Page 118 of Sweet Distraction

His words aren’t anything I haven’t been thinking in the dark of the night when I stare at the ceiling with Willow nearby. But hearing them out loud, knowing someone else has noticed it, is huge. Jarring. Fucking with my head.

“It’s so different with her.”

“You need to ask yourself this. If there were no Poppy, if that side of it were to go away, would you still feel the same about her?”

“Yes.”

He nods. It’s slow and measured as is his next sip of his beer. “Well, there’s that.”

Talking emotions is not my strong suit. Never has been. But this is Vince, and Vince is . . . the sounding board in our group. Plus, he’s been through this in his own way.

I draw in a deep breath and just talk without fear of judgment. “I’ve never known anyone that I can be comfortable in silence with yet still feel . . . heard.” Damn, I wish this beer were something stronger. “She likes me for me. She saw the worst before she saw the better. She doesn’t expect me to be . . . perfect.”

“She just wants you to show up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t fuck that up, Rock. I’ve watched her with you and you’re right. She’s cool. She’s fucking amazing with Poppy.”

I laugh because he’s right.

She’s fucking amazing with Poppy. Don’t know how I would have gotten through the last five weeks without her.

The chime on the door pulls me from my thoughts and back to the woman before me. To the situation at hand.

Willow is watching Poppy—eyes soft, smile faint.

“If there were no Poppy, if that side of it were to go away, would you still feel the same about her?”

Yes.

And for the first time, I let myself wonder . . . what if this isn’t just temporary?

What if this is the beginning of something I never believed I could have? That I deserve to have?

To quote Vince, don’t fuck it up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Willow

Poppy’s curled up in the back seat, wrapped in the soft blanket she never sleeps without, bunny tucked under her chin, one chubby arm flung above her head. She’s out cold—so peaceful it makes me smile. The nightmares haven’t completely gone. I feared that seeing her grandparents today might conjure up more thoughts about her mom, about what happened, but for now, she sleeps. I had questioned whether she’d be able to understand who the Whitmores were outside of the context of her mom. But I don’t think she did.

For now, she seems at peace.

And then there’s the man beside me . . .

We’re parked on a quiet overlook just outside the city, headlights off, the sky overhead a wash of smoky twilight. Down below, a runway glows in the distance, blue and red lights marking the stretch of tarmac where planes roar into the air every few minutes.

One takes off now. Rocket sits watching it, tracking its ascent from one side of the runway until it’s up and gone.

I huff a small laugh. “Don’t you get enough of airplanes with all the travel?”

He shrugs. “It lets me think.”

I haven’t seen this expression all day. I wouldn’t exactly describe it as calm, but more like the closest thing I’ve seen to that.

He’s been tense ever since we pulled up to the coffee shop. Since Poppy’s tiny hand twisted in his shirt, and her grandparents spent time with her. Since the weight of what he thought they’d say, what they’d take, what they might judge—all of it—landed like a brick on his shoulders.