‘We Didn’t Order For You,’ Dad Said, Sliding Me Bread While My Brother Enjoyed His Steak. His Wife Said, “It’s Nice You Could Make It.” When The Bill Came, Dad Said: “Let’s Split It Fairly.”

Dad stood when he saw me. Suit pressed into a sermon. Connor’s jacket looked like it had opinions.

Victoria’s dress was the kind you can only buy if someone else says you look like money. There she is, Dad said in the tone of a man greeting his dental hygienist. I slid in next to Victoria.

She imperceptibly shifted a millimeter as if my elbow might carry a discount. “You look nice,” Dad offered, which is Midwestern for tryh harder next time. Connor didn’t look up from his phone.

“Glad you could make it. Been crazy busy,” he announced to no one in particular. The waiter arrived with the choreography of a minor aristocrat.

“Drinks to start.”

“The Cis,” Connor said, not looking at the menu. Special selection. A $200 flex disguised as a pore.

The waiter turned to me. “Water’s great,” I said. Victoria made a small sound, a tiny bell of judgment.

“So,” Connor asked in the tone of someone humoring a child’s hobby, “still doing the computer thing?”

“Still doing the computer thing?” I said. “We just shipped a major feature.”

“Stable?” he nodded. “Steady paycheck.”

He traded a glance with Victoria.

“Not everyone’s cut out for risk.”

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