Chapter 6 #2
While I’m meeting the three couples, two other women gravitate to our group and, after hugs all around, are introduced as Mary Lisa and Amy.
Mary Lisa’s wearing the same kind of short, frilly dress that Pixie wears, with a matching handbag and high-heeled Mary Janes, all in coordinating shades of yellow.
Amy’s a cute, green-eyed brunette in jean shorts and a T-shirt that says “give me a minute while I overthink this” which immediately endears me to her.
We stand around talking for a while, and I join Logan in the usual Air Force/Navy ribbing of Bravo, until Ginger comes over and encourages us towards a pair of plastic-covered tables where there are bowls and bags set out. Twenty bowls. Eight bags. Sixteen bottles. Six saltshakers—
I tear my eyes away before I make a complete inventory. Fucking OCD.
As I’m following Logan and Emily, colorful acrylics curl around my forearm. I pause and glance at the owner.
“Max, will you make pizza with me?” Mary Lisa asks in a high, baby-girl voice that sets my teeth on edge. Emily never talks like that and Pixie doesn’t when she’s talking with me, although I’ve heard her do it in the main chat room. I hated it then, too.
An awkward silence follows her question. I know I’m supposed to fill it and the words rumble up from my chest without me meaning them. “Uh, sure.”
She claps her hands together. “Goodie.”
I glance at Logan for help and find him frowning as much as his swollen face allows. When I lift my eyebrows at him, he shrugs and continues to the table.
Great. Logan’s so smooth, he’d have found a way to send Mary Lisa and her grating girly voice packing without upsetting her. But he’s not going to rescue me, the fucker. I knew he was going to bring me here and drop me in the soup.
Ginger has set up five different, pizza-making stations at the tables and shows us where to start at the first station, making the pizza dough.
Since there’s a bit of a back-up as people in front of us get floury, we have time for more getting-to-know you.
Mary Lisa stays attached to my side like glue but doesn’t say much, so I have a chance to talk to everyone.
Warrin’s a comedian and has the littles giggling wildly with bad puns.
Logan winks his un-swollen eye at me, which I take as my cue to start in with the knock-knock jokes I used to torture him and Manny with.
A couple of those, and a little tickling from her daddy, and Emily has to run to the bathroom to avoid wetting the adorable bottoms she’s wearing.
I’m not even sure what to call them: they’re like soft shorts with ruffles around the leg holes and three layers of ruffles on the butt.
I want to tear those ruffles off with my teeth and have to count the bowls, bags, and bottles again to keep how much l like her clothes from showing in my jeans.
Evidently, littles go to the bathroom in packs because Aggie, Amy, and Sammi troop off with her.
Mary Lisa follows them with her eyes but stays riveted to my side.
“They’re like ants,” Logan says wryly, watching them go.
“Very cute ants,” I respond. “What’re Emmy’s shorts called?”
“Diaper covers, I think. But they’re not. She doesn’t wear diapers.”
I nod absently, not sure how I feel about diapers. The actual crinkly, plastic-y thing has no appeal, but there’s something deeply appealing about the idea of forcing my girl to use the diaper and lie in it, the warm wetness slowly going cold, until I decide to change her.
Where the fuck did that thought come from? I rub my hand over my face.
“Sammi’s wearing them today,” Jack says. “As discipline.”
My eyes snap to him in surprise. So far, the talk has been the usual party-type small talk. Who do you know? What do you do? There hasn’t been anything I’d consider outside the norm and certainly nothing kinky.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan grin. “What’s your boy done now?” he asks.
“He had a project at school with another student and was supposed to meet with them to brainstorm and divide up the assignment. The other guy put him off and put him off and he ended up doing everything himself and turning it in for both of them.” Jack shakes his head.
“I won’t let him be taken advantage of. Even if he doesn’t mind. It’s not okay.”
There are murmurs of agreement all around.
“So, he’s wearing diapers and drinking a liquid diet for a week as a reminder that he’s my little boy and not allowed to do everything himself,” Jack continues.
I clear my throat. “Is he—using the diapers?” I ask in barely more than a whisper.
Jack nods.
“You, um, change him?”
“I do,” Jack says, his tone almost a challenge.
I feel heat flood my face.
Jack nods and stops holding my eyes so aggressively.
Logan pats Jack’s shoulder. “Thanks for sharing that. I think I’d have a full-scale rebellion on my hands if I tried to make Emmy wear diapers, but I like the idea of the liquid diet for a week as a reminder she’s my little girl and not allowed to do everything herself.
A good reminder for an overachieving little.
What are you having Sammi drink to make sure he gets enough nutrition? ”
They launch into a discussion about the best brands of liquid meal replacement while I silently reel at the thought of Jack doing to Sammi what I’d imagined. Without shame or remorse.
I look down at Mary Lisa. Would she wet a diaper and wear it until I decided to change her?
Her blue eyes meet mine, widen, and skitter away.
I think that’s a no.
With half our little pack in the bathroom, Mary Lisa and I end up at the front of the line faster than expected.
She doesn’t have any interest in getting her frou-frou outfit floury, so I sit down and start mixing the ingredients according to the recipe that Ginger’s taped to the plastic tablecloth.
Another little sits down at the table across from me, reads down the ingredients, and starts measuring the warm water into the flour. When she picks up a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon to measure the salt, I gently reach out and correct her.
“Oops, it’s this one. You wouldn’t want super-salty pizza.”
She glances up. Dark eyes, such dark eyes. Cute nose. Laugh lines around her mouth that tell me she’s not as young as her pink bunny ears, blue and purple hair, and floral dress suggest.
“Thank you,” she says.
And then she smiles.
My chest clenches so tight, I can’t breathe. I’ve run half-marathons and not been this winded.
She measures out the salt, tips it into the bowl, and dips her small hands in to mix without concern for getting floury. Then she looks up, a hint of panic widening those dark, almond-shaped eyes. “I forgot the olive oil.”
She lifts floury fingers above the edge of the bowl.
There’s no awkward gap.
“Here, let me help you.” I measure out the olive oil and reach across the table to tip it into her bowl.
She grins and my heart stops again. “Thank you twice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“My name’s Cynnie,” she says. “Is this your first time coming to playgroup with Mary Lisa?”
Cynnie. One of the littles Emily wanted me to meet. Now I know why. Fuck, why did I fight this for a single second? I want to devour her and all she’s done is thanked me, twice.
“I’m not, uh, with Mary Lisa.” Now I’m fumbling. “I came with Logan and Emily.”
Her eyes widen again. “Are you Emily’s friend Max?”
“I am.” Ordinarily, I’d be furious with Emily for talking about me but I’m so pathetically grateful in this moment that I start thinking of whether I should send her pink roses the way Logan does or purple like Cynnie’s hair.
“Nice to meet you, Max. I’m Cynnie.”
She said that. She realizes it after a moment, too, and blushes.
My heart really does stop.
She looks like a golden rose with the color in her cheeks. I want to touch her skin so badly, feel with my fingertips whether her cheeks are as heated as they look, as soft and warm as a rose in the sun. I plunge my hands in to the dough to keep from reaching to her.
She lowers her eyes to the bowl and her lower lip trembles. Is she embarrassed? Over such a tiny slip? She should hear some of my conversational gaffes.
“It’s nice to meet you, Cynnie,” I say gently. “What kind of pizza are you making?”
“Cinnamon,” she murmurs in a tiny voice.
Cinnamon pizza sounds disgusting; I will eat cinnamon pizza all day if it makes her smile.
“Cinnamon is my favorite,” I tell her. “Do you like it with pepperoni?”
She giggles.
I’m going to need a defibrillator in a minute here. I pull at the collar of my shirt, realizing too late that I have flour all over my hands. The white handprint on my black T-shirt makes her giggle again.
“Oh, no. Let me wipe that off for you,” Mary Lisa says and starts patting at my shirt.
I’m tempted to bark at her. That’s the second time she’s touched me. I haven’t invited either time, and I’m getting unhappy about it.
But I don’t need to bark. At my glare, she retreats with a muttered, “Sorry.”
Cynnie grins and I’m reminded of what Brenna said. I’m not here to inspire competition nor do I want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
“It’s okay, Mary Lisa,” I say. “I’ll do it when my hands are clean. Maybe you could help me by setting out the plastic wrap for the dough?”
I nod at the container of wrap positioned at the end of the “dough station.”
“Of course, Max.” Looking a little brighter, she moves around behind me to pick up the wrap. When she opens the box, I check to make sure it’s not one of those with the metal cutting edge, but it’s not. It’s a snap-cut, which should be fine even if she gets her fingers in the way.