But this isn’t Candy Land (unfortunately for me), it’s a three-person strategy game, and I was recruited as the “third” player.
We’re four hours in, and I’m still confused as hell.
Xander rolls the dice that has twelve sides and symbols and shit. “I’ll trade you a musket for a fire spell.” He’s looking at me.
“Sure, yeah.” I hand him a card.
“That’s a rocket flare,” Easton says.
Shit.
I shuffle through my thick deck and find another. “Here.”
Xander nods, then frowns, catching sight of another card in my hand. “Wait, you have the Empress of Tomorrow?”
“No fucking way.” Easton leans forward, elbows on the table. He’s a lanky, pale, dark-haired sixteen-year-old—no kidding, he looks like a vampire. Thing is, I bet he gets more sun and Vitamin C than Xander.
I scrunch my brows. “What’s the Empress of Tomorrow mean?”
Xander grins after a sip of Fizz. “With your position on the board and your two blocking spells, you just won the game, man.”
“Well, damn,” I say into a satisfied nod. Forget it, I fucking rock, and just then, a hammer pounds inside my temple. I bite down while Xander and Easton gather cards and game pieces.
I’d give my left testicle for a cigarette, or at least a toothpick that I’m not allowed to grind on.
‘Cause I’m Thatcher Alessio Moretti. He already fucked up, and now I’m gonna be known as the guy who stuffs lunchmeat in his jacket.
It’s kinda funny. I’ll take it. But I’d rather all of them come home. It’s December 27th. They’re a whole week late, and it’s killing more than just me.
Xander checks his cellphone, waiting for a text that says they’re back. His sixteenth birthday at Superheroes & Scones was quiet and somber without his older brother and sister there.
The parents even cancelled Christmas at the lake house this year. They wanted to stay in Philly, so they’d be here for when their children return home.
Easton slowly straightens the cards and eyes Xander. “Is everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Xander overturns his phone. He hasn’t mentioned that his older siblings and cousins are stuck in Scotland, but it’s all over the news.
So Easton knows. He’s just waiting for his friend to share with the class.
He won’t. Xander keeps personal shit vaulted about as much as every other famous one.
Awkward silence hangs as they slowly—ever so fucking slowly—shift game pieces. Unsure if the other person wants to play another round. It’s clear they both do.
I’m just a third-wheel.
I’m not supposed to nudge them. So I just lean back and watch the teenage soap opera.
Easton taps a silver wizard piece to the board. “Good game, man.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Xander crunches his soda can and flips a dice, staring at Easton, then the snow, then back to Easton. “So…?”
“You want another Fizz?” Easton rises.
“Uh, that’s okay.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I mean, yeah…that’d be good. You want to play again?”
“For sure.” Easton smiles more. “I’ll be right back.” He goes to retrieve a soda, and Xander watches him in deep thought before his head whips to me.
“I suck at this.” His eyes darken. “Like literally, suck.”
My lip curves up. “You’re doing fine, kid.”
He exhales a heavy breath. “Sometimes I think it’s better for everyone if I just stayed in my room and never came out.”
“It’d be worse,” I remind him. “Everyone would be sad.”
He lets this sink in, massaging his sore knuckles from a boxing session.
When Easton returns, we play another round of the geekiest stuff I’ve ever seen. Besides LARPing.
I’d enjoy this more if my migraine weren’t about to blow a hole through my temple. During an intense battle, I slyly pop some Advil.
The pills go down rough without water. It’ll be worth it later.
Once Xander wins, they pack up the board game. And then, we get ready to shove off.
“Hey, Thatcher, thanks for being our third,” Easton tells me, reminding me I’m my brother and wearing these stupid aviators that have no tint. Spoiler alert: they’re not mine. “We’ll probably need you if we play again. Not many people appreciate nerdy shit around here.”
“Only the ‘popular’ nerdy shit,” Xander adds, and these two linger at the back gate. He awkwardly waves Easton goodbye. “Later…or whatever.” He sucks in a tight breath.
Easton stuffs his hands in his preppy khakis. “If you ever want to play again, just text me. I’m free a lot, so…”
“Yeah. Okay. Cool.” Xander nods.
Easton nods. “Cool.”
I suppress a smile and adjust my earpiece. Not interfering, but man, I feel like a proud Mother Goose who sent her little chickadee out into the world.
But you better believe I’m still a bodyguard. I hawk-eye their hand movements, not about to let Xander pass off antidepressants to this kid.
Back in Greece, Thatcher and I (along with most everyone else) found out Xander had been giving away his extra meds to Easton, and the fact that Xander had also been doing it with other kids back when he was thirteen—on our watch—still puts a rock between my ribcage.
Missed it.
Not that I can really shackle too much blame on me and my brother. Xander is a teenager. If he wants to hide something from us, he’ll find a way. I’m not a motherfucking spy. And he may trust us with serious shit, but he also knows where our trust would end. Had I seen him willfully giving his meds away to gain popularity, I would have called his parents in a heartbeat.
He knew that.
Still, I’m not missing the same thing twice, so I laser focus on their hands.
We’re all good.
They depart, and I walk on the freshly plowed road beside Xander. Constantly surveying the mansions. Christmas lights, wreaths and bows are still up. No threats in sight. Most bodyguards go off-duty in the gated neighborhood—but extra vigilance makes Xander feel safe.
And I like living life on my toes.
Semper Gumby.
“He’s pretty cool, right?” Xander asks, popping a Sprite.
I stare straight ahead. “He’s only cool when he’s not taking your meds.”
Xander sighs. “How long are you and Thatcher going to give me shit for that?”
“Until we forget it happened.”
Xander mumbles something about that being never.
Static from SFE comms is in my ear, and I pick up a couple bodyguards discussing New Year’s Eve plans. My muscles tense, just thinking about my brother stuck in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere Scotland past January 1st.
With the weather reports I keep checking, I doubt he’ll be back before then. And the longer we keep up this charade, the more I have to lie to people like Easton. But I convinced Thatcher to swap places, and I’m chugging my share of salt.
“Moffy and Farrow will get everyone home. Thatcher will too,” Xander tells me, like I need the confidence boost. Seeing this kid dish out encouragements almost makes me smile.
“Amen.” I bounce my head. “Your big brother can do anything.” I stoke that belief that’ll keep him afloat, especially when Thatcher and I leave.