“And so he swears to gouge her eyes out,” Kaia hums softly, fingers dancing up and down the guitar strings. “But you don’t need eyes, to see all his lies . . .” She bends over her iPad to scribble that line down.

“Stop it,” Mom snaps, smacking him on the shoulder. “Don’t talk to your sister like that. And Kaia, stop narrating. It’s unsettling.”

I turn to my brother. “Felix, have you lost your mind? That woman tried to burn your house down.”

“The police never proved it was her,” he begins, and I have to tune him out, because no way am I listening to the Callista Burned My House Down, That Bitch, Or Maybe She Didn’t, We Might Be Getting Back Together, Except No We’re Not, I Saw Her Out With Somebody Else, I’m Suing Her For Burning My House Down story again.

“How long do you give it until Marilou finds out?” Kaia wonders. She’s investigating Callista’s Instagram page. “Marilou follows all your exes on here. Did you know that?”

Felix has gone bone-pale.

“You sent Callista a picture of your grandparents’ house?” his brother-in-law crows. “How dumb are you? Nobody else here is on speaking terms with your ex-wife, so it’ll be obvious who sent it.”

My brother is starting to panic. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I told you not to get involved with that woman,” Grandma declares smugly.

I study Athena, to see if she has any opinion on this, but she’s decorating the Christmas tree with bottles of bareMinerals foundation in preparation for a social media post. Nothing, not even the likely disintegration of her brother’s marriage, comes before the hustle.

Felix begins to rant that everyone is against him. Mom is suggesting alibis, ways she can cover this up, because he’s her baby and he’ll never have to take responsibility for his screwups if she can help it, and Grandpa’s fallen asleep in a chair because he’s too nice to be conscious for this. Grandma’s polishing an archery bow the size of a toddler, giving me a brand-new reason to be scared of her. On the couch, surrounded by three jumping children, one of whom has scribbled all over his arm with a marker, Dad clasps his hands between his knees and stares heavily at the floor.

“You know what this family could use?”

We all look up at Hall, whose voice slices through the din with supernaturally amplified volume. “Counseling?” guesses eight-year-old Peach Tree as Mom ventures hopefully, “Pie?”

He holds up a pair of ice skates against his chest, grin a mile wide. “Ice skating!” He does finger guns at mom, shutting one eye. “But I like where your head’s at, Madeline. Let me throw a few pies in the oven first.”

She beams.

*

My relatives are mystified by the mountain of ice skates Hall was able to “rush order” in the correct size for every family member.

Felix, suspicious, demands to know how Hall knew all of our shoe sizes, if he has a fetish. Hall directs the wind strategically so that it blows away my brother’s naysaying before it can infect the others. Luckily, most of us have an entitlement complex so like, why shouldn’t someone surprise us with ice skates that fit perfectly?