“Your father just wants a grandchild to bounce on his knee…as we all do.” Grandma sighs theatrically. She must’ve taken some acting lessons.
“The only things he wants on his knee are young chicks with huge, bouncy tits.” Just because I try to be polite doesn’t mean I’m going to agree with her.
Aunt Akiko chokes on her plum wine, and Uncle Prescott pats her back. Mom smirks—she probably warned Grandma that line wouldn’t work—and Grandma is scowling. My cousins are staring at the empty plates like somehow they can conjure more sashimi.
“It’s disrespectful to speak of one’s father that way,” Grandma says.
“But factual.” I let out a puff. “There’s a reason Emmett and Griff don’t let him near their kids.” My brothers are too smart and sensible. Dad’s idea of great outings for toddlers is Hollywood galas and movie sets.
Her mouth tightens into a stubborn line. “Iwant a great grandchild to bounce onmyknee. Don’t you think that’s the least you owe the family, since you won’t join the firm?”
“No. And wouldn’t your orthopedic surgeon disapprove? Think of your age.”
Her face turns red. My cousins bite their lips to contain laughter. The last time we were together, Grandma complained about how horrible her surgeon was because he couldn’t get rid of her knee pain. The man’s unvarnished response, that her knees had simply worn out from old age, was unacceptable. She will continue to fight the passage of time—demonstrating an admirable strength of will…as long as it isn’t directed at me.
The second course is served: salad topped with salmon roe. I stare at the pale white dressing and little sprouts, doing my best to hide my distaste. Aunt Akiko looks so proud. She loves her veggies. I can choke ’em down as long as the dressing is goodenough to disguise the grassy flavor. If God wanted me to eat five servings of grass, He would’ve made it taste like steak.
“But don’t worry, I’m definitely going to do the right thing,” I say, then puff again.
Grandma’s complexion returns to normal at the possibility that I’m going to acquiesce to her demand. “Which Webber girl are you interested in?”
She’s been pushing them on me, like her choices are in any way superior to what Joey has been offering. At least he picks girls with “tits and ass,” even if they generally don’t have the brains to match their other assets. If all I wanted was a quick fuck, they’d be serviceable enough. After all, that’s what he’s aiming for. Dad doesn’t necessarily want me married. He just wants a grandchild.
Grandma, on the other hand, wants me to marry like a proper, respectable Huxley. And not to just any woman—to a Webber. But there are only two available, and neither is particularly appealing.
“It’s difficult to decide, since one is idiotic and the other is frivolous,” I say.
“Viv got into Harvard Law,” Josh points out, although his expression says he’s not sure how that happened.
Bryce rounds his fingers into a cock-sized cylinder and moves his arm up and down.
Of course, the motion doesn’t go unnoticed among this gathering of lawyers. Aunt Akiko glares at her stepson, while I snort and Uncle Prescott tries to maintain a serious façade.
Time to rescue him. “Whose dick did she suck? She sure as hell didn’t get in on her brains.”
“Huxley!” Grandma’s scandalized tone is totally manufactured. Not even she can believe Vivienne Webber got into Harvard Law. The girl’s dumber than a piece of gum on a sidewalk.
“I don’t know what’s been promised in the marriage contract, but I’m not marrying her. Besides, she doesn’t really want me, either. Don’t the conditions specify that it can be any Webber and any Huxley?”
“For the sake of flexibility, we chose that for the Webber side. But not ours. You’re specifically listed in the contract we signed.”
“You signed a contract behind my back?” I say. “One that stipulatedIhad to fulfill certain obligations?”
“If you’d joined the firm, it wouldn’t have been behind your back,” Mom says.
“This is illegal on so many levels. You know better.”
“Oh, no, I assure you it’s quite legal and proper.” Mom smiles. “When you saw how your friend—Matt—was fighting with his family over whether they should continue treatment for their terminally ill father, you drafted a power of attorney that’d kick in if you were comatose for over twenty-four hours. Remember?”
“Yeah, so you could unplug me in the event.” I refuse to be hooked up to a machine so I can “live.” Merely breathing isn’t living as far as I’m concerned, so I picked Mom for the job, since I didn’t want to burden my brothers with such a heavy decision. Furthermore, I couldn’t trust them to not prolong my life, clinging to a pointless hope that I’d miraculously wake up with no ill side effects.
“Correct. And remember that half-pipe accident you had?”
A cold panic clenches my stomach. I love snowboarding, even though I can’t indulge often. But my last trip ended in a nasty fall. I was certain I’d die.
Except the doctors managed to save me.
“You were, in fact, comatose for two days.”
