Chapter 4

Easton

Family dinners at the Acres’ house should come with a fucking warning label.

Dad calls it “tradition.” Mum calls it “nice.” Vivian calls it “free food.” Cecilia calls it “fun,” which should’ve been my first clue that I was about to suffer.

The second we step inside, I hear it.

“Easton!”

Mrs. Acres’ voice is too cheerful. Santiago’s mum appears from the kitchen like a jump scare, apron on, wine already poured. She hugs my mum, then my dad, then—unfortunately—me.

“You’ve grown again,” she says.

“I’m sixteen,” I say. “I stopped growing.”

She laughs like I told a joke.

And then he walks in.

Santiago Acres, in a stupidly clean sweater, sleeves pushed up, earring catching the light like it’s mocking me personally. He looks relaxed. Comfortable. Like this isn’t enemy territory.

“Hey, Rivers,” he says. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Liar.

I drop my bag by the door. “Trust me. I didn’t either.”

His dad claps my father on the back. “You see the race today? Incredible stuff. You boys are machines.”

Dad nods proudly. “Easton’s been training nonstop.”

“Oh, I know,” Santiago says easily. “You can tell.”

I glare at him. He smiles wider.

Dinner is hell.

We’re seated directly across from each other. Of course we are. The table’s covered in food like this is some kind of peace summit. Pasta, salad, bread, something that smells like garlic and betrayal.

“So,” Mum says brightly, “track club opened today.”

I stab a piece of chicken. “Unfortunately.”

Santiago kicks my foot under the table.

Hard.

I look up. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Everyone freezes.

“Language,” Vivian says lazily.

Mrs. Acres blinks. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing,” Santiago says. “Easton’s just dramatic.”

I laugh. Sharp. “You beat me by less than a second and now you’re insufferable.”

“Oh please,” he says. “You’ve been insufferable since preschool.”

“That’s not true,” Cecilia says. “You were both awful.”

Henry nods solemnly. “You used to fight over crayons.”

Julian grins. “You cried, Easton.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” Santiago says. “You bit me.”

The table erupts.

“YOU BIT HIM?” Mum gasps.

“He deserved it,” I snap.

Mrs. Acres wipes tears from her eyes. “You boys were inseparable.”

“No,” Santiago and I say together.

Dad clears his throat. “Coach Reynolds says you two push each other.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter.

Santiago leans back in his chair. “He hates losing to me.”

“I hate losing to anyone.”

“Sure,” he says. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I lean forward. “You think winning one race means you’re better than me?”

“I think,” he says calmly, “that it means I won.”

The silence is violent.

Mrs. Rivers claps her hands. “Dessert!”

By the time cake comes out, I’m two comments away from committing a felony.

Santiago’s mum pulls out her phone. “I found photos from high school!”

No. No no no.

“Oh my God,” Vivian says. “Is that you two at the pool?”

There it is. Me and Santiago, age six, arms around each other, missing teeth, matching goggles.

“That’s fake,” I say immediately.

“That’s real,” Santiago says. “You cried when I moved lanes.”

“I did not cry.”

“You cried.”

Julian squints at the photo. “You look in love.”

I choke on air.

“That’s enough,” I say.

Santiago’s laughing now, full-on laughing, shoulders shaking. “Relax, Rivers. It’s ancient history.”

I stand up so fast my chair screeches. “I’m going outside.”

“Easton—” Mum starts.

“I need air before I kill him.”

Outside, the night’s cold and sharp. I pace the driveway, fists clenched, heart racing like I’m still on the track.

The door opens.

“Wow,” Santiago says, stepping beside me. “You made it through most of dinner. Personal best.”

“Go inside.”

“Can’t,” he says. “Mum told me to ‘check on you.’”

I scoff. “Of course she did.”

We stand there in silence for half a second. It’s unbearable.

“You ran well today,” he says suddenly.

I look at him. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t start being nice now,” I snap. “I don’t trust it.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

I turn away, jaw tight. “Next time we race, I’m winning.”

He smiles like he’s been waiting for that. “I hope so.”

I hate him.