It’s beyond ridiculous.

How? Well, let me tell you about the last time the pair of them were together. During Christmas—we stopped picking names a few years ago because Buzz and Tripp both like lots of presents—the three of us siblings (and now their partners) buy gifts for all, not just for one.

Buzz gifted Tripp with a meticulously wrapped and expensively packaged…

Box.

There was nothing inside.

“What the hell is this?” Tripp asks, staring into the empty cube.

“It’s the gift of limitless potential,” Buzz solemnly tells him with an all-knowing nod.

“Fuck you—I spent four hundred dollars on your present and it’s not even available in stores yet!” Tripp bought Buzz a stopwatch that was a prototype—still in beta—from a friend who’s an investor in the company that invented it. “I hate you.”

Buzz holds up his wrist, the shiny steel gray encircling it. “Thanks, I love it.” He pokes at the side button, showing it off.

His wife hangs her head, hiding a laugh.

Tripp glares at them both. “Give it back.” His attempt to lunge for our brother fails, Buzz just as quick and light on his feet as Tripp—perhaps even more so?

I tilt my head, studying my sister-in-law. If Hollis is laughing, certainly the empty box is a joke? This wouldn’t be the first time someone in this family pulled a stunt like that on Christmas morning.

Tripp stands in a sea of crumpled wrapping paper, his dog sniffing through the rubble in search of the chew toy he lost. “Mom, would you say something?”

“What do you want me to say, sweetie?”

“Make him give me the watch back.”

Buzz laughs, sticking his hands inside the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “It’s mine.”

“Mom!”

Tripp’s girlfriend Chandler gives him a light nudge, tugging at the bottom of his holiday-themed sleep shirt. “Babe, you need to relax.”

“I want my present.” My brother isn’t physically stomping his foot, but he’s pretty damn close to it. “This isn’t fair.”

Buzz snorts, which does not help the situation, or Tripp’s tantrum.

“This is the season for giving, sweetheart.” Mom smiles. “Don’t be selfish. There are so many people out there who—”

“Oh my god, Mom, now is not the time! I give plenty and I want my present!” This time, he does stomp his foot, crunching down on a pile of empty, discarded boxes.

The room is a chorus of low snickers.

“This isn’t funny, assholes.”

“Don’t call us assholes during the holidays,” Dad scolds, finally chiming in, fiddling with the wireless digital weather station I gave him and barely looking up.

“Thank you, Roger.” Mom beams at Dad flirtatiously. He almost never speaks up when we’re acting like dicks, so when he does, Mom gets all hot and bothered. No doubt they’re going to have sex later today.

Tripp stares at everyone, displeasure brimming across his face at every angle.

“Be grateful for the other presents you received,” Buzz loudly commands.

I can see that Tripp wants to plant a facer on Buzz and would have started a tussle if we were ten years younger.

I catch Chandler and Hollis exchanging glances, confirming what I suspected: Buzz bought Tripp an actual present but is withholding it to pull a prank on him.

Typical.

It takes another hour for Buzz to come clean, plus waiting until the living room is devoid of wrapping paper, boxes, and bows, all the new gifts neatly stacked beneath the live tree. Tripp flops down in the leather recliner, feet up, dog at his side.

“What’s this?” Buzz is looking behind the television cabinet, bent at the waist, rooting around.

Tripp ignores him so he talks louder.

“Weird!”

Tripp still won’t look at him, burying his face in one of our dad’s wildlife magazines.

“I think I found something.”

No response.

Buzz holds up a package: a plaid-covered box with a green velvet bow and gold loopy ribbon. Gives it a shake.

He is so lame.

I roll my eyes at his theatrics but watch, transfixed, gaze shifting from one brother to another and back as one attempts to ignore the one bandying a present in the air.

“How did this get back here?” Buzz wonders out loud, parading around the living room, flipping the gift tag with his forefinger. Flicks it open and reads out loud. “To Tripp, from…” He pauses… “Huh, there’s no name here…!”

I roll my eyes a second time. Could he be laying it on any thicker? Tripp isn’t taking the bait. Or, if he is, he’s doing a spectacular job pretending to ignore the most obnoxious Wallace sibling God ever created.

“Who could it be from?” Buzz continues, humming in curiosity. “Santa?”

Tripp lets the corner of his mouth tip, betraying himself.

“Was someone a good boy this year?” He shoves the package in Tripp’s face, earning himself a smack to the arm, the box in our brother’s hand almost falling to the carpet. “Hey, hey now! Gentle!”

Tripp’s humor fades, and he holds the magazine up higher, blocking our brother from his view.