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14
Dane
Something plucks my eyelid.The pleasurable dream of trailing my fingers down Caiti’s naked hip dissipates before I can return to sleep. I tuck my chin into my chest, but escape is hindered by a pillow at my neck. A hand slaps my cheek.
“Wook it, Daddy. I made me bweakfast.”
A sleepy smile spreads across my face, and I scratch an itch on my pec. “You did? What’d you make?” I ask without opening my eyes. These closing shifts at the bar are proving difficult with a toddler running around at an ungodly hour each morning. Welcome to parenting.
“I made a cherry sandwich!” Ophelia states proudly.
Curiosity persuades my eyes open. An extensive yawn transforms into a laugh. “You sure did.”
Ophelia holds out her invention with two hands. A single lone cherry sits held precariously between two slices of dry bread.
“How does it taste?”
While holding her sandwich, she sinks a knee into the cushion at my hip, signaling she wants up. I hoist her and plant her diapered butt on my stomach. Only then does she sink her teeth into the bread, not even far enough to reach the cherry in the middle. She looks at me with wide eyes. “It’s weally good!”
I grin at her enthusiasm over two slices of bread. “Do you know what goes well with cherry sandwiches?”
“What?”
“Pancakes!” I launch a tickle attack on her ribs. “Want me to make some?”
“Yes, please!” She fist pumps both hands into the air, hurling the lone cherry somewhere behind the couch. Our soft laughter rings together in the quiet loft.
“Looks like you’ll need a new cherry for your sandwich.”
She scoots off and zooms from the room. “I get it!”
My gait is much slower than that of a toddler this morning. While Ophelia raids my fridge, I start a pot of coffee and grab the pancake supplies. I carry over a stool and set it beside me at the workspace beside the stove.
“I help you?”
I tap the seat. “Climb on up. Let’s make breakfast together.”
After I measure ingredients, Ophelia dumps them into the bowl. We somehow manage to get pancake powder all over the counter. Her red pajama shirt is speckled white with a tiny handprint right in the center.
“Do you like blueberries in your pancakes?”
“Da wed ones.”
Red ones? “Do you mean raspberries?” I hold up the second option. When I went shopping this week, I grabbed an unnecessarily large assortment of everything, not sure what they liked to eat. Now I’m glad I did so I can give her choices.
She points at the raspberries. “Dose ones.”
“Got it. Come here.” I heft her onto my hip with an exaggerated grunt. Her squeals are music to my ears. “You’re going to help. I’ll pour the batter in the pan, and you put on the berries. But be careful. The pan is very hot.”
I do that thing all parents do where they hold the kid’s hand over the stove to feel the heat. Her dark eyes grow impossibly round, and she tucks her fingers against her chest. “Hot,” she repeats.
“Here we go.”
She’s the best little chef’s helper. Her tongue pokes out the side of her ruby lips as she concentrates on dropping exactly five berries on each mound of batter. While we wait for each batch to flip, I twirl her around the kitchen.
“Faster!” she squeals and slaps my bare chest with berry-stained hands. Her curly hair floats behind her. She wraps her arms around my neck and shouts, “Mommy, we make pancakes!”
I execute another quarter turn in surprise. Caiti leans against the frame of my bedroom door, her long, sleek legs on display beneath her pajama shorts. Delight glitters in her eyes as she watches the two of us.
“You are?” Caiti’s tone only feeds her daughter’s excitement. “Are there any for me?”
Ophelia twists her lips to the side. “Say please.”
Caiti crosses the room. A rumpled mess defines her hair, and pillow lines dent her cheek, but she’s gorgeous first thing in the morning. Our eyes meet for half a second before she closes the distance and takes one of Ophelia’s small hands in hers. “Please, oh please, can I have some of your delicious pancakes?”
Ophelia pats her mother’s cheek with sticky fingers. “Duh, Momma.”
Caiti loses the battle on a snort and bypasses us to the coffee pot. “I feel duped. She traded sweetness for sass.”
“It happens to the best of us.” I steal a glance at her mother while Ophelia and I resume our position at the stove. “One more batch. Get the berries ready.”
Once the pancakes are done, Ophelia races to the table, I carry the food, and Caiti follows with plates and utensils at a much slower pace. The caffeine hasn’t infused her yet.
I spear a pancake from the stack. The family atmosphere slams into me as we pass plates and dish our food. I don’t recall this experience in my past because it’s not something I had. The normalcy of Sunday morning breakfast in pajamas always seemed like an imaginative theme from ’90s sitcoms. These two girls have shared hundreds of breakfasts together, but this feels like a family unit. One I don’t want to exclude myself from any longer.
A clattering fork forces me back to the present moment.
“Sorry,” Caiti says and seizes the offending utensil. “I was going to ask if you had plans today before work?”
I gaze at her patiently, noting the faint redness lingering on her cheek. “No. What do you have in mind?”
She stares at her half-eaten plate. “Evie’s been telling me about a bridge in town. I thought we could go see it if you wanted to follow us there.”
The implication is she seeks another driving lesson. “I’ll take you both to the Swinging Bridge.”
