My heartbeat had slowed to an uncomfortable, drowsy clank. It was making me lightheaded. “You expect me to believe?—”
“No, I don’t,” he answered. “I don’t expect you to believe a single word that comes out of my mouth ever again. I can, however, prove it.”
Color and light flared over the projector screen, snagging my attention. Whatever objections I may have had about our conversation being interrupted dissolved the instant the image registered.
My breath caught in my throat as the woman in the grainy video shot the camera a wide, toothy smile. She waved enthusiastically with one hand, the other preoccupied with a futile attempt at taming the wild curls of the grumpy hellraiser she’d birthed.
Rosie.
“Who’s excited for their first day of grade six?” My mom’s cheery voice floated through the tent just as Rosie finally gaveup, letting the preteen gremlin’s cowlick swoop whichever way it wanted as she shuffled back to the stove.
Dominic and I were sitting at the island in my parents’ old kitchen, too preoccupied to pay my mother or her camera any attention.
“You have drool on your cheek,” eleven-year-old me informed eleven-year-old Dominic, having already caught on by that age that the early morning hours were the best time to annoy him.
“Who cares,” he grumbled, wiping at it with the pressed sleeve of his new uniform.
I smoothed out my perfectly sleek ponytail. “Mmm, guess you’re right. You’ve already got a face only Rosie could love. Getting rid of the drool won’t fix it.”
“And you have a personality no one could love,” he snarled back. “Gonna be real annoying when we’re both old and Mom makes me marry you so you don’t feel left out. It’ll be Valentine’s Day all over again.”
Instead of reprimanding him, Rosie chuckled and retrieved a sheet of freshly baked biscuits from the oven.
“No one said you had to give me that stupid Valentine’s card!” I exclaimed, twisting on my stool.
“That’s not true. Mom did. Because she was worried you’d feel left out.”
“Yeah, becausenotreceiving a drool-stained card with defaced hearts and your chicken-scratch ‘I’m writing this against my will’ note would have been a heartbreaking travesty.” I rightened in my seat again, sitting up straight. “Plus, I already know who I’m gonna marry, and it’s definitely not you.”
The video angle shifted as my mother presumably placed the camera down, turning to provide a full view of the kitchen. Then she was in the frame, hurrying to help Rosie plate our breakfast.
The two of them exchanged amused looks that we missed, cheeks sucked in as they tried not to laugh.
“You can’t marry Cristiano Ronaldo,” Dominic retorted after a thorough roll of his eyes. “He’s too old for you, and there’ll be a language barrier, I bet.”
“I can learn Spanish.”
“It’s Portuguese, dumbass. And you barely have a grasp on English.”
Rosie stopped what she was doing and fixed him with a warning look, no longer smiling. “Apologize. Now.”
He did so under his breath. Then repeated himself, louder this time, until she turned back to her work, satisfied.
“How would you even meet him?”
I shrugged. “I’ll ask my dad to buy whatever team he’s on for my birthday when I’m eighteen. Samira’s parents just bought a hockey team, so it can’t be that hard.”
“He’s not even that good,” Dominic grumbled, nudging at his glass of untouched orange juice.
His backpack slumped onto its side under the bar, touching mine. I kicked it away, but only after glancing at my mom and Rosie to make sure they wouldn’t see.
“He’s better than you.”
“I’m eleven!” he exclaimed, as though that was the only thing holding him back from outperforming one of the greatest soccer players of all time. “And you know what, I bet he’s gonna be married by the time you buy the team anyway, and then what?”
“Well, then, I guess you really will have to marry me, Dommy.”
Rosie laughed at that, and my mom flicked at her arm, suppressing her own grin. They’d spent the entire time silently conversing with each other, exchanging secret looks and mouthing little words that weren’t meant for our ears.
