With the side of my fist, I erase the turnip and draw a carrot instead. And then another carrot. And then a bunch of grapes, which take forever. And a banana.
“Monkey! Hungry! Fruit eater!”
“Time’s up!” Flip calls.
“Vegetarian,” I gasp.
Hannah slaps her forehead. “Ohhhhh . . .”
“Is it just me?” Flip asks. “Or were you thinking—”
“—Blow job!” Asher says, and the two of them burst into laughter, while high-fiving each other again.
Now I’m thinking about blow jobs.
And Asher’s wicked mouth.
Shit.
“Your turn, boys,” Hannah says sweetly. “Let’s see if you can do better.”
I say a modest prayer. Please, Lord, if you’re going to make my sister gaga over this player and his insanely sexy friend, at least please give them a difficult word.
Asher takes the marker as Hannah readies the stopwatch. He picks a card from the deck, squints at it, and places it facedown on the table.
“Ready?” my sister prompts. “And go!”
Asher begins to draw. And . . . WTF, God? Really? Asher is clearly a damn artist. In the center of the board he draws a perfectly articulated leg. A manly leg, where the calf muscle curves artfully beneath the knee.
Then he draws an arrow to the shin.
Moving to the left, he sketches . . . a big, flaccid penis. My sister hoots with laughter as he deftly adds the curve of a testicle at each side, just in case Flip can’t identify a peen without the balls.
Asher puts a plus sign between those two drawings.
Penis plus shin? What?
Then he moves to the right and draws a sort of messy cloud. At which point Flip yells, “DICTIONARY!”
“Twenty-nine seconds!” Hannah cries.
“You’re a fucking genius!” Flip shouts. He and Asher embrace like they’ve just won the doubles tournament at Wimbledon.
Which, admittedly, they kind of did.
“Dick-shin-airy!” my sister says. “That really was a mind meld.”
When the Boarding School Wonder Twins break their bro hug, the stupidly hot one winks at me.
My chest heats up. I’m rattled by him. The word flustered takes on a whole new meaning since I have no idea how to behave around this Asher guy.
This is going to be a long game night.
NOTHING BUT A PAIR OF BLUE BRIEFS
MARK
My one-eyed cat is perched on the kitchen counter, watching me hide grated cauliflower in the homemade mac and cheese when the buzzer rings. That’ll be Hannah and my daughter.
Most days, the babysitter picks up Rosie from kindergarten and spends a couple hours with her before I return from work. But a few times a month, my sister leaves work early and handles afternoon kid detail. Which means, Hannah spoils her niece rotten before depositing her home again.
After buzzing them in, I quickly cover my masterpiece with enough shredded cheese to disguise the vegetables. Then I wrap it with foil. “Don’t tell her there’s veggies in here, Blackbeard,” I say to the cat.
He looks away.
I shove the dish in the oven to bake when Hannah’s key clicks in the lock.
“Daddy!” my little girl yells a moment later. “What's for dinner?”
“Hey,” I chide as she tears into the kitchen, jacket and backpack still on. “How about a nice hello before you start making demands?” I bend down and scoop her up into my arms. When I kiss her chilly red cheek, she smells suspiciously like chocolate.
“Hello, Daddy. I love you.” And she melts my heart with three little words. She blinks at me with her mother's eyes. “What’s for dinner?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“The good kind? From a box?”
Hannah cracks up in the doorway, still bundled up from the cold January day.
“The good kind from scratch. Are you hungry already?”
“Not really. I had snacks. Yummy snacks!”
My gaze flies to Hannah, who looks like she’s been caught red-handed. “Is that so?”
My sister shrugs, and her smile looks apologetic. “I’d love to stay and chat about the delicious treats we just had at Doctor Insomnia’s, but I have to get ready for a night out on the town.”
“On Wednesday?” I ask, as if it’s illegal to enjoy yourself midweek. Although the concept is foreign to me. I don’t get out much, even for coffee. Becoming a single parent has been a huge adjustment, especially since Rosie’s with me most of the time while Bridget is busy.
Hannah, on the other hand, parties like a rock star these days. Flip—whose real name, it turns out, is Phillipe, pronounced the French way—is constantly whisking her off to Broadway shows. New restaurants. Even the ballet.
I’m starting to think the man really loves her. I mean . . . he sat through a three-hour production of Swan Lake.
If that doesn’t say smitten, what does?
Still, I’m skeptical by nature, especially since all I hear is Flip this and Flip that. I’ve only seen the man once since the dreaded game night. A few weeks ago, I suffered politely through a brunch, where I drank a Bellini and tried not to judge Flip for mentioning his family homes in both France and Aspen.
Even if he does love her, he and Hannah are so obviously mismatched. I’ve been bracing myself for the day when she becomes another ex on his social feed. When he decides to move on from my sweet sister to a cold-blooded New York socialite.
Like the day her last boyfriend showed her his true colors. She’d moved in with Colin after a year of dating, but then learned the jackass had cheated on her. He’d begged her to stay with him, said it would never happen again, and when she said no way, he tried to hold all her stuff hostage. So, I went to her place, grabbed her things, and she moved in with Bridget and me for a few weeks till she found her own place.
I don’t want to see her go through that kind of hurt again.
But any day now she'll tell me that she and Flip have broken up, and that she’s heartbroken.
Today, however, is not that day. “Where are you going tonight?” I ask.
“To a benefit at the public library. It's a scavenger hunt! Flip and I love a good scavenger hunt.”
“That sounds magnificent,” I say, wishing I had a social life too. I haven’t had a lot of that recently, thanks to Bridget. But I love all the extra time with my favorite person.
She grins. “Later, Marky Mark. Bye Rosie.”
“Bye Aunt Hannah!” My daughter closes the door on her aunt and then scurries back to the kitchen, dropping her backpack and shedding her jacket right on the floor.
“Rosie! Where do those go?” I remind her. But seriously. “And you’re supposed to put your lunchbox on the kitchen counter, so it doesn't get stinky.”
“Okay, Daddy. I will. But, look!” She pulls something small out of the front pocket of her bag. When she opens her fingers, she shows me a perfect shiny little sphere marked like a black and white soccer ball.
“Is that a marble?” I pick it up and test its smoothness between my fingers. “It's beautiful, Rosie. Is it from that toy store you like?”
“We didn’t go to a store, Daddy. We went to the coffee shop. And Hannah’s friend was there, too. His name is Asher.”