“Why do we have to go to a barbecue at the Abrams to wear ‘normal’ clothing? Don’t you just want to be normal all the time?”

Aperol Spritz dripped onto his chassan watch.

Okay, it wasn't his original chassan watch, that was a very sweet Mercier, and he's kept it for sentimental purposes, but this Cartier was his reward for getting Daddy the Luxe Tower contract. Sticky alcohol was no way to treat a Cartier and spitting your drink across the room maybe wasn't the classiest behavior for Cookout, but Akiva had not seen that text message coming.

“Baruch and Chaykie just invited us to a barbecue tomorrow night at their home,” he said to Libby through gritted teeth. “Do you think I’m the main course?”

Libby gave him a look. “Good thing we’re not self-centered or anything.”

He unbuttoned his collar, rotated his neck. “Libby, it’s too awkward, we can’t go over there. I just snatched away the promotion he’s been working toward.”

“And if we don’t show up at the friendly barbecue they invited us to, it won’t be awkward?”

Akiva aggressively smashed a French fry with his fork until it was just a small white mound on his plate. “Uch, is this what it means to be stuck between a rock and a hard place?”

“Poor little rich boy has never had a problem before?”

He rolled his eyes. “Halevai. Tachlis, what are we doing? Going? Staying? Socially awkward versus socially unacceptable?”

“We’re going. I’ll make a S’mores pie. And it’s going to be fine. It’s just their way of showing us that business is business, and we’re all good.”

“Or it’s a golden opportunity for Baruch to stab me with a shishkabob.”

“Or that,” Libby agreed. “Pass the ketchup?”