Page 48 of Terms and Traditions

I shook my head. “Just zoned out and got lost in my thoughts.”

“Some thoughts are better shared. They lose their power to hurt after you say them out loud.”

Maybe he was right. But I couldn’t give voice to these ones… not yet. And besides, bruschetta was calling. I tugged him back towards the hubbub. “True, but bruschetta waits for no man or woman.”

His face pinched, like he was going to press. Counteract my false brightness. But he didn’t. Just slipped his hand in mine, lacing our fingers and squeezing gently. “I’m here, whenever you need me, okay?” His whisper brushed my ear.

Pausing, I studied him. “So am I, Nash.”

What the rest of the world called White Elephant, my family dubbed the Fifteen-Dollar-Gift Game. Simple, straightforward, and without any nonsense about albino Proboscidea animals. And quite a mouthful.

The premise was the exact same as White Elephant, just with a spending budget—currently set at twenty-five dollars, but that didn’t roll off the tongue as nicely—and an age restriction. Only kids twelve and up were allowed to join the adults in “stealing” gifts. If your number was called and you weren’t old enough, Nana just gave you your gift bag and you got to open it without anyone threatening to steal your hopes and dreams.

The rest of us were subjected to cutthroat highway robbery. Because, while we may have set a budget (we weren’t all millionaires after all), we also had to set a stealing limit. Three times and no double stealing—if your gift was stolen, you couldn’t steal it back until your next turn.

In another era, my family would have been an elite Victorian thieving gang because the stealing part seemed to be the cherished event of the evening. More so than actually opening gifts. Alliances were forged between turns with hand gestures, eye contact, and vigorous facial expressions. My family was anything but subtle.

Like everything else we Addamses seemed to touch, this was another call to perform and outshine each other. And we took no prisoners.

This year was special because Ryder, Gabe and Ivy’s oldest, was finally of age to play with the adults, and he was ready to burst his buttons with that grin.

No one was supposed to know who each gift on the coffee table belonged to. Gotta keep the battlefield—I mean, playing field—fair. But Jackson immediately scooched between me and Nash on the couch and whispered to me which one was Ryder’s. The large golden wrapped box with a silver bow.

“You’ll want that one, Auntie Steph,” he insisted, with all the conviction of a ten-year-old boy handling national secrets.

I adored my nephews. Should I have known better than to have believed that innocent smile and boyish charm? Absolutely. Did that mean I didn’t fall for it? Absolutely not.

Nana passed around a bucket full of folded sticky notes with numbers, and we each took one. Once our number was pulled from the second number bucket, it would be our turn to pick a gift.

“I happen to know there’s a few extra special gifts under there this time. We’ll see who deserves them,” Hiram announced with a smirk, and there was a titter of excitement. Which probably meant there were a few more-than-twenty-five-dollar items. Despite the price limit, Hiram had his own way of doing things. I think he got some sick satisfaction out of his offspring’s antics in trying to outdo the others. Like an emperor watching his very own gladiator game.

Zoe’s number was called first and the cycle began. She shimmied her shoulders and plucked a poinsettia-papered gift off the table.

I recognized the paper. It had Nana written all over it, and I was pretty sure it had been in our wrapping paper bin under the stairs since I was in high school.

Zoe must’ve recognized it, too, since she shot Nana a sardonic smile. To be fair though, Nana always contributed pretty epically hilarious gifts for under twenty-five dollars. This year was no exception as Zoe unwrapped a clothing bejeweller, scrunching her perfect nose as she showed it to us.

Zara—not Hiram’s, but Zoe’s eight-year-old daughter—cheered. “You gotta keep it, Mom! I love it.”

“I love those things, too!” adult Zara said, beaming at the girl.

Hiram chuckled without any real humour. “Why settle for fake diamonds when you have the real thing?” he said, lifting his wife’s hand to admire the monstrous rock on her slim hand. He glanced at his granddaughter. “You’ll be old enough to appreciate class soon enough, if your mother raises you right.”

The happiness of young Zara’s face faded faster than twilight.

“Didn’t these things go out of fashion in the ‘70s? I had no idea you could still get them,” Hailey asked, redirecting the conversation. Bless her.

Nana shrugged. “What goes around comes around.”

Elijah’s number came next, and he picked one of Hiram’s gifts. Because there was no way that name-brand wireless speaker was anywhere close to twenty-five bucks. That was definitely going to be a hot ticket item.

When Hailey, who was always Nana’s assistant, called my number—lucky number thirteen—Jackson whooped and sprang from the sofa like a jack-in-the-box.

“Tell me which one!” He ran to the table and picked up Ryder’s. “This one! You want this one.”

“Jackson.” Gabe’s voice was level but gently chiding. “Let your aunt decide for herself.”

Jackson set the gift down and rocked back and forth on his heels in barely contained glee.