White Space Season 1

are.”
    Jon smiled as his stomach growled. A steak did sound great. Carmen didn’t make the best steak in the world, that honor belonged to Queue de Cheval Steak House in Montreal, if you wanted fancy, and Peter Luger’s, in Brooklyn, NY if you didn’t. But she did come in third, and third was his favorite, since it was the only one that could make Jon remember everything from being 11 years old, building his own treehouse in the backyard, to being 17 and losing his virginity with Sarah, inside it.
    The steak and pasta were on the table just minutes after they sat, and the 2006 Chevalier-Montrachet before that. Jon cut his meat, imagining the taste as he looked down at the gorgeous red flesh, then put it in his mouth, and let his mind wander to Sarah’s girlish grin, and his final words before that long ago evening had taken him from boy to man.
    “Are you sure you’re ready?” he had asked.
    “I’m always ready for you, Jon,” she had said. Then, “thank you for waiting,” before lying on the sleeping bag, curling her finger, and beckoning him forward.
    It was a beautiful memory, one of his favorites. He hoped it wouldn’t make him cry.
    More than keeping his tears inside, Jon hoped Warren would soon steer the conversation away from business and toward golf. It wasn’t that Jon liked to talk golf. It just happened to be the only topic which Warren could go on forever about, which kept his tongue too busy from saying something stupid like he usually did, to end dinner with drama.
    Warren went on and on about the latest in augmentation technology. To hear Warren put it, Conway Industries was on the verge of something big, but he couldn’t really say anything yet. At least, not to an outsider such as Jon.
    It was just one more of Warren’s subtle jabs at his brother, trying to puff up the importance of whatever project they were working on. Usually when he pulled a stunt like this in front of their father, the old man would call his son out.
    “It’s an artificial eye, Warren. Don’t be so damned cloak and dagger,” Blake would say, putting Warren in his place and bringing a subtle smile to Jon’s face.
    But Blake wasn’t there during this dinner, so Jon just let it slide. It wasn’t as though he really cared. The biotech business may have made the family rich, and Conway Industries was revolutionizing limb and artificial organ replacement, but it all bored Jon to tears. He wasn’t a scientist, nor a businessman. He was just an actor, a kid who never grew up, and made lots of money playing pretend. It was the best job in the world, and no matter how much Warren tried to belittle Jon’s profession, Jon wouldn’t let it get to him.
    After Jon failed to grovel and say, “please, please, tell me more,” Warren stared at Jon, his red eyes redder than his glass of wine. Warren poured himself a third, then changed the subject, moving immediately into golf.
    Jon laughed.
    “Am I amusing you?” Warren said.
    “No, not at all,” Jon smiled, shaking his head.
    Melinda placed a dime-sized piece of steak into her mouth, chewed, then said, “So what brings you to town, Jon?”
    Jon stared across the table, wondering if she were really that oblivious to the rest of the world. He cleared his throat, then said, “The Memorial, Melinda,” adding her name to the end in a quiet fuck you.
    “Oh,” she put another mini piece of meat into her tiny mouth. “That. Yes, that was so tragic, all those poor kids.”
    Warren took another large swallow of wine and said, “Jon used to date Sarah Hughes, the teacher who was shot. They grew up, best of friends. Used to do everything together. You know the bunch of wood out back, Dad had cleared out four years ago? That was Jon’s “Clubhouse,” he used to spend a million years out there with Sarah, the two of them making out all the time with Jon acting like no one knew what they were doing.”
    Jon chewed his steak, growing more annoyed by the second.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Melinda said, her eyes suddenly soft and kind. “I didn’t know.”
    “It’s okay,” Jon said, putting another piece of steak in his mouth.
    “Did you see her sister?” Warren asked. The way he said the second syllable of “sister,” made Jon want to walk to Warren’s side of the table and punch him in the ear.
    “Yes,” Jon said, no emotion. “Sarah’s sister was at the memorial.”
    “She kick the drugs yet?” Warren said, taking another long sip of wine.
    Jon almost