“You absolutely can.” Niko plucks it from Archie’s fingers, popping it into his mouth. “They taste a little like cloves.”
“I’d prefer it if they tasted like cake.”
“That’s all you think about,” Hugh mutters without lifting his gaze from his handheld videogame console.
“I don’t remember you asking if you could have screen time,” I say, reaching for my glass of water. There’s wine on the table too, but I feel like I need to stay alert.
“But we’re on holiday,” Hugh complains, glancing up.
“But at the table?”
With a huff, he places the thing on the tabletop. “Can we go back to the pool?”
“In a little while. Let your lunch digest first.”
Hugh folds his arms with another huff and for good measure, begins to slam his heel off the leg of the wicker chair repeatedly.
“Hugh,” I warn.
“What?” The preteen snipes.
“Stop kicking the chair.”
“I’m not kicking it. I’m hitting it.”
“Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it,” I murmur setting my glass down. My eyes meet Niko’s accidentally. In other circumstances, I might be embarrassed but not right now. This is what you’re saddling yourself with, my gaze seeks to say. Children aren’t always a bundle of love, light, and joy. Some days being a parent consists of repeating the same five phrases, refereeing petty arguments, avoiding childhood communicable diseases, and being told you have a big bum.
My look his way? Take a good look at your immediate future.
His return gaze? I find this all very amusing.
But I don’t even know if he wants to be a parent or if this is all for show. And even if it is for show, points at Niko for having concern for my children’s feelings. Bugger it all, I feel so confused. I have to marry him but I shouldn’t want to—the idea of being his seems to become more reasonable with each passing minute. I want to know what kind of marriage this will be when I really ought to be railing against it.
And he—he should be running away, shouldn’t he? Not looking at me like he has a lifetime of plans for my body.
“I have a magic trick,” Archie announces happily.
I expect Hugh to groan but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs a piece of mango from the fruit platter. “For my next trick, I’m going to make this piece of mango disappear.” He pops it into his mouth and mumbles, “Taa-daa!” around it.
Van gives an enigmatic smile which I quickly ignore.
His gaze: I’m going to make that bikini and sarong disappear.
“Did you bring your magic tricks?” I ask my youngest hoping the answer is no. Another parenting gripe is the lack of choice in being a captive audience.
“No, this is my very own trick and I need everyone to help me.”
“Come on then,” Hugh says in an unexpected burst of brotherliness.
“Yes, Archie, what can we do?” Niko unfolds himself from the chair sinuously.
“I need you to blow this up for me, Uncle Van,” he says, passing him over a new red balloon. “But not yet. I’ll say when.”
“And me. What do I have to do?” Hugh’s compliant tone tweaks my parental suspicions, but not for long as Archie hands us both a blue colored balloon. “You two can blow these up. But not yet. I get to say when.”
“Why does my balloon have a string?” I ask, pulling on the brown twine wrapped loosely around the blowing-up end.
“No! Don’t do that,” Arch says, slapping his hand to his back pocket, where the string seems to originate.
“Okay.” I hold up my hands.
“Right, so first part of the trick is to stretch your balloons,” the maestro instructs as he does just that, twanging his balloon between his fingers. “Ow,” he mutters as it snaps back. “I meant to do that. Anyway, now you’ve got to bring it to your mouth and give it a good, hard blow.”
“Said the vicar to the actress,” I find myself murmuring.
“What actress?” Archie’s expression scrunches.
“Nothing. Ignore me.”
“Pay attention, Mummy. This part is very important.”
“Sorry. So give it a good stretch.” My gaze glides to Niko’s. “Then give it a good blow.”
“Stretch then blow,” the man repeats, all velvety. “Sounds like a solid plan.”
I find myself snickering, but not for long as the Great Arch-inie has more instructions.
“Okay, one, two, three and… blow.” And we all do as we’re told, each of us with varying speeds and success.
“Right, what now?” I ask, pinching the end of my balloon.
“Everyone hold them up for Mummy to read.” Archie’s pronouncement seems to vibrate with excitement.
I twist mine around. It has the word ‘me’ written in black Sharpie by Hugh, I’d guess.
“These are the magic words, Mum,” Hugh says with a grin. “They’re very important. Start with me.”
“Marry,” I read as the other balloons pop up around the table. “Me. You.” I look at my own balloon. “Will.”
“Archie, you doofus. You made Mum sound like Yoda.”