Chapter 8

8

TRISTAN

As the house settles into a deep silence, its tranquility is a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my lungs. When I exit the bathroom after brushing my teeth, I linger outside Nina’s shut door. The wooden panels seem to stare at me accusingly.

Great, now even inanimate objects are judging me.

I glare back. I didn’t mean it , I want to yell.

Dylan passes me by on the way to his room and, taking in my guilty look, says, “Leave it, man. She’ll get over it.”

Easy for him to say. He’s not the one who mortally offended his sister.

I give him a nod, but I can’t shake off the night’s events—the Charades fiasco, especially. Why did I have to guess elephant when she acted out big ears? Even if she meant sound, that still looked like a pachyderm imitation to me. I genuinely didn’t want to gall Nina, but the hurt in her eyes, that wounded pride, it claws at me. Same as a cat to a new sofa—unrelenting and leaving a mark.

After Dylan disappears into his room, I let out a sigh and my shoulders slump. Maybe it would be wiser to leave this until morning, but my feet stay rooted in front of Nina’s door as if they’ve made their own decision.

Compelled by this inexplicable mix of guilt and the recent, irresistible pull I feel toward her, I raise my hand, hesitating for a moment before softly knocking on her door.

Gosh, what am I, a lovesick teenager?

I don’t even know what I’m hoping for. For a chance to explain? To apologize? Sadly, I’m granted neither. Only silence greets me back, the barrier between us more than just physical.

“Nina?” I try, half-expecting the door to open and for a book to fly through and hit me square in the face.

But nothing.

I sigh, whispering an apology into the void. “I’m sorry.” The words feel as heavy as the air around me, laden with remorse and a building sense of longing that complicates everything.

Still no response. I drop the flat of my palm on the door, the weight of our unresolved tension as tangible as the wood beneath my fingertips.

After a few more moments of sharp silence, I give up. But as I retreat to my room, my mind still races. The quiet of the night amplifies every thought, every what-if. I sit on the bed and stare at the wall I share with Nina. Knowing that her headboard is on the other side does little to ease my nerves. It’s a cruel reminder of the physical closeness and emotional distance that now defines us.

Sleep is a battle tonight. I toss and turn, then lie flat on my back. The room is dark, but my eyes are wide open, tracing the familiar shapes of the furniture like negatives in a photograph. It’s as if I’m waiting for something, anticipating some sign that she might forgive me or at least acknowledge my existence. Finally, my body gives in to exhaustion and I start to drift off.

Just as I’m about to surrender to the weary darkness, a shrill beep pierces the stillness. Groggily, I fumble around on the nightstand, expecting to find my phone, but my hand closes over a small, cold object. It’s a Casio watch, its face glowing mockingly in the dark.

Confusion turns to irritation as I flip on the night light and silence the timepiece. Dylan’s dad notoriously collects these watches, but he keeps them in a cabinet in his studio. Unless they’ve grown legs and developed a taste for midnight strolls, there’s no way the Casio ended up here by mistake. A prank? A watch going off in the middle of the night feels like a deliberate jab. Subtle, Nina. Very subtle. I stare daggers at the wall behind me.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tossing the vintage chronometer on the carpet.

The watch lands with a soft thud. I feel a momentary pang of guilt for mistreating Mr. Thompson’s collection. But, honestly, he has only his daughter to thank for any mishandling of his watches. I mean, she weaponized them against me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. That woman.

I settled back down under the covers. Once again wide awake. Mind churning.

At least she’s not ignoring me? Silver linings, Tristan.

I’m not even sure if I’m more irritated she’s retaliating or glad. Barely an hour later, I have my answer as a second alarm shatters the quiet.

This time, I’m on my feet, scanning the room with bleary eyes. The sound leads me to the bookshelf, where another watch is wedged between two novels, its beep taunting me from the shadows. I read the titles on the spines: Paradise Lost by John Milton and Bram Stoker’s Dracula . Of course, she’d pick an epic poem featuring Satan as a central character and a classic tale with a bloodsucking monster as a protagonist. Nina is more hammer than feather when making a point.

“This is child’s play,” I grumble, although there’s a part of me that admires the ingenuity and ruthlessness of her plan. Note to self: Never underestimate a woman with a bone to pick. Especially if that woman is Nina Thompson and the grievance is with me.

The third alarm at 2a.m. has me questioning my sanity and Nina’s. We’re officially in a Casio Cold War. It takes me a while to locate the source this time. The beeping comes from inside the closet, muffled underneath a pile of blankets. As I dig through the mess, I find the watch, its alarm relentless. “Okay, Nina, game on,” I sigh, the challenge clear, even if the hour is ungodly.

She wants the gloves to come off? I can take them off. And to think of all the time I wasted feeling sorry for her tonight or guilty. I shouldn’t have. Nina Thompson is a force of chaos, a whirlwind of revenge, and it’s impossible for me not to feel a twinge of pride at her boldness. She’s like a tiny, angry Fury come straight out of a Greek mythology book. A deity of vengeance who punishes crimes hidden in a gorgeous female body.

Despite the hour and the sleep that I’m not getting, there’s an odd sense of exhilaration in this silent war between us.

By the time four thirty rolls around, I’ve found two more Casio watches. One taped under the desk, a spot I only discovered after minutes of confused searching. And the other directly under my pillow. Not the kind of pillow talk I’m interested in.

I’m impressed and infuriated in equal measure. “She’s outdone herself,” I admit through gritted teeth, the realization that I’m losing this silent battle settling in.

I retrieve the last watch just before dawn breaks. When I find it tucked inside my shoe, I shake my head in disbelief, exhaustion tugging at me. Still, as I collapse onto the bed, wonderment seeps into my bones. That she’s gone through so much trouble to get back at me shows, even if in a twisted way, that she cares.

Maybe not how I want her to, but it’s something. Full-blown hatred is better than indifference. It means I still know how to push her buttons. And I’m not sure why, but this Christmas I don’t seem able to keep my hands off the console.