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“I’m gonna let you win, now,” I say.
“Should I pretend to clobber you?”
I glance over at the group under the tree. Ignacio looks up, somehow aware whenever my eyes are on him. He gives me a crooked smile and goes back to whatever’s going on over there. Looks like someone brought out a checkers board.
“Nah,” I say. “They’re not even looking. Splash me with water.”
“What? No.”
“Just do it. Toss the contents of your bottle at me.”
There’s only an inch of water in my bottle because I’ve been secretly drinking it instead of gargling with it. I dump what’s left down my shirt. Ahhh, that feels so good. It’s so hot out here, even my hair is getting a sunburn.
“I’m not going to throw water at you,” says Edmund.
“Please, just do it. Hurry before someone looks.”
“I… I…”
“Do it, dang it, or—”
Splosh.
The contents of Edmund’s bottle splatter my face, hitting me forcefully from an upward trajectory.
“Ugh! You got it up my nose.”
“I didn’t want to splash you in the first place.”
“It’s supposed to look like you spit on me. Who spits upward?”
“If I won, you would have spit on me.”
Stone silence falls between us as we stare at one another. And then, as if someone popped open a champagne bottle, we burst out in laughter. We couldn’t get any more ridiculous if we tried. So, noticing there was still a little bit of water left in his bottle, I snag it from him and splash his face. He’s left with his jaw open as I march over to the siblings and announce, “Edmund won.”
Ignacio’s face cracks into the most glorious, genuine smile I’ve ever seen on him. He’s so beautiful, I want to die. But I pull up my big girl panties and give him a playful thwack with the tortilla right upside his head. The tortilla falls into pieces all over the ground, which the animals will enjoy later. I hear there are goats but I haven’t seen them yet. Nate looks up briefly but then goes back to the checkers game. He’s hovering over while Sebastian and Mateo play like their lives depend on it, and Francesca already took off somewhere with Edmund.
Ignacio doesn’t miss a beat. He captures my wrist with a confident hand and pulls me down onto his lap, arms curled around my waist, holding me there.
Fingers press firmly into my sides, he pins me with a roguish stare.
“I think you should pay for that,” he says.
I squirm. “What are you going to do to me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
But then his fingers wiggle and pinch, sending tingling jolts through me. I squeal, both loving and hating the sensation of being tickled.
I twitch and kick my legs, but he holds me even tighter, doubling down in his efforts.
I’m screaming at this point. I am so much more ticklish than the average person, I think.
“Ask for mercy,” he says.
“Never.”
“Then pay your dues another way.”
