Chapter 1: The Show-Off’s Big Idea

At the party, Derek—the resident show-off—decided it was time for a grand gesture. He leaned back in his chair at Applebee’s, arms flung wide, grinning like he was about to announce the Super Bowl halftime show. The bass from the speakers rattled the plates, colored lights flashed, and the air smelled like a collision of cheap beer and leftover mozzarella sticks. Yet, he sounded dead serious.

"Hey, fellas, how about this? Us guys cover the bill, let the ladies eat for free. Come on, it’s nothing. Let’s treat them right."

He pitched it loud enough for the next table to hear—probably hoping they would. Some of the other guys exchanged looks; a couple shrugged, others focused hard on their wings. I wished I’d just stayed home microwaving a burrito, avoiding this trainwreck altogether.

The girls all let out a cheer. "You’re the best, Derek!" One tapped her glass and the others joined in, raising a noisy little chorus. It was part gratitude, part playing along, but I could spot the hidden smirks. Someone lobbed a napkin at him. Another girl giggled behind her hand. For a split second, it all felt like the opening scene of a sitcom.

Derek puffed up like he’d just made varsity. He tipped his chair back, chest out, grinning like he’d just scored the winning touchdown at homecoming. I could practically see him rehearsing this in the mirror before he left the house.

"I’ve never made a girl pay, not once. Honestly, I wanted to pick up the whole tab, but you know—I gotta let the guys keep their dignity. Right?"

He was loving his own voice. The words echoed, a little too loud and way too pleased. I caught one of the guys rubbing his temples, another swirling his drink like he wanted to dive in and disappear.

Suddenly, the whole table went quiet.

You could feel the tension settle in—forks paused midair, someone cleared their throat, and a few of the guys suddenly became obsessed with their fantasy football stats. The room felt hushed, like the night was just waiting for someone to snap.

I thought for a second, then reached over to give Derek a friendly pat on the shoulder, hoping to break the ice.

I tried to keep it breezy—a little nudge, a half-smile. The idea was to tease, not escalate. Sometimes, you have to play the big brother, keep the peace before things explode.

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? Maybe slow down on the drinks?"

I kept my tone light, the corners of my mouth turned up. Maybe, just maybe, I could keep things from spiraling.

He yanked his shoulder away so fast he nearly sent his beer flying. His glare was sharp and mean—like I’d just insulted his entire bloodline on live TV.

"Cut it out. You got the biggest year-end bonus—don’t tell me you can’t handle this?"

The sarcasm was thick, his words slow and deliberate for maximum effect. He wanted everyone to hear. The confidence was brittle now, almost desperate.

"Man, you’re really something else. No wonder you never get invited out."

He tossed the line out like a grenade, giving a single, self-satisfied nod before turning away. The insult just hung there, heavy as a judge’s gavel. A couple folks hid their laughs, but most of us just stared at our plates, wishing the moment would pass—but knowing it wouldn’t.