Page 9 of Ship of Fools

“Is there more in the tin?” I try to get up, but Bea is heavy against my chest, and to be honest, I am enjoying the warmth of hanging out with my little sister. A little cuddle on a cold winter's evening. It’s Christmas, after all. Mum and Dad are out delivering food parcels to Mum’s clients, and our big sister Anna has gone out with friends. It’s just Bea and me, and for once the house is delightfully calm and quiet.

“Have you heard from your pretty boy?” Bea says all casually, when I know full well, she’s probably scheming again.

“He’s not my pretty boy.” I say, peeling another chocolate, trying to look unbothered.

“You should text him and say Merry Christmas,” Bea replies, rubbing her tummy with one hand and flicking the TV channels with the other.

“He’s probably out partying. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s flat drunk somewhere.”

“Flat drunk might be good, because if he is, he’ll reply. I always text people when I’m drunk, you know like... drunk texting. He might even fancy you when he’s drunk.” She laughs. “I miss being young and stupid and going out drinking. I won’t be doing that for a while.”

“I’ll babysit, I told you so. And Andreas, he does fancy me, even when he’s sober. He offered, remember?” I shouldn’t remind her of my oversharing mishaps or those ill-advised slip of the tongues. I should never have told her about Andreas in the first place.

“He does, and you are being an idiot.” She huffs, scrolling through the channels before settling on another silly Christmas sitcom special. We have watched them all, and this one is particularly annoying.

“I hate this one, do we have to watch it?” I bicker as she huffs.

“You are just deflecting because you are too chicken to text your crush. Pathetic, Luca.”

“Says the woman who won’t tell us who the father of her baby is.”

“Ohhh, that’s below the belt.”She sits up and stares at me. We are both masters of the evil stares. We are the Germanos after all.

“I’m not chicken. I just don’t want my heart broken by a guy who drinks like a fish, sleeps around and parties like it’s the end of the world.”

“That’s being a chicken, Luca. You can’t run away from people thinking it’s a good thing to avoid getting your heart broken. You can’t live your life being scared of getting hurt. You might get hurt, but also, you never know where it might lead. Maybe this guy is the one?”

“Life is not a fairy tale, Bea. There is never...” I do quotation marks with my fingers, right up in Bea’s face. “The One.” I smirk. “Anyway,The One, that’s a myth. Totally.”

“Mum and Dad were totally each other’sThe One.” She says.

“Mum took pity on Dad because he was pathetic. Then Mum was pathetic too and they both figured out that together, they were less pathetic.”

“God, you are so romantic. No wonder you haven’t metThe One.”

“Says the woman who is up the duff with the mystery sperm donor’s baby.” I might sound mean, but we have bickered about the fact that Bea won’t give up who the father is, for the last five months… She knows my views, and I know her reasons.

“This is my baby.” She says sternly.

“He needs to know who his dad is. At some point he will have questions.”

“The mystery sperm donor has made his views very clear. There will be no contact, no support and no money. Period.”

“He’s an arse, whoever he is.”

“That, we can agree on.” Bea smiles. “You should still text Andreas. Wish him a Merry Christmas. Where is your phone?”

“You should own up to Mum and Dad about knowing who the sperm donor is, and that the sperm donor dude is an idiot.”

“Don’t you dare tell them. Dad will go mad.”

“It’s someone Dad knows, isn’t it? Is it the guy at the petrol station?”

“Oh, fuck off, Luca. As if.” She fiddles with something behind her back, and looks suspiciously pleased with herself.

“Gimme my phone back.” I shriek, diving for her. Of course, making Bea giggle as she triumphantly runs off waving my phone in her hand. She may be heavily pregnant, but has stillmade it into the downstairs toilet and locked the door before I have even managed to get up off the sofa. It’s like we are seven and eight again, arguing over toys and locking ourselves in the toilet, screaming for our mother. I briefly consider doing my old trick of lifting the door off its hinges with a screwdriver and a well-placed kick, as well as screaming for my mother, but. I’m not a kid anymore. And Bea giggles from inside the toilet as I slide down onto the floor with a resigned sigh.

“Bea” I plead. “Please.”

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