"Alright, forget I said anything," Jake said, raising his hands defensively as Charlie started to pace the kitchen.
"She wouldn't do that to me," Charlie muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he stared into space. "Why would she do that to me? Did she do that to me? Oh, God... she did that to me, didn't she?"
Jake took a slow bite of his sandwich. "It seems like karma has finally caught up with you."
"Huh? What are you talking about?" Charlie asked, looking genuinely confused at the sudden shift in tone.
"Well, think about it," Jake explained, leaning back against the counter. "This woman is doing exactly what you've been doing to women for the last twenty years. She strictly controls the schedule, she flakes on you the second something better comes along and then she kicks you out the minute she gets bored so she can move on to the next guy. You're not the player in this relationship, more like the afternoon slot."
Charlie froze, his eyes widening in sheer terror as the pieces clicked together in his brain. "Oh my god... I'm dating myself."
"Exactly," Jake nodded, hoping to finally instill a shred of personal growth in his uncle. "So, I hope you've learned a valuable lesson here. Maybe this is your wake-up call to finally change your actions for good, treat people with a little respect, and—"
"I understand!" Charlie interrupted, toxic spark lighting up his eyes. "The problem is that she doesn't need me. So, I need to figure out a way to show her... that I don't need her just as much as she doesn't need me. But, you know, without seeming needy."
Jake stared at him, completely appalled by the mental gymnastics. "That is not what I said at all."
"Thanks for the advice, kid!" Charlie beamed, slapping Jake on the shoulder before sprinting out of the room to plan his next counter-strategy. Jake just stood there, entirely speechless.
True to form, Charlie ended up going out with Sherri one last time just so he could execute a messy, preemptive rejection to save his own fragile ego. He walked away from the entire ordeal having learned absolutely nothing.
...
The next Saturday, the family was gathered back at the Malibu beach house when Evelyn swept into the living room.
"I am finally receiving my Gold Blazer from the West Side Realtors Association," Evelyn announced, her voice dripping with pride.
Charlie didn't even look up from his sports page. "So?"
"It is the highest honor the real estate community can bestow, Charles," Evelyn snapped, glaring at him.
"And again, I ask... so?" Charlie replied, completely unimpressed.
Evelyn cleared her throat loudly, ignoring him. "So, I wanted to talk to you boys about the presentation ceremony."
"We'll be there, Mom. Just tell us when and where," Alan chimed in immediately, desperately trying to play the good son.
"I'm busy that day," Charlie added flatly.
"I haven't told you what day it is yet," Evelyn shot back.
Charlie groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Alright, when?"
"Next Sunday at 5:00. And I was hoping we could have the party right here," Evelyn said, flashing a tight, manipulative smile.
"Here?" Alan asked, visibly surprised.
"Why here?" Charlie grumbled, instantly annoyed.
"This isn't really a good house for parties, Mom," Alan defended, gesturing vaguely around the room. "The layout is all wrong."
"Yeah, it's terrible," Charlie agreed. "It's just so... big. And close to the ocean. Nobody wants that."
"Oh, come on," Evelyn scoffed. "I can't very well throw a celebratory party for myself at my own house. This way, everyone in the association will get to see how much my successful sons love and respect me... Ha!"
Before either of them could formulate another excuse, Evelyn gave Alan a piece of paper. "Anyway, here is the guest list and a suggested menu. Nothing fancy. Alright, right big kiss, love you all! Jake, you are in charge."
"Love you too, Mom," Alan called out.
"Bye, Mom," Charlie muttered.
"Bye, Grandma," Jake said.
The front door clicked shut. Berta, who had been leaning against the doorframe wiping a coffee mug, let out a dry chuckle. "Relatives, huh? Can't live with them, can't turn them in for the reward."
"Unbelievable," Charlie sighed, rubbing his temples at the logistical nightmare his mother had just dropped on his lap.
"Don't worry about it," Jake said nonchalantly, tapping away on his laptop. "I already know a professional caterer. He did a fantastic job at James Stiller's holiday party."
Charlie blinked, looking confused. "Who the hell is James Stiller?"
"Your lawyer," Jake replied without looking up.
"My lawyer? I don't have a lawyer," Charlie said.
"You have three on retainer," Jake clarified, as if it were public knowledge.
"Three?!" Charlie's voice jumped an octave, his confusion rapidly turning into a mild panic. "Why on earth would I need three lawyers?"
Jake finally paused, looking up from his screen with a deadpan expression. "Well, who do you think quietly solved the SEC problem last month?"
Charlie's jaw dropped. "The SEC is suing me?!"
"Nobody is suing nobody," Jake said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "It was just a brief investigation into your offshore shell companies. Don't worry about it, I handled it. Just call the caterer."
True to Jake's word, the professional catering team arrived at the beach house the very next morning to begin their advance preparations.
Because a high-end event required extensive logistics, the head chef spent the week executing a strict prep schedule.
Five days before the party, the caterer conducted a full kitchen audit, measuring Charlie's ovens and mapping out the electrical capacity for their portable warming racks.
By Wednesday, high-grade ingredients were being sourced: fresh Pacific seafood was reserved at the docks, and specialized microgreens were ordered from organic greenhouses.
By Friday afternoon, the team had already begun to utilize the beach house kitchen to prepare the labor-intensive elements, including reducing complex sauces, curing meats, and pre-baking the delicate pastry shells.
When next Sunday finally arrived, the transformation of the beach house was staggering. The caterer had set up a flawless, high-end culinary experience that perfectly matched Evelyn's aristocratic expectations.
As the real estate elite swarmed the deck in their formal wear, white-gloved servers glided through the crowd carrying polished silver trays packed with sophisticated appetizers:
Bacon-Wrapped Dates Stuffed with artisanal goat cheese and drizzled with a rich balsamic reduction.
Miniature Beef Wellingtons; Flaky, golden puff pastries housing tender, perfectly rare beef and a rich mushroom duxelles.
Chilled Cucumber Cups that were carved precisely and filled with a refreshing herbed crab salad.
At the center of the living room sat a massive, carved ice sculpture shaped like a luxury mansion, melting slowly into a drained basin while cradling hundreds of oysters on the half-shell. Near the bar, a dedicated champagne fountain cascaded effortlessly into stacks of crystal flutes.
Alan stood near the buffet, looking deeply uncomfortable in his suit, while Charlie was currently drinking at the bar.
Jake, meanwhile, stood off to the side in his custom Calvin Klein suit, entirely satisfied with how clean his corporate write-offs were looking.