Cyrus breathes out, resigned. “We should get ready.”
“For what?” I ask.
He glances toward the door, where the first wave of relatives is already filing inside.
“For pretending last night didn’t happen,” he murmurs.
But when his hand grazes mine as we turn toward the tree, the truth is obvious.
Neither of us is pretending at all.
SIX
CYRUS
Dinner isn’t even served yet and I already know things are going to go sideways.
Dahlia’s on my left, trying to calmly refill a serving bowl without making eye contact with anyone. Her hand still brushes mine every few minutes like she forgot how not to touch me.
Molly is on her second wind, energized by pure holiday adrenaline and maybe two bites of a sugar cookie. Bradley keeps hovering like he’s ready to catch her if she tips.
My mother keeps glancing between me and Dahlia like she’s solving a puzzle.
My father is poking at the ham like it personally offended his principles.
Bradley is in the corner trying to unstick a string of lights from a chair he accidentally sat on.
And I haven’t even had a chance to eat anything because everyone keeps asking me where the trivets are or whether the oven runs hot or why the mashed potatoes taste different this year.
“It’s the butter,” my mother whispers to me. “You didn’t use enough.”
“I used a normal amount,” I whisper back.
“No such thing. Christmas potatoes need excess.”
I rub my temple.
Then Bradley clears his throat. The sound rings out like a gavel.
“So,” he says, leaning back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Seems like everyone’s a little… lively tonight. Maybe we should go around the table and share holiday highs and lows.”
“Absolutely not,” Molly murmurs.
“Oh, come on.” Bradley bumps her shoulder. “Your family loves structured conversation.”
“Not this structured.”
The chatter picks up again, and for a moment I think we’re safe. That maybe we’ll make it through dinner without the whole table figuring out that Dahlia and I basically set the cabin on fire last night.
Then my Aunt Lydia gestures toward the decorations. “The place looks beautiful this year, Cyrus. You finally deciding to care?”
Dahlia stiffens beside me.
“She helped,” I say quickly.
“Oh?” Aunt Lydia’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dahlia helped you decorate?”
The room goes quiet in a way that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
