“Some manners,” she shot back.
Dimitri made a noise of disgust. “I was kinda hoping for a PS5.”
“Then maybe you should’ve sat on Santa’s lap,” Calliope said without looking at him.
Lola snorted, pulling out the Christmas dishes that went with their Santa coffee mugs. “For a PS5, you should have given him a lap dance.”
“That’s not fair,” Dimitri said, pointing accusingly with his spoon. “Y’all are rich and you live out here like Mennonites.What could you possibly need all that money for?”
“For Arlo’s gifts, of course,” Calliope said benevolently, shooting a smile his way.
“I don’t need anything, Mom,” Arlo said, voice earnest in that way that always made her chest ache a little.
Lola leaned into his space and snuck another kiss to his cheek. “And that’s why we spoil you. You’re grateful. Unlike some people.”
“I can’t help it,” Dimitri said, pooching out his lower lip. “I was born this way.”
“So was August,” Cricket said dryly. “But he’s always gracious.”
“I’d be gracious too if I was a billionaire,” Dimitri shot back, his voice rising in pitch at the end. “Give me some money and I’ll prove it.”
Calliope shook her head. He used to be such a somber kid. Watchful. Measuring. Always assessing the room before deciding who he needed to be in it. He was an excellent actor. He’d faked his way into the cool kids’ clique in high school, had charmed the admissions board at his university, was one of the only freshmen who’d been actively sought out by his fraternity. He’d learned early how to perform likability like a survival skill. But when he wasn’t performing, he’d always been kind of quiet. Still. Coiled. Waiting.
That was what had always worried Calliope, that feeling that at some point that spring would snap.
All that changed when Arlo came back into his life. It was like someone had flipped a switch, gave him permission to just…be.
“You’d be a monster if you had money,” Cricket countered. “There would be documentaries made about what a humongous cock-weasel you were—songs, ballads, limericks, true crime podcasts?—”
“Nobody likes you when you’re pregnant,” Dimitri said, fake pout firmly in place.
“Nobody likes you ever,” she shot back, making a face before sticking out her tongue.
Dimitri snorted. “Untrue. Everyone loves me.”
“Everyone loves Arlo,” Lola said with a smile, patting Dimitri’s cheek. “They tolerate you.”
“Why is everyone defending her and attackingme?” Dimitri demanded. “She called me a cock-weasel—whatever the fuck that is. When are they gonna go in there and extract that little parasite anyway?”
It was a testament to how exhausted Cricket was that she let that slide, only saying, “Hopefully soon, since my son seems to think I’m an elephant and not a human. If they don’t get him out soon, be prepared for another fourteen months of me being an absolute thundercunt.”
“Did someone give you, like, a creative insult-of-the-day calendar?” Arlo asked, eyes wide with genuine curiosity.
“No,” Dimitri said solemnly. “It’s the demon inside her taking over.”
She flipped him off. He returned the gesture with interest. She rolled her eyes. He made a face. It was like watching two raccoons fight over a shiny object.
Calliope shook her head, exasperated but fond. “Enough. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
They acted like siblings. Chaotic. Unfiltered. Loud in a way that only came from deep comfort. It was so strange the way all their lives had intersected. They were close enough in age, far closer than either of them were to Calliope or Lola.
“So,” Dimitri said, appearing over her shoulder once more, “whatdidyou get me?”
“What did you get me?” she countered. “Hm?”
“Uh…”
“That’s right. You don’t know. Because Arlo does all the Christmas shopping and you just slap your name on it.”
