Chapter 7

7

NINA

As I stomp downstairs after my brother, rage against the unwanted houseguest resurfaces, bubbling inside me with every step. How dare he ruin the best time of the year? I usually love Charades night, but not when I have to share my family with him.

At the bottom of the stairs, loud voices come from the kitchen. Uncle Milo and his family must’ve gone in for a taste of Mom’s famous pecan pie. Wanting an extra minute of quiet, I deviate to the living room.

A poor choice. As I enter the room, I find Tristan alone in there, leaning against the fireplace, one arm braced over the mantel, staring into the crackling fire. With the flickering flames illuminating his beautiful features in a dance of light and shadows, his cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw even more defined, and his eyes an unsettled storm that threatens to knock the wind out of me. I shake off the unwanted admiration and march up to him.

“You,” I snarl, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I know it was you.”

He glances at me, eyes glinting with satisfaction. The smug curl of his lips makes it clear he’s been awaiting my reaction. “Know what was me?”

“The raisin. In my water glass. You put it there somehow.”

He arches a brow. “Oh, is that what all the fuss was about, a raisin? You scare easily, Thompson.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Montgomery .” I jab his chest with my finger—bad idea. I almost chip a fingernail on the solid wall of muscles. “I know your tricks. How did you do it? There’s no way it was in there when you poured in the water.”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “In the water? No, you’re right.”

He stares at me intensely. I might have melted under someone else’s gaze, but his unapologetic blue stare is as infuriating as it is captivating, and still allows my brain cogs to turn. “You mean it was in the ice ? But…” I scowl at him as comprehension dawns, anger battling with reluctant admiration for the cunning simplicity of his prank. “You froze it in an ice cube, didn’t you? Like a slow time-release bomb. That’s why the ice was only half done.”

He gives a noncommittal shrug, the picture of innocence.

Am I imagining it, or is there a glint of something more than just amusement in his blue eyes?

Before I can argue or speculate further, Mom comes into the living room, carrying the Charades box. She rattles it as a makeshift call to arms.

Tristan pushes off the mantel, coming close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, a silent reminder he’s always there, watching and waiting to strike again.

“This isn’t over,” I mutter under my breath.

A soft chuckle in my ear sends a tingle zipping up my spine. “Where would the fun be otherwise?”

Tristan goes to sit on the couch next to Dylan, but I stay close to the fireplace, needing the extra warmth after the chills the Prince of Darkness sent down my arms.

The rest of the family slowly files into the living room. Uncle Milo, first, then Agatha with Teddy in her arms. Zoe barrels into me with the enthusiasm only a nine-year-old can muster, nearly knocking me over into the hearth. I catch myself and laugh, pulling her into a hug.

I give Agatha a much more mature kiss on the cheeks as we squeeze a delighted Teddy between us. The toddler is still laughing as Eric comes closer to ruffle my hair in that brotherly way he picked up from Dylan when they became fast friends. The room fills with laughter and the warmth of family.

“Alright, folks, time to pick teams!” Mom announces with her signature school teacher authority no one dares to challenge.

Everyone settles somewhere on the floor or perched on furniture. Mom passes around the satchel for us to put our names in. The black velvet sack, soft and slightly worn at the seams, has been a silent witness to many holiday cheers and family squabbles. We each take a turn, scribbling our names on slips of paper, folding them into secretive little squares, and dropping them into the depths of the small bag. The anticipation is palpable, as alliances are about to be forged and rivalries momentarily set aside.

The room hushes as Mom, with a dramatic flourish, begins to draw names. “Team One,” she announces, her voice echoing with the weight of ceremony. “Uncle Milo…” A cheer goes up from the corner where Uncle Milo sits, his wooly ugly sweater a riot of festive colors. “Agatha…” My cousin gives a little wave, her grin bright. “Nina…” I nod, keeping a pleasant smile on my face, hoping my competitive edge isn’t already showing, even as I inwardly cringe. Uncle Milo is the worst at party games, especially Charades. I really didn’t want him on my team.

My stomach knots as Mom’s hand delves into the satchel again. We can’t have another poor player. I want Dylan. “Tristan,” she calls out instead.

The name hangs in the air, a cruel fate I can’t escape. I turn to look at him, our eyes locking in a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected twist. His grin is infuriatingly confident. He’d better back up all that cockiness with a degree in miming. Already being on the same team with Tristan feels like being asked to dance with a cobra—dangerous and sleazy. I don’t need him to also be a lousy player.

I suppress a curse. Now I can’t even hope to blow his team to smithereens with my superior Charades skills. Instead, I’m shackled to him, our victory dependent on mutual cooperation. The irony isn’t lost on me, nor is the fact that this might be Mom’s subtle way of forcing a holiday truce. I’ve suspected her of cheating at team-picking for years. Of course, I have no proof nor any idea how she could do it.

“Play nice, you two,” Dylan warns, his protective big brother’s gaze flitting between us.

I smile viciously brightly. “I’d worry more about not having my ass handed to me if I were you.” I mimic an L on my forehead.

Before Dylan can reply, Dad claps his hands, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “Excellent! The teams are set. Who wants to go first?”

“We will pick by chance like we always do, Greg ,” my mom scolds him. She drops the names back into the satchel and picking one out, announces, “Tristan, you mimic first.”

I suppress an inner groan. Despite the swagger, he probably sucks, and we have zero chances of winning.

The Prince of Darkness picks up his card and stands in the middle of the room. As soon as Mom turns the hourglass, he pretends to crank an old-fashioned movie camera.

“Movie,” Agatha shouts.

Tristan nods.

Before even telling us how many words are in the title, Tristan starts punching the air.

“ Creed ,” Agatha guesses.

Tristan waves past his shoulder as if to say older.

“ Kung Fu Panda ?” I ask.

He vehemently shakes his head while still fighting an invisible opponent. Is he trying to actively sabotage us?

“Well, don’t just stand there like that punching at nothing,” I snap. “Mimic something else.”

Tristan gives me a scathing look but stops the kickboxing workout. He thinks for a second and then mimics pulling on a cord as if to sound a bell.

We all watch him, perplexed.

“ Selling Sunset ?” I venture. Those gals surely don’t pull punches and they ring lots of bells.

Tristan scolds me as if meaning not even close . Yeah, that’s a TV show—my bad. He’s throwing me off my game. Agatha and I stare at each other, then at Uncle Milo, who only raises his hands, saying, “I’m a pacifist.”

And then time runs out. We lost our first point.

“It was Rocky ,” Tristan declares.

I’m not sure how I would’ve mimed that, but it surely would’ve been better. I draw in a long inhale, trying to keep my cool as we continue the game. The rounds pass in a blur of laughter and confusion. Each team takes its turn, the air thick with competitive tension and the occasional cheer when guesses hit the mark. I struggle to concentrate on the game as the awareness of Tristan’s proximity tugs at the edges of my focus, an unwelcome distraction.

Our eyes meet for a brief moment, inciting a mix of frustration and attraction. He’s always been able to get under my skin.

“Okay, it’s your turn, Nina!” Dylan announces, bringing me back to the present.

I draw a card from the pile, The Sound of Music . Excitement rushes through me. This one should be easy enough to enact.

I signal it’s a movie. Even Uncle Milo can guess this part by now. Then make a four with my fingers to signal the title is four words and a two to signify that I’m starting with the second word.

Keeping my hair down because I’m still standing before the Prince of Darkness, I cup my hand behind my ear, a universal sign for listening or sound.

“Ear!” Teddy shouts, and I shake my head.

I keep cupping my ear, but no one guesses anything. Oh, screw Tristan and his mocking, I pull my hair behind my ear and fully cup it in a listening gesture, pointing at what goes inside, hoping they’ll get it’s sound.

But I’m promptly rewarded for showing vulnerability when Tristan confidently calls out, “Elephant!”

The room falls silent for a split second. The word looms over our heads, heavy with implication. My blood boils, making my cheeks flame with embarrassment. The playful atmosphere suddenly transforms into a pressure cooker of emotions for me. I can’t take it anymore. Years of grievances and mocking bubble to the surface.

“Really, Tristan? Elephant?” I glare at him, unable to contain my anger. “What movie did you have in mind with Elephants?”

“ Water for Elephants ?” He seems taken aback by my reaction.

“That’s a three-word title, and I was mimicking a four-word one and I specified it was the second word.”

“No, you’re right, sorry, keep going.”

“Why? So you can make fun of my ears some more? You might’ve as well guessed Dumbo .”

“What?” His jaw drops. “Wait, Nina, that’s not what I—” Tristan tries to explain, his eyes widening with surprise.

But all I can hear is the rush of blood to my head and the echo of Tristan’s mocking guess.

“Save it, Tristan,” I snap, cutting him off. “I’m sick of your little jabs and constant teasing.”

“Guys, come on, let’s just calm down and finish the game,” Dylan interjects, attempting to defuse the situation.

But my mind is racing, replaying every snarky comment and hurtful joke Tristan has made over the years. I feel like no one truly understands how cruel he can be, and I refuse to be his punching bag any longer.

“Look, Nina, I wasn’t trying to make fun of you,” Tristan insists, his expression a blend of exasperation and concern. “I genuinely thought your clue was about an elephant.”

“Right, because mimicking listening clearly means ‘elephant,’” I retort sarcastically. My blood continues to boil, burning a path through my veins as I remember thirteen-year-old me, crushed in a corner and crying after he mocked my ears.

Tristan still looks shocked, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s searching for the right thing to say. “I—I genuinely didn’t mean it like that. I just said the first thing that came to mind.”

“I don’t believe you. You always do this,” I accuse, my voice rising with each word. “You always have to make it personal, don’t you?”

“Come on, Nina,” Mom chimes in, “you’re overreacting. I’m sure Tristan didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Overreacting?” My stomach twists into a pretzel of annoyance, except this one has been soaked in gasoline and set on fire. I clench my fists. “This isn’t some isolated incident. He’s been tormenting me for years!”

“Okay, everyone just needs to take a deep breath,” Dylan suggests, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. My brother is trying to mediate, but all I want is for someone, anyone, to recognize that Tristan is acting in bad faith.

“Maybe you should’ve taken a breath before you invited Satan over for Christmas,” I accuse.

“Nina, stop!” Mom yells. “I haven’t raised you to be rude to our guests.”

“Fine!” I exclaim, stomping away. “You all enjoy your precious game night. I’m going to my room.”

As I march away, I feel their eyes following me, judging and whispering. I’m aware of how petulant and childish I must seem, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when every part of me is screaming to get away, to find a space where I can breathe, where I don’t have to face Tristan or his cutting jokes.

Nobody seems to understand how Dylan’s best friend has made it his life’s mission to hound me. But I won’t stick around for another serving of his ridicule, not this time. I’m done.

“Wait, Nina,” Tristan calls out, but I ignore him and continue my march to the sanctuary of my bedroom. I slam the door shut, and finally, tears prick at the corners of my eyes. One thing is certain—he’s going to pay for this.