Chapter Twenty-One
Rogue
I get out of the car and walk over to the other side to open the curbside door. A pair of legs appears, followed immediately by a body as Suki jumps out. Ivy emerges next, then Astra, all three of them wrapped in pink tutus as they hit the pavement.
“Thanks, Uncle Roro.”
I grunt in acknowledgement and close the door behind them. Crossing the sidewalk, I open the door to Fantasy Froyo next, holding it open as they walk past in a single file line.
With military-like precision, they disperse once in the shop, each of them going to stand in front of different dispensers as they consider which flavor of froyo they're getting this time.
This all started one random Saturday in June a year ago. Sixtine was called in for an emergency at work and Phoenix was out of town so neither one of them could go pick up the girls from their ballet class as they typically did.
Six had tried calling Nera who was sick, then Thayer who didn’t answer because she was at Pilates, then Bellamy who was so hungover from a dinner we’d had the previous evening that she didn’t feel comfortable driving.
With all three of them out of commission, the task had fallen to me to get the girls.
Being suddenly saddled with three excitable five-year-olds, an overflowing amount of tulle and no idea how to handle speaking to this particular demographic—especially when they traveled in a pack formation—I’d been at a loss for what to do with them.
My solution had been to take them for post-ballet froyo, hoping that a sweet treat would distract them until Six made it home. Instead, I’d found myself sitting on one side of a table, faced with the three of them on the other, being pelted with rapid-fire questions ranging from “why are boys stinky?” to “is Santa real?”
Not famed for my tact in handling delicate situations that might shatter childhood illusions, I’d skirted the Santa question and instead focused my diatribe on much safer territory — why boys sucked and should be avoided at all costs.
I’d been met with expressions ranging from solemn to thoughtful, all of them listening intently to what I was saying like I was imparting philosophical wisdom the likes of which Europe hadn’t seen since the days of ancient Greece.
When Six had called me that night, I’d expected and had been poised for the verbal lashing of the century.
Instead, she told me the girls had rebaptized me “Uncle Roro” and that they deemed me “cool”.
Prior to that phone call, if you’d asked me how much time I spent thinking about getting the approval of three five-year-old girls, my answer would have been zero. Now it occupies an inordinate amount of my brain power. Bellamy likes to joke that I’m like a politician checking polling data in the run up to my election.
Rain or shine, post-ballet froyo has been a tradition since. I pick them up every Saturday, watch them spend an ungodly amount of time debating which flavor they should get before they inevitably pick the same one they always do, and then we gossip.
Those three are inseparable, their bond as strong as their mothers’ and I rue the day they’re unleashed on the world as fully blown adults.
They’ll likely bring it to its knees.
“What’s it going to be this time?” I ask Astra. She always gets a plain yogurt base and a million toppings.
“Maybe mint chocolate?”
I scoff. “Abysmal flavor combination. Only wankers like mint chocolate.”
“My Daddy loves mint chocolate, Uncle Roro.”
I pinch her cheek. “You’re not exactly disproving my point, princess.”
A line appears between her brows just as I walk over to Ivy.
“Can I get chocolate sprinkles on top?” she asks.
“You can get whatever you want. Are you getting strawberry froyo?”
Her mouth drops. “How did you know?”
I’ve only watched her order it sixty-one times.
“Lucky guess.”
Suki walks up to me with a cup in each hand. “Smores for me.” Handing me the second, “And peanut butter for you.”
The girls alternate picking my flavor for me every week.
“Great choice.”
She heads to the till and pulls out a pint-sized wallet. Following, I ask, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re buying you froyo this time, Uncle Roro. With our pocket money,” she announces proudly.
I snatch the bill out of her hand before the cashier can grab it. “I don’t think so. Put this back in your wallet.”
“But—”
“Instead of buying me froyo, why don’t you tell me if that little bitch Sarah is still being a cunt?” The cashier gasps at my word choice. I shove my black card her way to shut her up. “Piss off.”
Sarah is a girl in their ballet class. When I’d picked them up last week, Astra had been in tears because Sarah The Cunt had thought it a funny prank to hide my goddaughter’s tutu.
Her parents’ home address has been imprinted in the back of my eyelids since, waiting only for a greenlight from the girls for me to pay them a little visit.
“Uncle Roro,” she giggles. “You can’t say that.”
I take my card back with a glare to the nosy cashier and usher the three of them out onto a patio and to one of the tables. “Why not?”
“Mum says it’s a bad word,” Astra answers.
“Your mum is too stuck up sometimes.”
“Hey, that’s mean.”
I shrug. “Anyway, I can say it when she’s messing with my favorite girl.”
Astra gives me a delighted smile, my slight against her mother easily forgotten. “You’re so silly.”
“I spilled cranberry juice on her tutu when no one was looking,” Suki says easily, scooping some froyo into her mouth, “So she was too busy crying to be messing with Astra.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” I praise her. “Initiative. Revenge. Creative retribution approach. I love it. Very well done. What else?”
“Hmm, I stuck my gum under her shoe.”
“Excellent. If you sneak in a pair of scissors, next time you can cut a big hole in her tutu.”
Suki’s eyes widen. “Oooh.”
Froyo time isn’t just fun and games. The girls learn valuable, real-world lessons and advice from their Uncle Roro.
“We look after each other,” Ivy says proudly. “We’ll look after Rowan when she’s old enough too, don’t you worry.”
The heat that powers through my veins at the mention of my daughter’s name nearly burns me alive from the inside.
She’s three now, with a head of jet-black hair and green eyes, and spends her time running into things or tripping over them in ways that get more comical with every passing day. To say that I’m obsessed is an understatement.
And I’m not the only one.
“She’s already well protected. I don’t think her three brothers are going to let anything happen to her.”
“Yes, but they can’t be everywhere. We’re girls. We can.”
A very valid point I’d never even considered. I look over at the girls where they sit on their side of the table like their very own little council of elders dispensing advice to me.
“She’s the youngest with Hana, so she needs us,” Suki adds.
“You’re right.” I nod thoughtfully. “You’ll tell me if Sarah gives you any more trouble?”
“What are you going to do if she does?” Ivy asks.
I smile innocently. I think it comes out as a grimace. “Talk to her.”
“Mummy says it’s bad to lie,” Suki points out.
“I’m not lying. There’ll be some talking involved.”
Astra gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me while Suki gives me one that says she can protect her friend if it comes to it.
“Anyway, how’s Rhodes? I, uh, haven’t seen him in a while,” Astra adds conversationally.
That piques my interest. “Why are you asking?”
Her gaze flicks over to Ivy who flushes tomato red. Color explodes on her cheeks, contrasting with the currently pale green hue of her hair.
“Just wondering,” Suki interjects. “So, uh, how’s everyone’s froyo?”
“Strawberry is so good. I’ll definitely change it up next week though.”
That’s what Ivy says every week and she always sticks faithfully by her favorite flavor. We continue eating and talking, the girls giggling and telling me the latest about their fellow classmates.
The information I gather during these froyo sessions rivals the kind CIA operatives spend years in deep cover to get. I file it all away for later, not missing a single morsel.
Not even how they asked about my oldest son before smoothly changing the conversation.
***
I’ve parked the car in our ten-space garage but am still sitting behind the wheel when the door opens and Rhodes bursts in.
His gaze moves swiftly over the cars and lands on me in the front seat of the Range.
He makes his way over to me, glancing with affected nonchalance into the back seat. The windows are tinted so he can’t see through them, but he tries his best, squinting like an old man.
“What are you doing?” I ask, intrigued.
“Are you…” he clears his throat. “Did you drop them off back home already?”
“Obviously. Did you think I was bringing them here for a sleepover?”
Rhodes’s ears turn a light shade of pink and his lips thin into a straight line.
Interesting.
“No,” he mumbles.
I get out and shut the door, locking the car behind me with a loud double beep. “Anyone in particular you wanted to speak to?”
His ears go pinker. “No.”
He turns on his heels and walks back down the garage and away from me before I speak again.
“Not even Ivy?”
That stops him. My six-year-old son stiffens and spins back around to face me. “Can I keep her, Dad?”
I laugh at his blunt word choice, caught off guard by the contradiction of his youth and the vehemence in his tone. He misunderstands my reaction and looks like he’s about to cry, clearly thinking I’m making fun of him.
He’s started to run away when I stop him.
“Rhodes, wait.” I walk up to him and place a hand on his shoulder, thinking through what to say to him. I’m not exactly one to encourage restraint. “You can’t keep her just yet,” I tell him honestly.
“Why not?”
The question is asked so earnestly, my stomach pinches. It’s clear my son doesn’t understand why he’s not allowed to keep Ivy when he likes her.
It’s so simple to him.
“When you’re older and assuming you still feel the same way, then you can keep her.”
His brow furrows, his expression confused and uncomprehending as to why it can’t happen now . He gets his impatience from me.
“I will still feel the same way,” he vows, determination etched on his features. “Why do I not get to keep her now?”
“You’re too young. You don’t know if you really like her just yet.”
“Uncle Nix knew with Aunt Six,” he counters.
The twerp may be young, but he’s inherited my debating skills. The lad is six going on sixteen.
I already know that Bell and I are going to have our work cut out for us with this one.
“That’s true,” I acquiesce. “That’s how you feel?”
He nods vigorously. “She’s cool, Dad. She likes bugs, and not the lame ones like other people pretend. Snails and cockroaches and even snakes. And I like her hair. She’s not like other girls.”
I bite back a laugh at the list of criteria he’s identified that make Ivy a match for him. I’m about to try to dissuade him again but then I look down at his face. At the determined and stubborn expression on his features. The very same I see reflected on my own face every single day.
He’s mine. Me in every way, except maybe worse because his obsession has already started. If it’s anything like the one I have with his mother, then there’s no changing his mind or stopping him.
“Then hold onto her tight and make sure you never let her go.”
He nods, his expression more serious than a six-year-old’s should be. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
I ruffle his hair affectionately. “Where are your siblings and your mother?”
“Inside. Mummy is making Lebanese food for dinner.”
After being together for almost fourteen years, you’d think my reaction to my wife would have dulled by now. If anything, the heat that blows through my chest is hotter than ever, carried forward by obsession and possession. I’m sure Rhodes accidentally spilled the beans and Bell meant to surprise me by cooking food from my mum’s country. She does it every so often, always upping herself from the previous time by learning new, more complicated dishes.
It’s her way of keeping me connected to my mum. It’s her way of showing love and unwavering support, exactly as she has since we first met. I’ll never understand what I did to deserve her, but I won’t question it either.
“Did you know your Mum is the best person in the entire world?”
“Yes,” he answers proudly. “You’re not ever letting her go right?” he asks, echoing the words I just said to him back to me.
“I decided to keep your mum a long, long time ago.” Crouching so we’re eye to eye, I grab his shoulders and whisper vehemently, “I’m never letting her go.”
Rhodes smiles, showing me the many gaps where adult teeth are still growing in. “Me neither.”
“Go inside and tell her I’ll be right there. I just need to finish one thing quickly.”
He does as he’s told, skipping back into the house as I pull out my phone and text the lads.
Rogue: Rhys, my son just informed me that he wants to keep your daughter.
Rhys: I don’t even need to ask which of your degenerate offspring is interested in which of my angelic daughters, I already know.
Rhys: Interest declined.
Rhys: He’s been a menace since the day he was born and he will be dealt with.
Rogue: Do you think threatening my son is a good idea?
Phoenix: Rogue, what did you say when he told you that?
Rogue: That he couldn’t.
Rogue: Not yet.
Rhys: Not ever!
Tristan: Has Rhodes considered that Ivy might not even want him back?
Rogue: Why wouldn’t she?
Tristan: Sigh.
Phoenix: Maybe because — and I know this is going to be hard for you to hear, let alone understand — you and your sons are not God’s gift to the Earth.
Rogue: Says who?
Rhys: Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Rhys: Says me.
Rhys: And Ivy.
Rhys: Not that it matters because they’re too young to even be discussing this, but she won’t be interested in him.
Rhys: I won’t let her be.
Rhys: She’ll say no.
Rogue: Can you stop blowing up my phone like a preteen girl? You text the way a rabbit shits; a lot, all at once. It’s embarrassing.
Rogue: And if we’d each listened to what our wives wanted in secondary school, the four of us would still be single.
Tristan: True.
Phoenix: Not me *smirking emoji*
Phoenix: Six always loved me.
Rogue: Rhodes actually brought you two up as the reason he knows Ivy is his.
Phoenix: Fuck.
Phoenix: Sorry, Rhys.
Rhys: Don’t say it.
Phoenix: I have to. I think I ship Rhodes and Ivy now.
Rhys: Traitor.
Rhys: I’ll remember this when it’s your turn.
Phoenix: There won’t be a ‘my turn’ because Astra is never leaving the house.
Rhys: Lol good luck with that plan.
Rhys: Tristan? Have my back here.
Tristan: I’m staying out of it.
Tristan: But no one bulldozed past more nos from their wife than me, so…
Rhys: Wankers, the lot of you.
Rhys: Mark my words, I’ll get myself transferred overseas.
Rhys: I’ll leave Arsenal if it means keeping your son away from my daughter.
Smirking down at my phone, I type out one final text.
Rogue: Do it. Make it a bit harder for him, it’ll be more entertaining for us to watch.
***