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 asmy 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 heended 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.
