Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

walk toward them, grabbing the back of the tree that is grazing the floor because of Dylan’s lack of attention.

“That was harsh, kid,” Dad says to him. “If your mom weren’t here, I’d be telling you that your sister’s my favorite.”

Dylan shakes out his long, straight brown hair. “You tell me that all the time.”

We carry the tree through the dining room, past Dad’s office, and into the formal living room that is never used except for when company is here and Christmas morning.

“Are we getting the rest of the Christmas stuff?” I ask.

Dad shakes his head. “I think your mom hired someone to come and put up the lights outside, and you know how she feels about decorations. It’s just not her thing. Good thing you have your own apartment. You can make it look like the North Pole threw up.” He hooks his arm around my neck. My mom is nearly always serious, and my dad certainly has his moments as well—few things make him less easygoing than the discussion of losing profits and hearing complaints about one of his crews. However, when he takes a break from work and plays the role of dad or husband, he likes to joke around and be goofy. It has always been the side of him that I love seeing because it allows me to find my silly side as well.

“Did mom order desserts with sugar in them?” Dylan asks. “Like real, processed, good stuff.”

Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“I hope so.” Dylan pulls his phone out again.

“Dylan. Tree,” Dad says. “Come on. Both of you, help me set this thing up so I can get rid of the box before your mom changes her mind about the tree being up.”

We assemble the three sections of the tree in a matter of minutes, then Dylan plugs in the tree, and his disposition changes, reminding me of the same version of him that I still always imagine when thinking of my little brother. The goofy, dinosaur-loving, awkward kid who insisted I tuck him in each night where we’d lie together in his bed and read fantasy books about dragons and far-off lands and imagine ourselves there in the pages.

The doorbell rings, bringing me back to the present. Mike is here. Mom’s heels tap across the floor as she goes to answer it, a quick pace that matches my heart. It feels like I’m about to meet the Volturi.

Dad links his arm around Dylan and reminds him of his manners as he directs them toward the door, leaving me to follow on my own accord.

Even while we were dating, the Rios never came over for holidays, which makes having them gathered in our foyer and shedding their coats even more shocking.

“Poppy!” Mrs. Rio calls my name and flings both of her arms out. I was surprised when she and my mom began spending time together because the two are opposite as day and night. My mom is orderly and punctual and thrives on data and facts. She also hates sugar and all processed foods. Mrs. Rio always has cookies in the house, loves reality TV, and shows affection openly and often with hugs that usually last a few seconds too long.

I step into her hug, surprised by how normal it feels.

“Mike!” Dylan’s excitement slips before he can temp it down to match his typical, too-cool-for-school temperament. I feel Mike’s eyes on me and confirm it with a glance. He’s wearing another button-down, but this time he has a Nirvana shirt over the top with its symbolic smiley face winking at me. It’s so much more him than the sweaters and other outfits I’ve seen him wearing, and I almost voice the fact.

“Hey, Dill Pickle,” Mike says to my little brother.

Dylan doesn’t correct him, allowing him to use the nickname I donned him at a young age that he’s been trying to shake for the past two years. Instead, he smiles wider. “Are you home for the week? I got a new video game we should play.”

“How’s the tree house?” Mike asks.

Dylan lifts a single, floppy shoulder. “I’m a little too old for the tree house.”

Mike grins. “No one’s ever too old for a tree house. I plan to build one in my backyard when I get my own place.”

Dylan scoffs with doubt but doesn’t say anything.

“Nice to see you, Poppy,” Mr. Rio says.

“You, too,” I say, my response genuine and honest. I always liked Mike’s parents. They were always accepting, kind, and funny, and they welcomed me into their lives, making me feel like I belonged. He looks a bit older, his hair more silver than blond, and he’s a little fuller around the middle, but then he smiles, and familiarity floods me with a dozen memories, all of them fond and comforting, but like a paper cut, they leave a pain that stings the longer I think about them.

“We brought pie, brownies, and ice cream,” Mr. Rio says.

“Brownies!” Dylan shouts victoriously.

“I think we have a winner,” Mom says. “Come on in. Dinner will be in about an hour—just enough time to have a drink and eat some finger foods.”

Mrs. Rio keeps her arm around my waist. “You’re too thin. You’re built like your mother with that long neck and long frame. Willowy.” It’s the same word she’s used to describe me when we met for the first time before our homecoming dance sophomore year. It feels like a lifetime ago and also like it just happened last week.

When Dad offers drinks, it’s my chance to escape. I follow Dylan over to the spread of appetizers, where he looks across the feast, his face expressing his thoughts and interest level of each dish before he reaches the dips. “Ranch?” he asks.

“Doubtful. Probably a crab or artichoke dip.”

He cringes. Dylan was born picky, and it’s only gotten worse, but there are enough appetizers to feed a dozen people a full meal. Shrimp cocktails, mini brie pinwheels with pomegranate seeds, candied walnuts, cherry tomatoes,