Page 148 of Burn Bright

The long dining table is so full that I can barely spot the oak wood underneath. Ornate dishware, goblets, candlesticks, and vintage décor are arranged around platters of cranberries, potatoes, green beans, and a roasted goose. The tablescape is as artistic as a painting, and along with the meal, it never changes.

Thankfully, the goose resides at the other end. Out of my eyesight. I remember being pretty young—five or six—and not being able to peel my eyes off the meat for the entire dinner. My stomach twisted in vicious knots, and I just kept restraining hot tears. It hit me like a sledgehammer that what I’d been eating was a bird.

Like the ones I grew up joyfully watching on the lake at our family’s vacation house.

After the meal, my dad took me to the library and asked me what was wrong. I told him I didn’t want to eat birds anymore. He listened as I cried and asked him about the origins of the burgers we had the day before.

It was that night we agreed that I could become a vegetarian—but it only took me two more weeks to learn about animal byproducts after I pestered my older brothers and sister about vegetarianism. Charlie got fed up and asked me, “If you’re so concerned about the animals, why are you still drinking milk?”

I stopped consuming dairy that day, and then my dad explained veganism. I remember telling him, “I want that.” As if changing my whole lifestyle was as simple as picking out a pair of clothes. I was too young to realize it’d change what restaurants they went to. What they’d have stocked in their fridge. How I’d have to have my own section of the pantry so that I knew what I could safely eat as a kid. I appreciated the extra step they always took, even if it made me feel guilty at times.

My first Wednesday after becoming vegan, my mom made sure I’d have a seitan roast on my side of the table. I never asked for it. Didn’t want to make it a big deal. I really would have been fine just eating some green beans and potatoes. But when I saw she had the chef prepare one, it meant a lot to me. Chef Michael will usually stuff the seitan with different ingredients every week like mushrooms, walnuts, or spinach. So while everyone has the same meal—I’ve enjoyed the variation of mine.

Standing, I carve a slice. “Anyone want the seitan?” I offer like I do every Wednesday. Not all of them hate it.

“What’s in it tonight?” Tom asks while sitting on the frame of his chair. He’s mastered the art of balancing on the thing. Only after breaking a dozen of them when we were kids. Eliot wouldtypically catch Tom before he could ever crack his head on the floor.

Right now, his zipper-chained combat boots rest on the cushioned seat. He’s dressed in a black gothic waistcoat with a silver cross at the collar, and he tosses a serpent-headed scepter between his hands.

I inspect my piece of seitan. “Shiitake mushrooms and wild rice.”

“Hard pass,” Tom says. “I’ve developed an aversion to mushrooms. Once you get a slimy one, there’s no going back. I’m fucked for all time.”

“Fucked for all time should be a new song title,” Eliot suggests, his shiny black leather shoes kicked up on the table. A pipe sticks out his mouth, and he puffs perfect rings of smoke.

Our momloathessmoking. Cannot stand even the stench or sight of a cigarette. Yet, she never could dissuade Charlie and Beckett from the bad habit—the two of them smoke the most of everyone. No amount of charred lung photos or statistics of long-term effects could sway them, but Beckett won’t light a cigarette in front of her. And she’s only allowed smoking on Wednesday nights if it’s not during the entire duration of the meal.

Meaning, at some point, Eliot will have to set the pipe aside.

Pipe between his lips, he currently wears a formal tux with tails tonight, far different from his loose-fitted linen shirt Audrey called “pirate chic” he had on last Wednesday.

There is no dress code here.

There never is. Just like in our daily lives, our parents have let us express ourselves however we wish at these dinners. No holds barred.

I rarely ever feel like dressing up. And they never make me feel out of place in my casual T-shirts and jeans.

Tom scoffs. “You think we’re working on new songs? Dude, I can’t even get Alfie to learn the ones we have. Breaking in this new drummer is going to be the death of me.”

“Death invoked already.” Eliot grins. “I predict this will be a very dramatic Wednesday Night Dinner.” His mischievous gaze lands on me, his brows rising playfully.

I’m not soaking in his mirth. He might as well be telling me,prepare yourself, baby brother. Tonight is about you.

Fuck me.

I wish I could fake a stomach bug. Go hurl in the bathroom. That’d just do the inverse of what I want. It’ll ramp up their paranoia aboutwhat’s wrong with Ben?

So yeah, I need to power through this meal.

Beckett eyes Eliot. “Are you planning to set the tablecloth on fire again?”

“Please don’t,” Audrey pleads beside me. “It took me oh so terribly long to get the smoke out of my last dress. Velvetabsorbs.” Her baby blue dress cascades on either side of her chair. Frilly sleeves threaten to lick the flamed candles when she reaches for her water goblet.

I spring out of my chair and draw her away from the lit candle. Fuck,fuck.My heart has ascended to my throat. She’s not on fire.She’s not on fire.

“Sois prudente, petite sœur,” Beckett tells her.Be careful, little sister.

She flips her hair off her shoulder. “Je le suis toujours.”I always am.