So, all the cousins began pretending like his service dog was the draw, gently teasing him by saying he was only allowed if he brought her with him. Cup’stechnicallynot on duty while in our condo, but her presence is nonnegotiable.
Sy’s a smart guy and knows what we’re doing, but he seems to appreciate our roundabout support. At least that’s what I hope as he and Cup join me on the elevator ride up to the roof.
We are luckier than most in a lot of ways, but this rooftop area is probably my favorite perk of our, frankly, ridiculouswealth. Between the infinity pool, the lush greenery, the state-of-the-art sun canopies, and the outdoor kitchen, it’s hard to stay in a bad mood up here. Similar setups grace the building’s many terraces, but this one is all ours.
The sun is nearly gone, and the breeze is perfect. I walk to the thick glass partition that separates me from about twenty stories of nothing and lean over to check out the Pecan Street Festival. People are milling around the normally traffic-clogged streets, enjoying artisans’ wares and pop-up restaurants while a popular local band provides tonight’s free concert.
Another perfect Austin, Texas, evening.
Silas and I set up in the kitchen while Cup posts up on the outdoor couch. I start by filling the two big pots with water from the tap over the stove and setting them to boil before organizing everything on the counter.
“Can you butterfly the chicken breasts while I prep the artichokes?”
“Yep.”
Sy grabs my boning knife and a cutting board and gets into it.
“I really am sorry about your gala,” he says, his voice soft as he efficiently butterflies his first breast.
I let out a sigh as I pull out another cutting board and go in after the artichokes.
“I appreciate that our parents are letting all of us find our way with the giving clause, but I feel so fucking lost. Like, yeah, we made lots of money last night, but now all people are going to think about is how wasted Brant was.”
Silas’s hair flutters in the warm breeze as he cleanly slices through another chicken breast. “Maybe it’s,” he starts, gesturing at his head, “but I don’t get why you care so much about what people think. I mean, it’s not like Brantley’s stupidity reduces the spending power of the cash.”
I’m not supposed to know this, but I overheard my fatherstalking about Silas’s shitty birth father and how he paid some super unethical geneticist in the early twenties to build him the perfect son.
Baba said he basically recreated Frankenstein’s monster. Uncle Eddie thought he could help, but Dad said it was like putting two aggressive betta fish in the same tank, whatever that means.
Anyway, Sy finally ended up with Dad’s cousin Erik and his husband Ant. They help run an equine therapy ranch, and he seems to find peace with the animals.
When Sy acts like there’s just something wrong with his head, I know it’s more than that, so I focus on explaining the part he doesn’t understand.
“I care for two reasons. First, and maybe this is just the arrogance speaking, but even though Brantley was the one arrested, I was embarrassed because it makes me look like I don’t know what I’m doing.” I punctuate this by violently slicing off the artichoke tops, stems, and the first layer of leaves. “Which I don’t, and that leads to the second thing.”
I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my forearm before cutting the artichoke in half, taking out the fuzzy choke, and setting it aside. I grab the next one and process aloud.
“If I look like I don’t have the right people to manage donations in an ethical and smart manner, then the people with the cash won’t give to the organizations I represent. Which doesn’t affect my standard of living in any material way, but it very much does affect the recipients of those funds.”
Silas slices through the last of the chicken breasts, and I shake my head as I grab the grill spray. “Shit, dude. Your knife work is very fast.”
Silas pauses mid-seasoning, then sends me one of his unreadable looks. “I just really like the functionality of a good sharp knife.”
I don’t…really know what to say to that.
I mean, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any bodies down in that basement apartment of his, but it’s exchanges like this that remind me our parents aren’t super thrilled that we include him in everything.
Which is why everyone here tonight knows to crop Silas and Cupcake out of all social media posts and parental group chat shares. The parents really,reallydon’t like him.
Sy goes quiet as he finishes seasoning the breasts and places them on the grill. After, he washes his hands and grabs the boning knife to join me in prepping the artichokes.
“I understand what you’re trying to say, Rahm, but it’s inaccurate to call you arrogant,” he finally says, returning to our original conversation as he starts taking down the artichokes in his disturbingly efficient manner. “Your confidence isn’t derived from putting down or comparing yourself to others. Sure, you don’t know much about the world outside our family, and you should definitely be way more scared than you are, but again, no one who knows our family is stupid enough to go after you.”
I open my mouth to ask him what he means by that, but he keeps going, “Also, you got embarrassed, which I don’t associate with arrogant people. I don’t understand it, but?—”
I interrupt him. “You don’t understand embarrassment?”
He shakes his head. “Humans learn mostly by fucking shit up, so why would fucking up embarrass you?” The automatic lights buzz on as the sky darkens, and he tips his knife from side to side, watching the play of the light on polished steel. “I do get needing to be cognizant of the opinions of those with the purse strings. That does make sense. But if you move on from Brantley and do better at the next event, they’ll move on too.”
