Page 64 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Ewan adds, “Whoever smiles, snickers, or laughs, they’re out.”

“Then the next round starts with a new Joker,” Miles says. “Everyone left in the game puts in two pounds this time. And it escalates from there, though this bunch of numpties rarely makes it past four or five rounds.”

The game starts pretty tame. We make a full circle around the table with everyone getting a turn. It’s in the second go that people start dropping.

“Hey, Gen,” Ewan says. “What do you call a fish with no eyes?” He hasn’t even delivered the punchline yet, and Genny’s bottom lip quivers. “Fsssh.”

Genny cracks. “Not fair, picking on your own wife.”

“Sorry, love, you’re the easiest target.”

Jake addresses the whole table next. “Someone asked me once what my favorite dinosaur was. I told them I don’t know, I’ve never met one.” All it earns him is a few groans.

Indi seems to have it in for Miles. “The last time Miles had a piece of ass was when his finger broke through the toilet roll.” This one makes Ewan choke on his beer. Miles simply holds her eye contact and sucks his teeth.

On my turn, I say, “What’s the difference between a dog and a complex sentence? One has clawses at the end of its pawses, and the other has pauses at the end of its clauses.” It bombs completely, winning me a few grimaces and a sympathetic pout from Jake.

Miles leans back in his chair for his turn. He taps the shoulder of a serious-looking middle-aged man at the table behind us. “Hey, mate. Did you hear that they said you were an owl?”

When the man says, “Who?” Miles turns back to us with a truly diabolical smile on his face. I have to roll my lips between my teeth to stay in the game.

Jake’s turn. “What did the zero say to the eight?” Bless his heart, he pauses theatrically. “Nice belt.”

More rolled eyes.

Indi’s turn again. She aims for Miles. “You know, Miles, believe it or not, I actually love cats. It’s just—I can’t ever manage to eat a whole one myself.”

Miles breaks. Swiping beer from his chin with the back of his hand, he says, “Oh my god, what is wrong with you?”

Jake swivels around to Indi and says, “Absolutely brisket.”

She cracks, and everyone else laughs, too. “Well, fuck.”

I look around the table. “I need context for that one.”

Genny grins and says, “Every time she tries to say absolutely brilliant in our family group chat, that’s what her phone corrects it to.”

Indi shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t even try anymore.”

It’s only me and Jake left. We volley back and forth a few rounds, stone-faced. Conversationally, I say, “Do you think people named Cornelius have the nickname ‘Corn’?”

Jake indulges me with an answer, stone-faced. “Well, here in the UK, we usually say sweetcorn.”

I give him a puzzled look. “How do you know, though?”

Jake frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“How do you know he’s sweet? Maybe he’s a real bastard?”

I think I’ve finally got him. His self-control is impressive—muscles tic in his jaw, a vein pops out on his forehead, his nostrils flare. All these microexpressions appear and disappear so fast I’d miss them if I blinked. Then he crumbles.

Everyone else laughs, too, and I fall a little bit more in love.

* * *

I have a new understanding of Jake now that I’ve met his family. And at the same time, I have more questions. What led him down such a different path from his siblings? How did he end up in London, all alone in that big, empty flat?

A three-piece band arrives midway through the night. Their setlist is a combination of classic pub tunes and lively Christmas carols. Dancing shakes the entire place. Before long, Jake’s siblings leave us alone at the table to join the ceilidh. The moment we’re alone, he turns to me, taking my hand in his.