I attempt to cross my arms over my waist, but the splint makes the motion uncomfortable so I keep my arms to my sides. “Well, may Fortuna be upon you.”
He raises a brow. “You meanfortune.”
“I know what I said,” I mumble.
I’m a little glad he didn’t ask me to help because my aim is complete garbage. Maybe that’s why I think these games are a hoax—because I can’t win a single one of them.
He tosses the first two rings and both of them bounce off the rims of the bottles and onto the floor.
I wince. “Bummer.”
“I’ve got three left, D,” he reminds me, eyes still on the game. Without looking down, he grabs a ring and tosses it without a second thought. We watch it fall around the neck of the bottle and onto the table, surrounding the base of the metal bottle.
Ay, mierda. My jaw drops and stays that way when he does it again with his remaining rings.
“Pick your prize from the middle two rows,” the game attendant tells Carson in the most monotone voice I’ve ever heard—and I thought the priest at my mom’s funeral was duller than a sack of unwashed potatoes.
Carson places one finger on his chin, concentrating deeply. “What do you think I should pick, Diana?”
“How?” I’m still shocked that he won and yet he’s all nonchalant about it.
He shrugs, smirking. “I just have good aim.”
Not even Apollo has that great of aim, and he’s the god of archery.
I stare amongst the vast three choices presented. “I don’t know. They all look the same.”
“Really?”
“Not literally,” I say. “But it’s not like you need to feel connected to a certain one.”
“True,” he agrees. “But what about the oneyoufeel connected to?”
I laugh softly. “It’s not like you’re gonna give it to me.”
He doesn’t say another word. I turn to face his side profile (of course, his side profile is handsome) and my heart starts beating faster than normal. Was he going to?
I switch my focus to the prizes, my eyes stopping at a particular, tall yellow minion. “Maybe that one.” I point to it.
He points to the yellow one-eyed guy and the attendant removes him from the shelves and hands it to Carson. “Congratulations,” says the robot attendant.
“I got to say,” Carson begins as we walk away from the booth. “This guy is a lot bigger than he looked on the shelves.”
The stuffed minion in question is so big that it reaches just below Carson’s chin. He’s holding the stuffed minion by the waist and for some reason, I find myself wishing I was in that minion’s place.
I am not someone who gets jealous so easily, especially where a stuffed minion that speaks incoherently and eats nothing but bananas is concerned.
“What’s this minion’s name again? I can never remember.”
He shrugs. “He looks like a Steve.”
“Steve?” I shake my head. “No, that’s too basic.”
“What were you going to suggest? Carl?”
We continue to go back and forth with names. Once I suggested Donald, another time, he picks Bartholomew and it’s then we realize that not only naming the minion is a lost cause, but that Carson sucks at picking names.
I decided right there that if I ever have children, I’m not going to Carson for help naming them.
