Turns out I’m right.
The place is called The Foundry Room. I’ve walked past it a couple times without ever going in. Ground floor of some restored brick building in the Gaslamp, exposed beams, dark walnut, low lighting, and enough polished metal to make the whole place lookexpensive before you even touch the menu. The cocktail list runs four pages. The whiskey section gets its own booklet.
We get seated in a corner booth with leather chairs. Marcus settles into his seat easy, jacket perfect, collar open just enough to stop short of corporate hostage negotiator territory. He’s got that calm, terrifying rich-person competence that makes staff magically appear before he even asks for something.
The waiter hands us menus.
My brother is nine years older than me, and by the time I was just starting to pay attention to the world, he was already leaving for college. He returned on breaks and holidays with the same non-energy every time, a yawnfest.
Marcus has spent my entire life managing me like I’m a high-risk corporate asset. I love him for it. It also drives me insane.
The waiter reappears. Marcus orders a Scotch without so much as glancing at the menu. I order a Mezcal Negroni mostly because I had one the week I turned twenty-one and spent the next years pretending I was more of a beer-and-whiskey guy than I actually am.
Marcus gets the dry-aged ribeye. I study the menu longer than necessary before deciding on the sole meunière. Haven’t had it since the endless dinners at my mother’s table where everybody wore cufflinks.
The drink feels appropriate somehow, or psychologically damaging. Hard to tell now.
“How’s the firm?” I ask once the waiter leaves.
“It’s been busy. We’ve got a merger case that’s been running for fourteen months and shows no sign of resolution.” He folds his hands loosely on the table. “We brought in two lateral partners last quarter, which should help with the load, but it won’t feel like help for another six months at least.”
“Do you even sleep?”
“Technically.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That answer alone says no.”
“I sleep enough.” He picks up his water glass. “Don’t nurse me.”
“Hey,” I point at him. “I’m your brother before I’m a nurse.”
“I could say the same thing to you.” He pauses, and now he’s just my brother, the one I grew up with, not anything else. “You look good though, despite everything.”
“Despite what?”
“The long hours.” A small shrug. “The life you’ve chosen.”
“I like the life I’ve chosen.”
“I know you do.” He takes a sip of water. “Mother asked about you.”
And there it is. One mention of our mother and suddenly the entire restaurant feels like I’m twelve again.
“What did she say?”
“She asked how you were, whether you were eating.” He pauses. “And whether you’re happy.”
“Yes to all of the above,” I respond, trying to sound indifferent.
“I keep telling her to call you herself.”
“She knows my number.”
Marcus sighs, his voice softening. “She misses you. You used to be close.”
I say nothing to that.
“Do you miss her?”
