Page 11 of Cocoa Kisses
Sara is laughing too hard to answer, and when the timer on her phone goes off, my dad looks absolutely disgusted that his team didn’t guessSeabiscuit.
“Really, Dad?” I say. “They were supposed to get Seabiscuit from a swimming sandwich?”
“I wasgalloping,” he says at a near yell, which sets Mrs. Bixby off laughing as hard as Sara.
“Fine, Mr. Expert Charades Guy. Let’s see what you got,” he says, sitting down in a way that makes the whole sofa sound like it’s huffing in indignation.
Sara and Taylor cheer. “Go, Levi,” Taylor says.
I draw a slip from the bowl and stare at the words.I’m the king of the world.
The parents show no mercy. “Time starts now,” my mom says.
I hold up six fingers. At first I try to show a boat sinking, but they guess “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and Pearl Harbor. Finally, someone guessesTitanic, but they’re not getting the quote, even when I try walking around all cocky like Leonardo DiCaprio’s character. Exasperated, I grab Taylor, pull her up in front of me, stick her arms out like Kate Winslet on the bow of theTitanic, and stand behind her, hands on her waist.
Now, at least, they’re guessing close to the quote. “Oh, king! You’re the king of the ocean? What is the quote?” Sara smacks the side of her head.
Taylor sometimes seems taller than she is, probably because she’s always bursting with energy, always claiming her space in a room without trying. You can’t ever forget that she’s there, and you’re always half-primed for her to say something funny or smart or insulting or all three. But as she’s locked inside my arms, almost breathless with laughter, I’m aware of how small she is. I’m barely six feet tall—sometimes just under on a tired day—and the top of her head still barely reaches my chin.
I probably have seven inches and fifty pounds on her, but as her back shakes against my chest, she’s so . . . there. I can’t even pretend this makes sense, for this slight woman to be filling my arms so completely, but she is. The warmth of her body beneath her soft sweater, the scent of baked cookies that trails her everywhere, the sound of her giggles as I pretend to put a crown on my head, then Taylor’s head, in a wasted effort to get Sara to guess the quote. I forget to move for a few seconds, focusing on the feel of her against me. I make a big globe shape with my hands, but it’s too late.
When my mom calls time, Taylor slides to the ground and rolls to her back, too weak from laughing to stand, grinning up at me and trying to speak.
“You were”—gasp of air—“that was so”—“I can’t!” And then she’s laughing too hard again.
Sara is giving me a look of disgust. “What even was that?”
I fold my arms over my chest and scowl from her down to Taylor. “Useless. Both of you.”
This only makes Taylor clutch her side and laugh harder.
I roll my eyes. “I’m the king of the world.”
My dad shakes his head. “Son, my swimming sandwich was closer to that than whatever you did up there. That scene wasn’t even with Kate Winslet. It was with his friend.”
I reach down to pull Taylor up, but she bats my hand away and crawls to the couch, still grinning.
Sara stands. “This is going to take wine. Anyone else?”
All the parents’ hands go up.
“Taylor, go help her with the glasses,” Mrs. Bixby says.
“I got it,” I tell Taylor. “You sit there and think about your behavior tonight.” She giggles again and winces like it hurts to laugh at this point. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
She pretends to scratch her eyebrow while making a rude gesture.
Sara and I head into the kitchen, but when my dad says, “Look at me, I’m the king of the world,” there are more hoots and laughter, and I turn in the kitchen doorway to glare at them, trying to keep a straight face. Sara leans against the other side of the wide doorway, watching them.
“They might be drunk already,” she says, smiling. “One cocktail and they’re all ridiculous. Maybe we should cut them off.”
“Mommy?”
We all turn toward the stairs, where one of her twins is standing, hair sticking up, big eyes looking worried.
“Hey, Gage. Did we wake you up, honey?” Sara asks.
His bottom lip quivers. “Oh no, Mommy.” He points above us. We both glance up to see mistletoe. “You have to kiss, but that’s not Daddy.”
