16
“Okay, princess. It’s breakfast time,”I tell Izzy as I slide a fluffy pancake onto her plate and haphazardly cut it into bite-sized pieces.
“I pack up?” she asks me, waving at the sheets of colored paper and scattered markers in front of her.
I shrug. “Or you could just move to a different seat if you want to keep coloring after breakfast?”
“Okay.” She dutifully slides off her chair and pads down to the other end of the table, her little legs swinging in anticipation as she waits for her pancakes.
“Okay, here you go,” I announce, setting her plate, fork and a cup of orange juice in front of her, then striding back to the counter to retrieve my plate and the syrup.
“I do syrup!” Izzy demands.
I grin at her. She’s been doing a lot of grip therapy lately and has become pretty obsessed with squeezy bottles. “Okay. But remember what Edie said—start off gentle and press harder if you need to.”
She nods and I help her turn the bottle over and make sure the nozzle is unfastened. Then I watch with a proud smile as she carefully squeezes syrup over her pancakes, her brow furrowed with concentration.
“I do yours?” she asks eagerly once she’s finished drowning her pancakes.
“Sure. I don’t want as much, though. Do you think you can stop when I say?”
She gives a determined nod and starts squeezing syrup onto my pancakes.
Honestly, I don’t really have a particular syrup preference but we try to incorporate as much OT into everyday life as we can and I figure this is a good opportunity to work on her relaxes.
“Stop,” I say once there’s a decent coating of syrup on my pancakes.
I try not to laugh when, instead of releasing her grip slowly, Izzy lets go completely and the syrup bottle plonks down onto my plate.
Well, I guess that’s something to work on…
After breakfast,Izzy helps me wash up—or, more accurately, she squeezes copious amounts of dishwashing liquid into the sink and “washes” a few bowls that weren’t actually dirty while I stack the dishwasher and wipe down the counter. Then she gets back to the coloring she was doing earlier.
We’ve got Piper’s birthday lunch today but we won’t need to leave for a few more hours. So, with Izzy happily occupied for the time being, I let my thoughts wander to last night’s phone call with Damon.
I’m sure Damon will want to pretend the whole incident never happened, but luckily for me the fact that it was a call andnot a text exchange means it’s locked in the memory bank now. Word for word, breath for breath, moan for wild moan.
I don’t let myself replay it—not with Izzy in the same room—but I flick through enough snippets that I can’t resist sending Damon a wake-up text.
Me
Good morning dirty boy
I have a question for you. Do you always moan like a dirty whore while you’re touching yourself or was that a special show just for me?
I’m not expecting him to reply considering how late things wrapped up last night, and especially because 0f how stubborn he’s been about this whole thing. So I’m floored when my phone chimes with a text a few minutes later.
Damon Forrester
I wasn’t moaning like a whore
A slow grin spreads across my face and I don’t hesitate to tap out a reply.
Me
Yes you were. A cheap, nasty one who doesn’t do it for the money
Damon Forrester
