He stuffs a piece in his mouth. “Okay, you sound crazy. Let’s go.” Crawford stands up, still chewing.
“Fuck you.” I sit down.
“He and his stalking victim are having a rough patch in their relationship.” Faulkner licks an oyster shell.
“You little—”
“You need to calm down,” Salinger warns.
“Use your words,” Faulkner mimics.
I pick up a steak knife.
“Why’d she dump you? What did you say?” Hawthorne looks a little nervous. “I bet it was something unhinged.”
“She can’t break up with me. I have twenty million dollars’ worth of rings for her. And I bought her sister a house.”
“Wait,” Crawford says. “You bought her sister a house? The one you had dinner with?”
“Yeah. Next time, I’m not doing that in a public dining room.”
“But you didn’t buy Winnie the house?” Crawford says slowly.
“She already has a house,” I remind him impatiently. “I bought this house for Kathy to get her parents out of Winnie’s house so that I can stay there whenever I want and she won’t be stressed. I did a nice thing.”
“Dude.”
“Is he usually this dumb?”
“Do you know how many Furbys the man owns?”
“This is what her sister said she wanted,” I complain.
“Isn’t this the sister that got strung along by her shitty hockey-player boyfriend?” McCarthy asks. “Is she really the voice of logic and reason in this situation?”
“The whole thing is bullshit. Winnie’s a businesswoman. She logical, or at least, she’s supposed to be,” I complain. “She didn’t even hear me out.”
“Maybe this is just a ruse to cover the real reason,” Hawthorne muses.
“Exactly!” I slam the knife on the table, sending several goblets toppling and the silverware crashing. “Exactly. She’s hiding something from me. She’slyingabout something.”
“Or maybe she caught wise that”—my brother snickers—“you have a shopping addiction.”
“Probably a sex addiction.”
“He’s def getting a restraining order.”
“It’s Knox,” I decide abruptly. “She’s still in love with him. She has to be. She says she isn’t, but she is. And he’s still obsessed with her.”
“The stalker calling the stalker obsessed.” Faulkner snickers.
“You better fucking do something about him,” I warn Salinger, standing up abruptly.
My older brother rises from his seat. Salinger’s voice drops. “You need to take him back to NYC, Crawford.”
“I’m not fucking crazy. This is a logical response to someone trying to steal my stuff.” I know I’m too loud.
My brothers look at me in concern.
