I drop the keys on the counter. “We're going toassemblethe pizza. No one is making dough from scratch on a Sunday night.”
Penelope pouts like I’ve insulted her personally.
Carly laughs, already reaching for the bag we brought in from the car to start pulling out the ingredients.
That is how I end up in my own kitchen with flour on the counter anyway because Penelope insisted it made it feel like we'd made the dough, a bottle of sauce open, shredded cheese everywhere, and Carly standing at the island beside Penny's step stool, helping Pen sprinkle pepperoni on one side like it’s a serious artistic project.
“No, squirt,” Carly says, laughing. “If you put all of them in a pile, your dad’s going to end up with a single slice of heavily-pepperonied pizza and seven slices of cheese.”
Penelope dissolves into giggles.
I lean against the counter with a beer and watch them. “Don’t ruin pepperoni for me.”
Carly glances at me over Penelope's head, grinning softly, her hair tucked behind her ear and flour on her face. “You’ll survive.”
The way she's looking at me shouldn’t hit me the way it does.But it does anyway.
We eat in the living room because Penelope decides the coffee table is better for movie night, but we all have to sit on the floor at her request.At one point, I reach for another slice of pizza and Penelope squints at me from across the box.
Then she points.
“Daddy, what happened to your neck?”
I choke on my bite so violently that I have to grab my beer.
Across from me, Carly freezes.
I know exactly which mark Penelope spotted because I saw the damn thing in the mirror before we left the resort. Most of the others are covered. That one must have slipped above my collar.
Penelope climbs onto her knees for a better look. “That red spot.”
I swallow, clear my throat, and glance at Carly.
Big mistake.
She’s trying so hard not to react that it makes it worse. Her eyes have gone wide, her hand covering her mouth, guilt and amusement flickering across her face.
I drag my gaze back to Penelope. “Ski pole.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I fell skiing,” I say smoothly, because I have no other choice now but to fully commit to this humiliation. “Poked myself in the neck with one of the poles.”
Penelope’s face crumples with concern. “Did it hurt?”
I grin at her. “Only my pride.”
She nods solemnly, then goes right back to eating like she didn’t just age me five years with stress alone.
After that, she decides the movie cannot possibly happen without a pillow fort. A proper one, at that. She wants a huge one, with blankets and pillows and for it to overhang like she saw in a show she watched, something we can all snuggle down into.
So we build one.
Or, more accurately, Penelope issues commands while Carly and I do the actual labor. Dining chairs get hauled in. Blankets get draped and tucked, and couch cushions become structural supports. I haul in a handful of the deck chair's cushions to sit on. At one point, Carly is standing on the rug holding up one end of a throw blanket while I try to anchor the other side over a lamp and Penelope keeps saying, “No, not like that,” with the authority of a tiny architect.
By the time we’re done, the fort is ridiculous. Too big in some spots, sagging in others, but Penelope is ecstatic, which apparently makes it perfect.
She drags all the leftover blankets and throws pillows into the middle and climbs in. “Movie time.”
