped around them.

Clearly not official.

They looked like the extras you get from Walgreens photo counter.

Some of the photos had embossed stamps, some had dried glue on the back—obviously peeled off from somewhere.

A few even had smudges, like they’d been torn out of yearbooks or old school projects.

The Jason Grant in the photos looked younger, with a hint of youthfulness in his features, but already strikingly handsome.

Even in grainy prints, his cheekbones stood out, his eyes clear and intense.

Besides the photo strips, there were other odds and ends: candy wrappers, empty cigarette packs, used pen refills, crumpled test papers…

A tiny collection of memories, random but precious. I wasn’t sure why I kept them.

Jason Grant looked at me, his gaze sharp as a blade.

He didn’t blink. His stare made my stomach twist.

I gritted my teeth before daring to go on.

My voice was almost too quiet to hear.

"I found this in a corner of my closet. I don’t know who put it there. But I recognized your photos, so I thought it must be yours, right?"

I tried to sound casual, but my hands shook as I held the box.

Jason Grant’s eyes flickered, as if searching for something.

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing for a few long seconds.

Being stared at by him, I shrank back, my shoulders drooping.

I hugged the box to my chest, bracing for whatever came next.

He spoke:

"It’s not mine. Just throw it away."

His tone was final, no room for questions.

"Oh. Okay."

I tossed it into the trash can nearby and was about to head upstairs.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I mumbled an apology and started for the stairs.

Suddenly, a dangerous glint flashed in Jason Grant’s eyes.

He looked like he was about to say something else—his voice sharp.

"Melissa, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?" he called after me.

I was confused.

My mind spun, trying to understand what I’d done wrong.

"What?"

My voice was barely audible, caught between fear and disbelief.

He looked at me like he could see right through me, his eyes mocking, and sneered,

He cocked his head, his lips twisted in a cruel smirk.

"Nothing. Your acting is pretty good. Don’t bother next time. I’m not interested in watching."

With that, he turned and left.

His footsteps echoed in the hallway, the front door clicking shut behind him.