Page 6 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“Congratulations?”It comes out like a question.Or possibly a warning.Honestly, even I’m not sure.
“Wow.Don’t sound too excited.”
“I’m thrilled,” I say, shooting for heartfelt and landing somewhere between legally obligated and moderately inconvenienced.
“You might be the worst brother in the entire world.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” I mutter, glancing at the blinking Zoom invite that’s about to eat the next hour of my life.“Look, I have a meeting in five.If you send me your registry, I’ll have my assistant?—”
“I didn’t call for a present,” she snaps.“This is a major milestone, and I wanted to share it with you.”
A beat passes.I know this beat.It’s the pregnant pause of a Thorn family reveal.It starts off gentle—innocent even—but always ends with me holding a tux and a non-refundable plane ticket.
“Also ...”I let the word hang there like a chandelier in an earthquake.“This isn’t just a check-the-box update, is it?”
“Well,” she says, her voice sliding into that deceptively breezy tone she uses right before the trap springs, “just a heads-up—our mother is planning an engagement party.She might want you there.”
There it is.The other stiletto has been thrown.
And, of course, I can’t say what I’m actually thinking, which is: I do not have time for this.Not emotionally.Not spiritually.Not even logistically.
But I’ve already taken three hits on this call.I’m not about to hand her a fourth.
Should I remind Daisy that I barely survived the last Thorn family event?Probably not, and let’s not forget that it was just brunch in New York.A casual Sunday where our mother judged my life choices between bites of poached pear and passive aggression.
And now Daisy wants me to willingly fly into the heart of the social tornado?For a party that’ll be less “celebration of love” and more like ...well, probably an intervention with appetizers.
I rub my temple, like maybe—just maybe—I can physically massage the nonsense out of my life.My therapist says I need firmer boundaries.My mother says I need firmer commitments.Only one of them has a degree in clinical psychology.The other runs a small empire of monogrammed doom and believes therapy is what you do after a facial.
It’s not that I don’t care.I care so much it makes my skin itch.But there’s a difference between caring for and surviving a Thorn family production.One is affection.The other is combat training, with a seating chart set strategically to weaken the enemy.
Winnifred complains about her family all the time like mine is some wholesome New England postcard.She thinks the Thorns are the picture of perfection.
They’re not.
Is there a feud between our families?Technically, yes.But not because her brother dumped my sister or vice versa.That was just a bonus episode.It all started when my family bought Snowberry Meadows from Mr.Alden.A flower farm and heirloom seed sanctuary.Who wants that?Apparently, we did.And so did they.Cue the awkward tension.Add in a disputed patch of land where their orchard bleeds into our property line, and voilà—generational pettiness in bloom.
Honestly, I didn’t even know about the rivalry until Winnifred moved next door and began throwing shade like it was fertilizer.Then I learned that her parents aren’t just competitive with their crops.They’re competitive with their kids.Parenting as an Olympic sport.Gold medals in guilt—which I doubt will compare to Mother’s Catholic guilt, but I won’t digress.
“Right,” I say slowly, returning to the conversation before Daisy notices I mentally walked out the back door.“So you’re telling me this is optional in the same way jury duty is optional.”
She makes a noise that lands somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.“It’s just one weekend, Soren.”
“Sure, it’s one weekend,” I mutter, already picturing the disaster, “but it’s going to be hell.We’ll be in Winterberry with our mother and her emotional landmines disguised as caring.Like a small-town romantic comedy directed by Hitchcock.”
“Be nice, Soren.”
“I’m fucking charming.”
“Oh, God,” she groans, “you’re the tragic version of a romantic lead.You’re like a Ryan Gosling character but emotionally unavailable and allergic to joy.”
“Why would you want a tragedy lurking around your happiest weekend?”I fire off a quick message to a client, telling him I’ll be five minutes late—ten if my emotional bandwidth crashes.“I might be out of the country anyway.”
“Tragic or not,” she says, her voice softening like she’s trying another strategy to convince her to go to her engagement party, “you’re still my big brother.And I wanted you to be happy for me.Not ...horrified.”
I clear my throat.“I’m not horrified.I’m just—processing.”
And I am.Because truthfully, I’m happy for her.Or at least I will be once I unclench.Maybe this engagement means our mother will finally focus on planning a wedding instead of planning my future.Maybe she’ll harass Daisy about grandchildren instead of dropping veiled comments about my nonexistent love life during every family dinner.
