Sourdough, wheat, herb rolls, butter like soft sunlight. I buttered a roll and stepped into the quiet ritual of survival. Bread in that moment was a thesis, too.
“Try some,” Connor said magnanimous, lifting a slice of his ribeye. It felt like a test. “I’m good,” I said.
He made a sound people make when they want strangers at other tables to know they’re enjoying luxury. Appetizers evaporated. Sides were prodded.
Dessert menus appeared with the stealth of a plot twist. I declined. Somewhere between the second pore of Cas and Victoria explaining why some restaurants are for people who understand them, the bill arrived.
Leatherfolder, heavy like judgment. Dad waited 5 seconds. Then he cleared his throat.
“Shall we split this fairly?”
“Fairly,” Connor echoed. A simple word freshly sharpened. I opened the bill.
$1,7247. I tracked the line items like a homicide detective: ribeye with truffle butter, surf and turf, extra lobster, New York strip, sides, two desserts, wine, and at the bottom, like a punchline, bread basket, compliment. “So,” Connor said, quick math.
“Four ways about 300 each.”
“For bread?” I asked, polite confusion carrying a hidden blade. “You were part of the dinner,” Dad said. “We’re family.”
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