“Amending your own declaration already?” With the bowl in hand, I block Rose’s path to the coffee pot.
“If I could, I would’ve amended your personality on the first date.”
I smile. “And then you would’ve downgraded me. You should be happy you don’t have that power.”
“I’m happy that I have the power to do this.” She covers my mouth with her hand, and my lips lift beneath it. “Stop grinning.” I don’t, and she lowers her hand with a growl.
“Clearly your power is limited, darling.”
Jane giggles, dissolving the heat in Rose’s eyes faster than usual. “That’s right,” Rose says, “your daddy likes to boast. It’s his worst trait.”
“That’s debatable.”
Rose snorts beneath her breath and then brings Jane over to her highchair by the breakfast table. Of course I follow. Jane babbles a few syllables, reaching out for the bowl in my hands. She kicks her little legs. I set the bowl down, and she curiously observes the pureed peaches first, as she usually does. We’ll spoon-feed her after she grows comfortable with what she’s eating.
Rose spins around to me, much shorter in just slippers and no heels. She crosses her arms over her silk robe. I take the opportunity to hold her around the waist, drawing her closer to my chest.
She asks, “What English monarch was born near London but her mother near Madrid?” Her eyes flit to my lips. “If you answer wrong, I won’t be speaking to you for the rest of the day.”
The way she declares these rules almost hardens my cock. The stakes are relatively high for me. Unanswered texts, dropped calls and refusals to banter back—it’s a particular torture that would only derive from Rose. Anyone else, I think I’d be fine ignoring.
I go quiet for a moment, passing through my knowledge quickly.
“You have thirty seconds.” She raises her chin, her eyes still on my lips.
Do you want me to answer or to kiss you hard, Rose? I rub my own lips, her lingering stare pooling my desire.
“Ten seconds.”
The answer hits the front of my brain. “Mary Tudor.”
She nods once. “Congratulat—”
I kiss her hard, pulling her into my body with force, and her arms uncoil, palms flat on my chest—and she breaks us apart with a push.
She breathes shallowly. “Richard.” She’s not finished toying with me. I’ll try to wait, only because I’m curious what else she has in store. I take note of how my hand is in hers. Rose doesn’t seem to notice, and I won’t enlighten her to the fact. I want her hand in mine. Always.
“Yes?” I ask.
She looks to Jane once. Our daughter sticks a finger in the peaches and then puts it in her mouth, tasting the food in measured steps. Rose walks to the bar counter and obtains a thin napkin that I never spotted.
Then she shoves it in my face.
I can’t hide an overwhelming grin. There are three names scrawled neatly on the napkin: Snow White. Ariel. Rapunzel. I lower her hand. “I have an impeccable memory, and I clearly remember giving you three Disney princes to choose from years ago, and you argued about it.”
She waves her hand. “Then I grant you the right to argue, but you still have to answer like I did.”
There is a wrong answer in this Fuck, Marry, Kill game. There’s always one that will make us question each other more than usual. When I test her, I have an idea of her answer, and if she chooses something different, my mind goes into a tailspin with intrigue, craving to understand why.
She places a pen in my hand, not wanting me to say the words aloud. We never do. This game is written in text or on paper. These rules haven’t been amended in years.
I stumble on Rapunzel’s name. Daisy’s hair used to be that long and that blonde, and in the media, journalists compared her to the fairytale character too often.
Rose knows this.
But Ariel? I calculate my choices quickly, and next to each name in this precise order, I write: Marry. Kill. Fuck.
I pass her the napkin, her eyes pierced as she reads. “Why are you fucking Rapunzel?” She looks horrified at that notion.
“Because I don’t want to fuck a mermaid.”
“She grows legs.”
“You’re describing the maturation of a frog.” A tadpole starts with a tail and internal gills and then begins to form legs, but I don’t need to explain this to Rose. “And still—surprising to absolutely no one—I’m not fucking an amphibian.”
She snorts into laughter, her hand trying to cover her mouth to hide its existence as it escalates.
I begin to laugh too, and I lace my fingers with Rose’s, dropping her hand to our sides so I can see her full smile.
Jane giggles behind us. “Mama!” In unison, we both swing our heads towards our daughter. She’s raising her tiny bowl of peaches above her head. “Up!”
Her first words.
The bowl slips from her grasp, clattering on the floor, mashed peaches spilt. I gauge Rose’s reaction to the mess. Her free hand is pressed to her lips. “Did you hear her?” she asks me, eyes flooded with emotion.
My smile widens, more overwhelmed that their love for each other trumped Rose’s innate tic that spikes at the sight of chaos. I hug Rose to my side. “I heard, darling.”
I’m not even minutely religious, but today, Christmas morning with my girls enveloped in happiness, feels as spiritual as I’ve ever come to in life.
18
ROSE COBALT
“Moffy descends upon the box with a strong, baby grip and a devilish twinkle in his eye,” Daisy narrates beside the eight-foot tree, decorated in elegant gold bows and shimmering ornaments.
She braces a video camera while bells clink on her socks with each bounce around the spacious living room, filled with Christmas spirit: stockings along the mantel, snow falling behind the windows, gifts stacked beneath the tree; wrapped both carefully (me) and haphazardly (Loren), and the smell of vanilla coffee and cookies sweetening the air.
Loren probably believes that I love traditions and festivities because it’s another day I can decorate our home, another day to boss people around and orchestrate everything to my liking. I’m a perfectionist, but seeing a leaning gingerbread house and a poorly constructed snowman is fine with me. Parties have always meant something else. Every person I love will be together. My sisters, most importantly.
The other details are just extra.
“Devilish?” Lily’s eyes widen in horror. “He doesn’t look devilish.” On the soft cream-colored rug, Lily peers down at her baby nestled between her legs. Moffy eagerly grabs onto the red-wrapped box, unknowing of its purpose.
Loren sits next to his wife and helps his son tear the paper. Everyone is dressed in some sort of holiday pajama. Moffy and Jane in Christmas onesies. Daisy with stripped leggings and a white tank that says: Elf you gonna love me! Lily in a gray snowflake-printed onesie with pom-poms and a hood. Lo and Ryke in respective red and green flannel pants. Me: all black pajama set. But I do have stylish, red ornament earrings.
Connor is the only one not participating. Out of principle, he said. He’s in gray cotton pants, and I don’t press him to change. I love him, weird quirks and all.
“Moffy looks adorable,” Lo confirms. “The devilish baby is sitting on the devil’s lap.”
And of course, he turns to me.
While on the couch, I protectively hold Jane closer, Connor’s arm around my shoulders. “You do realize this is being recorded, Loren?” I grimace into a smile. “So now your niece will see how much of a dick you are.”