Page 87 of It Must Be Fate

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 toFantasy Froyonext, 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 thatI’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.”

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