"It's the answer you're getting, sweetheart."
"See." Zero spreads his hands, delighted, taking in the whole table. "She didn't agree with him. Bane hasn't said a word, which means Bane doesn't agree with him. Wren's a bookseller, so that's a no. Maxie writes, so that's a no." He points the neck of his beer bottle at Richard with enormous satisfaction. "You're outnumbered, Dad. Five to one. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but your opinion on this has officially stopped counting."
The table goes quiet.
Richard sets down his fork. He does it slowly, folding his napkin beside his plate like he’s trying hard not to lose his temper.
"Zero," he says. "Could I see you in my office? Briefly."
Zero is already grinning.
“Course, Dad."
He stands, drains the last of his beer, sets the empty bottle down with a small decisive click—and, on his way past my chair, he catches my eye and winks, the unrepentant little winkof a man being marched to the principal's office and enjoying every step of it.
He follows Richard out.
The dining room is, abruptly, a great deal quieter than it was.
"Well," Margot says, into the silence, brightly, a half-second too late to be casual. "He'll—they'll just be a minute. Richard likes to—it's a father thing. It's nothing. Wren, sweetheart, have you tried the corn pudding? You must try the corn pudding, it's a brand-new recipe, it's—Bane, tell her about the corn pudding—"
Bane, beside me, is looking very fixedly at his plate. He lifts his wineglass, takes a slow and deeply unnecessary sip, and uses it, I’m almost certain, to swallow a laugh.
Wren, across from me, takes a sip of her prosecco. Her eyes meet mine over the rim of the glass, bright and dry and pleased with herself, like a card player who has just watched a bluff land.
Margot watches and I can feel her eyes on the three of us. I know she’s trying to make it all make sense, taking notes about the way Bane served Wren three times the green beans. About the way Zero performs like this to take all the heat. About the way Wren's eyes meet mine. About the way my eyes meet Bane's.
She is taking notes about all of it and I just pray toGodshe doesn’t see what’s truly going on.
But she doesn't say a word. She just refills Wren's water glass, and asks Bane to pass the roast, and lets the dinner carry itself.
We eat. We are most of the way through when Richard and Zero come back from the office—Richard a little pink, Zero entirely unbothered, sliding back into his chair and reclaiming his fork like a man returning from nothing more interesting thanthe bathroom. Whatever was said in there has left absolutely no mark on him.
And then it’s time for dessert.
Margot brings the tart over to the big table and starts cutting slices.
"Bane drove out to Sixth Street this morning," she says, sliding the first plate to Wren. "Max said lemon was your favorite. He asked them for the one with the most lemon."
Bane coughs and reaches for his drink. I try not to laugh at his secret getting blown up in his face.
Wren glances up at Bane, surprised.
"...you didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." He says it simply, like it's no big deal. But he has no idea what things like this mean to people like Wren and me.
Wren takes a bite. Closes her eyes for a second. "...okay. That's a really good tart."
"Bane has excellent taste in pastry," Margot says, deadpan, "for a man who doesn't bake."
Bane huffs into his wineglass.
We eat the tart. It’s really good and even Richard can’t complain. He finishes his slice, sets his fork down with a neat little click against the rim of his plate, and turns to my mother. "Margot. Take a walk with me? We can sit out under the stars and let the kids talk."
Margot blinks."...now?"
"Now. The night air is lovely and I'd like my wife to myself for ten minutes before the children take the kitchen apart." He stands, holds out his hand for hers. "Bane. Zero. Max. Wren—it was an unexpected pleasure, truly. Drive home safely."
