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I inhaled, exhaled. The menu’s prices looked like phone numbers. Ribeye 48 oz.
A steak with its own gravitational pole. Surf and turf like an Instagram mood board. My eyes landed on the salmon because it was the least offensive to my wallet at $70.
sevenf figureure territory. So, we’re ordering for ourselves tonight. Dad added, “We didn’t order for you.” Didn’t want to presume.
The words slid across the table like a receipt. Victoria’s smile turned sympathetic. We thought you’d appreciate the flexibility, she said.
“You can do what’s comfortable.”
It sounded kind. It wasn’t. Do what’s comfortable.
The sentence lodged like a fishbone. The waiter hovered. With a pen that had seen battles, Connor ordered the ribeye with truffle butter and sides upon sides.
Victoria chose filt and lobster, extra lobster, with a kind of velvet entitlement. Dad went New York strip, loaded potato, creamed spinach, the classics of a man who wants to prove he belongs here. When the room looked to me, I closed the menu.
“I’ll have the bread basket,” I said. The waiter blinked. “The bread basket is complimentary, ma’am.”
“Perfect,” I replied.
Victoria tilted her head like I’d spoken a dialect. “You can’t just eat bread,” she whispered. “I’m not that hungry,” I said.
And because honesty itched, “I’m here for the company.”
Connor coughed a laugh. “If that’s what you want.”
While their plates were being composed in the kitchen like symphonies, Victoria texted, thumb twitching, the screen lighting her cheekbones like a stage. Dad offered anecdotes that were actually Connor advertisements.
I watched a server parade a steak the size of a newborn past us and imagined the check arriving like a dare. Our table filled. Connors ribeye glistened.
Victoria’s surf and turf gleemed as if it knew cameras. Dad’s strip sat like a thesis statement. The bread basket arrived.
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