Page 52 of Fake It for Christmas

I snorted. “A decades-long feud about a refrigerator?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ethel wanted Betty to give her an old one, but Betty wanted to keep it for her garage as a second fridge… or maybe Betty wanted to give it to a neighbor, but ended up keeping it? I can’t remember the exact details.”

“...And that made them not speak forthirtyyears?”

“One thing led to another,” Shane said. “The refrigerator made Ethel think Betty hated her, but Ethel didn’t know that Betty was in a tough marriage. She was criticized by her husband for everything she did, fridge choices included. So much was unspoken for so long, but after years of healing… the truth eventually came out. The truth heals everything, I guess.”

My throat was suddenly tight.

It snuck up on me. Just a moment ago I’d been laughing about the old ladies’ feud, but Shane’s words hit me like a wallop to the chest.

The truth heals everything.

I wanted to tell him the truth. So badly. I wanted to let him know that secretly I was grieving the loss of my old life—hell, grieving the loss of my parents as loving figures in my life entirely.

But how could I talk about that on a night that was supposed to be his special night?

Why was talking about myselfat allso fucking difficult for me?

“Yeah,” I finally said, coming back to Earth.

He waved a hand through the air. “Eh, maybe I’m wrong, though,” Shane said. “Sometimes the truth doesn’t heal things.Sometimes it really justhurts. And… well, I think it’s time for another cocktail, how about you?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. Another drink sounds amazing.”

When we went into the bar area at the edge of the dining room, a round of hooting and hollering was already emanating from the corner beside the liquor bottles. We walked over to see Shane’s parents and sister all with red liquor in shot glasses, ready to toss them back.

“There they are!” Shane’s mom said, reaching out to grab my hand and pull us in closer. “Join us for the fifth annual game of Straight Face.”

“Oh, no,” Shane said as he stepped up, joining the circle.

“Now, these are cocktail shots,” Mariel explained. “So don’t worry too much if you lose. It’s not pure liquor.”

“And youwillbe losing, a lot, after what I put in the hat,” Shane’s dad said.

“How do I play?” I asked.

“We asked everyone around the party to write down funny, crazy, or raunchy things on slips of paper,” Shane’s mom explained. “We all have to reach in, pull them out, and read them out loud in a British accent. Anyone who smiles or laughs has to take a shot.”

“Wait, this is unfair,” Shane protested. “Rowen is a professional actor. He’s probably practiced not laughing a billion times.”

“I have practiced not breaking in front of a camera,” I admitted, “but I’ve never been all that good at it, to be honest.”

Mariel gave me a sideways glance. “But are you telling the truth aboutthat?Shit, you never can tell with a good actor, can you?”

Everyone laughed, and I knew she’d been joking, but guilt pooled in my chest.

I was so tired of it.

Tired of being a good actor, honestly. I just wanted to fucking be myself—completely, fully myself—and not stop to wonder if I shouldn’t.

A quiet storm built up inside me, but I shoved it away. I grabbed one of the tiny glasses of red cocktail and held it up.

“Ready to play.”

We started the first round of the game. Shane pulled out the first slip of paper, his eyes glancing over it. Instantly, he snorted a laugh.

“Shane already lost and he hasn’t evenreadthe damn thing!” his dad said.

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