Chapter 9

February, Thursday 8th 2024 

Easton

I find out about the dinner from Cecilia.

Not my parents.
Not a text.
Not a warning.

Cecilia, mouth full of cereal, feet on the counter like she pays bills.

“Oh yeah,” she says casually. “We’re having dinner at the Acres’ again.”

I stop mid-step. “What.”

She squints at the box. “Tonight.”

“I’m not going.”

Dad looks up from his coffee. “You are.”

“I snapped at Santiago yesterday.”

Mum winces. “Yes.”

“I yelled. In public.”

“Yes.”

“I told him he doesn’t work hard.”

She nods. “You did.”

“So why,” I ask slowly, “would I go to his house.”

Vivian doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Because you’re sixteen, dramatic, and the two of you have been fighting since birth. Eat your vegetables.”

“That’s not—”

“They’re our neighbours,” Dad adds. “We’re not cancelling dinner over teenage nonsense.”

Teenage nonsense.

Fantastic.

The Acres’ house is literally a 1 minute walk away, which makes this worse. I can see their porch light from my bedroom window. I’ve watched Santiago grow up through that stupid fence between our yards.

Tonight, it feels like enemy territory.

Mrs. Acres answers the door like nothing happened. Like I didn’t implode at debate practice twenty-four hours ago.

“Easton!” she says warmly. “Come in, sweetheart.”

I step inside, stiff as a board.

The house smells like food and familiarity and regret.

Dad’s already talking with Mr. Acres in the living room. Mum’s in the kitchen with Mrs. Acres, laughing. Vivian’s perched on the arm of a chair like she owns the place. Cecilia’s already petting their dog.

Julian and Henry are at the table, arguing over rolls.

“Where’s Santiago?” Julian asks, mouth full.

Mrs. Acres pauses for half a second.

“He’s not coming down,” she says calmly. “He said he wasn’t hungry.”

My stomach drops.

Oh.

Dinner starts without him.

That’s worse than if he were here.

Every empty chair feels loud. Every glance toward the stairs hits me like a reminder. I can feel him up there. Hiding. Avoiding. Choosing not to look at me.

Mrs. Acres fills plates. “He had a long day,” she says lightly. “Track, swimming, school. You know.”

Everyone nods.

No one looks at me.

Julian breaks the silence. “He slammed his door.”

Mrs. Acres shoots him a look. “Julian.”

“What?” he says. “He did.”

Henry frowns. “He looked mad.”

I grip my fork tighter.

Dad clears his throat. “The boys are competitive,” he says, like he’s smoothing over a crack in glass. “It happens.”

Mr. Acres nods. “Yeah. They’ll work it out.”

I don’t say anything because if I open my mouth, something sharp will come out.

Halfway through dinner, Mrs. Acres glances at the stairs again. “I’ll bring him a plate.”

She disappears into the kitchen.

The room exhales.

Vivian finally looks at me. “You really fucked up, huh.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean,” she shrugs, “you’ve both said worse. But this one landed.”

I stare at my food. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you did,” she says gently. “You were just angry.”

That doesn’t make it better.

Mrs. Acres comes back down with a plate untouched.

“He said thanks,” she says, setting it on the counter. “But he’s staying upstairs.”

Mum glances at me. Not accusing. Just tired.

That hurts more.

After dinner, everyone drifts into the living room. Julian’s on the floor. Henry’s half-asleep. The dads are talking about work. The mums are laughing softly.

I stand there, useless.

The stairs creak.

My heart jumps.

Nothing happens.

He doesn’t come down.

Eventually, Dad nudges me. “We’ll head out.”

Outside, the cold air hits hard. The Acres’ house glows warmly behind us.

I stop at the gate.

“I’ll catch up,” I say.

Dad studies me for a second. Then nods. “Don’t be long.”

They walk ahead.

I turn back.

I don’t knock.

I know exactly where his window is.

I stand in the backyard, hands shoved in my jacket, staring up at the faint light glowing through his curtains.

“Santiago,” I call quietly.

Nothing.

I wait.

Then, from upstairs, his window slides open an inch.

“What,” he says flatly.

I swallow. “You skipped dinner.”

“No shit.”

“I—” I start, then stop. “Your mum made pasta.”

“Tell her thanks.”

Silence stretches.

I look up at him, hair messy, face shadowed, eyes unreadable. No smugness. No teasing.

Just closed.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” I say finally.

He scoffs. “You absolutely did.”

“I was angry.”

“So?” he snaps. “You think I don’t get angry?”

“I think you hide it better,” I shoot back.

He laughs once. Bitter. “Yeah. Because I’m not allowed to fall apart like you.”

That hits.

Hard.

I open my mouth. Close it. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

He doesn’t answer.

After a moment, the window slides shut.

Light gone.

I stand there longer than I should, cold seeping into my bones, realizing something awful and unavoidable:

For the first time, Santiago Acres isn’t fighting back.

And I don’t know how to deal with that.