“There he is!” exclaimed Clark.

John’s brother was as square-jawed and muscular as ever, handsoming up the room with his stupid blonde hair and stupid romanesque nose. He wore a snug-fitting Frosty the Snowman sweater, though Frosty’s carrot and two coals were definitely in the wrong place.

“Just wake up from a nap?” he asked, smiling in that way women had always seemed to love.

“Something like that,” John muttered.

He stood there, slouching, greasy locks over his eyes, awkwardly scanning for somewhere to sit.

Everything was Christmasy now. The high-ceilinged expanse of the Robbie living room had sprouted fake holly and Santa Clause figurines since John’s last visit. A towering, blue-needled tree with gold and silver ornaments dominated one corner like the Tower of Sauren, its golden angel on top seeming to scour the living room for hobbits.

John could not see them, but he knew the dumb ornaments he and his siblings made in elementary school - like clay-baked reindeer and green balls covered in glue-lumped glitter - were hung on the wall-facing side, where they wouldn’t disturb the aesthetic.

You disturb the aesthetic, you fucking slob, whispered the voice at the back of John’s mind.

Unlike John’s apartment living room, this one boasted no television. His parents didn’t believe in screens, except for working. You stare at a screen all day because you’re incapable of working. An L-shaped couch of sandy leather and three chairs surrounded a glass coffee table, all arranged in strategic proximity to a gas-powered fireplace. Hanging above the smooth, orange flames were five stockings embroidered with initials. Bet they’d love to toss that J. R. one into the fire.

John’s mother scooted over and patted an edge cushion of the couch.

“Come sit by me,” she said. “We’ve got a couple of characters to introduce you to.”

It took a moment for John to register her meaning of character - as in, person with an interesting personality - as opposed to an NPC. He yearned to get back to Nordic Runes. He could be in the Uldwyld Ruins right now…

“Little brother,” Clark said, “This is my fiance, Claire - the gorgeous woman I conned into marrying me. Claire, this is little brother.”

“Hi John,” said the woman inside Clark’s proud, one-armed embrace, “I’m Claire, nice to meet you.”

She was as perfect-looking as Clark, of fucking course, with thick, wavy hair and a deep-golden complexion suggesting mixed-race heredity - contrasting with the fully caucasian mutt genes of the Robbie family. Her fruitcake-themed Christmas sweater tried to be ugly, but on her, it failed.

John smiled and nodded. Clark pointed to the other person John didn’t know.

“And this young lady over here-”

“I’ll introduce my own girlfriend, thank you very much,” Vanessa said, scowling playfully. Like John’s mother, her features were lean and avian, and she’s sported a literal Charlie Brown sweater but green with a red squiggly instead of yellow with a black one.

“You've got a lot of nerve wearing that sweater, jerkface” she said, with a smile so warm it burned him. “It's wonderful to see you, John. I’d like you to meet my partner, Molly. John, Molly. Molly, John.”

“Hey,” says Molly, blank-faced, holding Vanessa’s hand in the space between their chairs.

Her jet-black hair had been striped with purple, and her fleshy cheeks and upturned nose suggested something vaguely porcine. Apparently, she hadn’t received the memo about bad Christmas sweaters, because she wore a graphic t-shirt and fashionably torn-up jeans.

“Hey,” John said in return, unintentionally matching her cadence. She grimaced. Did she think he was mocking her?

John’s father ostentatiously cleared his throat.

He sat in the largest chair, like a throne, with an Italian loafer crossed over a knee and a Glencairn glass of amber liquid in his hand. Shining, salt and pepper hair swept backward from a young man’s hairline, as though obeying his orders to lay flat, and the faintest trace of stubble shadowed gaunt cheeks. His sweater, like a jester breaking the tension of his serious air, declared “Jingle Balls!” in a goofy, crooked font.

“Now that everyone is here, finally,” he said, sparing a brief frown for John, “We can get on with this farce.”

“Is that any way to talk about our most sacred holiday tradition?” Clark replied. “A Robbie family Christmas without Christmas Eve charades is like Mom without a bottle of water.”

“Oh, ha ha,” John’s Mom said mockingly, a bottle of Aquafina wedged between her knees, “Hydration is critical to my good looks, I’ll have you know.”

“Sour grapes,” Vanessa said. “The old man got stomped last year, and his pride can’t take another beating.”

“As I recall,” their father replied, the sparkle in his eyes contrasting his apparent scowl, “There was a controversy involving the illegal use of onomatopoeia - which I still contest. I don’t know where you all learned charades - actually, I do, which makes it all the more strange - but nothing in the rules allows saying “honk honk” while pretending to drive.”

“It was a moot point!” Clark exclaimed, standing up and pointing vigorously. “It wasn’t even relevant to the clue! Don’t you sully my victory, Dad! I swear, any time I win something you have to lawyer it away with your-”

As usual, the banter went on around John while he sat, stupidly, and said nothing. Anything he considered contributing, the critic in his mind immediately vetoed as too cringey. John? Besides, anything he said would never fit smoothly into the flow of conversation - a.k.a. that mysterious choreography of human language everyone but him seemed to know. John? A long-buried frustration rose up inside, and like a sneaky time machine, John felt twelve again. John?

Something squeezed his thigh.

“John?” his mother asked, face tight with concern. “Would you like a drink?”

John’s face burned as he realized everyone was looking at him. He shook his head.

“Pay attention, son,” his father said, then grimaced and looked away, tipping Scotch into his mouth.

If John felt twelve before, his father’s favorite parenting refrain transported him the rest of the way there. How many times had he heard those three, shame-searing words? How many times a day?

“Is he, like, okay?”

Molly’s hand was cupped towards Vanessa, as if asking a private question, but it was easily loud enough for everyone to hear.

As Vanessa glared at her partner, clearly struggling with how to respond, Clark lifted up the upside-down cowboy hat that had been resting on the coffee table.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” he said, shaking the hat back and forth. “It will all be over soon.”

As he reached inside the hat, their mother held up a hand.

“Whoa there, bucko,” she said, “We haven’t even decided on teams yet. If you think I’m going to let you get away with “age versus youth” so you can outnumber us again, Clark Jeffrey, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Et tu, mater?” Clark asked in feigned betrayal, placing a hand over his heart.

“You two really are bitter about the shellacking you got from Clark, Claire and me last year, aren’t you?” Vanessa says.

“I hope ‘shellacking’ includes an asterisk,” their father interjected.

“Was your chubby brother not here last year or something?”

Molly’s question, again ostensibly discreet with a hand cupped towards Vanessa, was clearly audible to all. Something akin to acid reflux burned in John’s chest as he recalled where he was a year ago on Christmas Eve. He must have been across the driveway, alone in the apartment, smoking weed and playing video games. Like always. You are such a fucking loser.

John felt a firm but gentle pat on his thigh. His mother smiled tightly at him, swirling her wine a bit too fast.

Stop it, Vanessa mouthed to her girlfriend, who just shrugged.

“Okay, okay,” Clark declared, gesturing for quiet. “Let’s make it real simple. We’ll split up the two sore losers and go couch versus chairs. That means it’s me, Claire, Mom and John against Vanessa, Dad and Molly. Any objections?”

“Still trying to stack the deck in your favor,” Vanessa said, tsking.

“Who, me?”

Clark dramatically extracted a strip of paper and set the hat down, making a show of considering the clue as everyone shifted around to orient themselves towards where he stood in front of the fireplace. When they all appear settled, he picked up another anachronism from the Robbie family Christmas Eve tradition - a minute-glass - and flipped it over. The sand began to run.

“Movie,” their mother said as Clark mimicked the cranking of an old movie camera.

He nodded, then held up four fingers.

“Four words,” Claire said.

He held up two fingers.

“Second word.”

He pretended to stroke a long beard, then flicked an imaginary baton towards Claire.

“Conductor?” she guessed.

“Magician!” their mother shouted.

Clark nodded and rolled a finger to indicate they were on the right track.

“Ummm, Sword in the Stone,” she tried, swinging for the fences, “Harry Potter and the…”

“Wizard,” John said.

He hadn’t planned to participate, but out popped the word, all on its own.

“Wizard- The Wizard of Oz!” his mother exclaimed.

Clark pumped a triumphant fist and Claire whooped like she was at a basketball game. An unexpectedly pleasant sensation cascaded through John as his mother tugged him in for a one-armed embrace.

“Doctor’s in the house, John!” she said, squeezing him. “I am good at this!”

“Suck on that, losers,” Clark said, flicking his chin towards the other team as he sat beside a giggling Claire. “Team Couch one, Team Chairs goose egg.”

“Terrible,” Claire said as she rose, shaking her head. “So bad. It’s time for a real charader to show you fools how it’s done.”

When she extracted a paper slip of her own, her mouth curved into a confident smile. She mimics the opening of pages.

“Book,” John’s father said.

Nodding, Claire outlined a square in front of her and then runs an imaginary brush through her hair.

“Which word is this?” Molly asks.

Vanessa shook her head dismissively and continued the pretend hair brushing. After a few moments, she stepped forward and looked around in astonishment.

“Alice Through the Looking Glass,” their father stated, leaning back in obvious self-satisfaction.

“You see how easy it is?!” Vanessa exclaimed, punching the air towards Clark. “We don’t even have to try!”

“You’re supposed to act out the words,” Molly said. In contrast to her teammates, who both seemed quite pleased, her face was pinched in annoyance. “You acted out the entire clue. That’s not how charades works. I probably would have guessed it first if I knew what you were doing.”

“It’s just a game, Mol,” Vanessa soothed as she sat back down, extending a hand.

“Whatever,” Molly said, waving the hand away. “It’s a movie, anyway, not a book. We watched it together at your place, remember? Johnny Depp?”

“No,” John’s father corrected, “Alice Through the Looking Glass” is a novel written by Lewis Carol a century and a half ago. It was the sequel to Alice in Wonderland - which was also a book before it was a Johnny Depp movie - in case you didn’t know.”

“I did but thanks for mansplaining it to me,” Molly said.

John’s father snorted in derision.

When assholes collide, John heard Clark whisper to Claire.

I don’t think she knows what mansplaining means, Claire whispered back.

“Our turn,” John’s mother announced, a bit too loudly. “Mind if I take this one, Claire and John?”

As John and Claire shook their heads John’s mother began to stand, but she stopped when Molly spoke up.

“I think John should go,” she said.

Panic clamped John as all eyes looked to him. His mother, brother and sister looked mildly concerned, but his father’s expression was blank. No, John, that’s what contempt looks like. He fucking hates you. Molly, however, who was rapidly overtaking John’s father as his least favorite person in the room, watched John with a saccharin grin that never quite reached her heavily-shadowed eyes.

John quickly lowered his head, letting his unwieldy bangs form a curtain between himself and this rapidly deteriorating situation.

“I don’t think-” John’s mother began, but his father cut her off.

“No, no,” he said, waving a finger. “That’s a good idea. John should go. He wasn’t here last year, because he was too busy submitting resumes, I’m sure, so now he can make up for lost time. Maybe we can force a fifth word out of him before he disappears back into his little hole to live off our money.”

His father’s words, or, more precisely, the bitter hatred within them, battered down the armor surrounding something deep within. Shame, stinging and white-hot, raged forth and sizzled into all of John’s nooks and crannies. The scene before him became superimposed atop hundreds of others - classrooms, playgrounds, t-ball fields, auditoriums, churches, girlfriends’ bedrooms, movie theaters, restaurants, dorms - and the ghosts of a thousand failures whispered into his ear.

You are fucking worthless, John Robbie.

“Now’s not the time,” John’s mother said, steel underlying the polite rebuke as she nodded towards their guests.

“It’s never the time,” John’s father replied, matching her. “You’re enabling him, Sheila. You always have. I know you want me to sit here and pretend it’s okay for him to stare off into space while the rest of us converse like normal people, but I have my limits. When was the last time he bathed himself, for Christ’s sake?”

“Come on, Dad,” Vanessa said. “Don’t.”

That’s it. A shower. That’s the “important thing” John had forgotten to do before he left the apartment. God, he was beyond pathetic.

“Look,” Clark interjected, “It’s Mom’s turn. After that, Team Couch will have two points, and Team Chairs, like the losers they are, will only have one. As it should be. Mom, if you would be so kind as to-”

“It’s fine,” John said, rising. “I’ll do it.”