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Christ, this is worse than high school.

My dad comes out of the kitchen before I can make a fool of myself. Even though everyone knows each other, polite introductions are made again (with Jacob thanking him profusely for inviting the “renters”) and everyone takes a seat at the dining room table. My dad and I are at the heads of the table, which reminds me, in a creepy way, that I’m posed like my mother.

The usual pleasantries are exchanged as my dad displays the food (“Oh, that looks delicious, I haven’t had rack of lamb in so long” from Dawn and “You shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble for us” from Sage) and everyone settles in nicely.

I watch my father closely as he folds his hands and bows his head. He looks up, shooting me a sheepish look that also says is this inappropriate? Saying grace is very important to him.

“Dad,” I announce, clearing my throat. “Would you like to say Grace?”

A flash of relief flits across his brow. “Yes, sure,” he looks at the others. “Do you mind?”

Every mumbles no, of course not, even Jay and Jacob who, for all their godliness and demon dealings, don’t strike me as the type. Then again, I’m pretty sure Jacob owes the man upstairs something big for getting him out of Hell and all.

My father leads the Lord’s Prayer, short and simple, with a low voice brimming with reverence. Everyone has their head bowed and I sneak a peek at Jay who is sitting to the left of me, his knee brushing against mine every so often.

He’s watching me, eyes transfixed.

I blink at him, trying to smile but there’s something terribly off-putting at the way he’s gazing at me. It’s like he doesn’t really see me. More than that, it’s like it’s not really him. I have the distinct and unnerving feeling that I’m staring at a stranger.

And he’s not a good man.

Then Jay suddenly shakes his head, like he was lost in a daydream, gives me a startled smile and goes back to praying, or at least paying lip service.

“Amen,” everyone says and I repeat it absently. I can’t quite get that unsettled feeling out of my chest.

Dad starts passing out the plates, lamb headed down one way via Sage, rice headed down the other via Jacob. But now it’s Jacob’s face I’m paying attention to as everyone else starts talking about the food and murmuring thanks.

He’s agitated. While he’s smiling here and there as he listens to the conversations, he keeps fidgeting in his seat, twirling his tacky gold watch around his wrist, eyes darting around as if listening to conversations coming from outside the room.

I think my father picks up on this because he watches him for a moment before he asks. “So are you and Jay related? Father and son?”

This makes Jacob laugh, putting him at ease for a second. Even Jay smiles.

“No. But he often feels like a son to me,” Jacob explains. “Won’t bloody do what I tell him!”

They both burst out laughing like it’s the funniest thing on earth and pretty soon everyone else is joining in. But beneath the laughter, I can see the strain in everyone’s eyes, like this is just for show. It makes me wonder what has everyone on edge, or if we’re all just feeding off of each other.

“And Dawn, Sage,” my father says, pointing his fork at them. “How did you two meet?”

The couple exchanges a look with raised brows. I know what they’re trying to figure out—which story to tell.

“It’s a funny story,” Sage says, giving him a jovial smile and I already know which version my dad is getting. “Dawn was a music journalist sent to cover our tour. She rode on the bus with us and everything, all freckles and long limbs and unruly hair, asking all the wrong questions, digging for soundbites. I truly hated her.”

Dawn nudges Sage in the side, her smile lines deepening. My eyes go to Jacob, who I now know was there on that tour, but he’s not paying attention at all. It’s as if he’s still listening to something none of us can hear and he doesn’t look too happy about it.

“So it wasn’t love at first sight?” my dad asks. Despite what’s going on, my heart melts for him. I know it was that way for him and mom.

“Oh, it was,” Sage concedes. “I just didn’t know it yet.”

“And I was in love with him before I even met him,” Dawn adds. “Every girl worth their salt, or with at least great taste in music, had a poster of Hybrid on their wall.”

My dad then goes on to talk about actor Gregory Peck and how his wife was a journalist sent to interview him. Then Dawn brings the conversation around to me and my fashion blogging, my design aspirations.