“You fucking piece of shit!” Faulkner throws a punch at Fitz.
He catches in in the ribs. “Oof!”
“Can you act like adults for one minute? This is supposed to be Salinger’s big moment.” Hawthorne, the second-oldest, puts our youngest brother in a headlock.
Faulkner continues to swing at the laughing Fitz.
“Aww, look at the little kitten.” Fitz snickers.
Faulkner swipes at Fitz with an oyster fork, grazing his hand.
“Ow!”
“You deserved it,” I tell him.
“He’s leaking body fluids on the table,” McCarthy, the middle child, complains.
Whitman, the second-youngest, pushes away his plate of lobster tempura. “Yeah, I’m done. Salinger, can you wrap this up?”
“Yes, dear brother, it’s time for Faulkner’s nap.”
“Asshole!” One of the bottles of water clatters to the table as our youngest brother wrestles out of Hawthorne’s grasp to attack Fitz.
There are six of us—well, six of us full brothers. Dear old Dad fathered over a hundred half siblings at least, packing us all like rotting garbage in his desert compound.
His hoard.
“We are gathered here today… Fitz, seriously, shut up and leave him alone. Like I said, we are here to celebrate a momentous occasion—I swear to god, Fitz, I’m going to let him take your eye out.”
“Not me eye!” Fitz wails dramatically.
I grab Faulkner and shove him in the chair next to me, where he glares daggers at Fitz.
“I am finally the richest Svensson in America, now that Svensson Investment is a smear on my path to victory. And Greg thinks he’s smart. Guess the superior Svensson wins again.”
Whitman lifts his glass to toast me. “And all is right in the jungle.”
Sometimes I wonder if I should have just left them all in the compound with the rest of my siblings. But my family is everything to me. Well, my five brothers are, anyway. I built my business and sacrificed everything for them, so they could grow up happy and safe away from my father’s oppressive, controlling delusions.
We meet once a week at a restaurant in a private dining room. The East Coast Svenssons might all cook together fora performative family meal. Not me. I’m not cooking shit for my brothers.
McCarthy slides the ice-filled tray over to me, and I select one of the small West Coast oysters arranged in a spiral from big to small, the tiniest one no bigger than a quarter.
“Far superior to the weakling snot they eat on the East Coast.”
“When we have the Manhattan Svenssons over again, we’ll have to rub our superior culinary standards in their faces.” Whitman and McCarthy toast oysters.
“Why would we do that?” Scowling, I swallow the oyster, the salt and taste of the ocean exploding on my tongue. Even though it’s been twenty years since I was locked in that desert compound where we never ate so much as a breaded fish stick, I still can’t get enough of seafood. It tastes like freedom and possibility.
“Because West Coast is better?” Whitman shakes his head.
“No. Why invite them over?”
“You were happy to see Greg, remember? You gave him a hug?” Fitz prods.
“A moment of weakness.”
“I thought we were friends with them,” Faulkner says with a sigh, pushing away Hawthorne, who’s trying to make Faulkner eat some of his salmon steak.
