“I’m mad at you, you know.” He glances at his brother, who retreats to the kitchen table. “Why?” “This!” I say, grabbing the check and waving it in his face. “What if I spilled tomato sauce on it or threw it out? Who brings home this kind of money and just leaves it on the counter?” He blinks. “We’re having pasta for dinner?” “That’s not the point.” “It smells good. I’m starving.” “James.”
