Page 39 of Sweet Distraction

I don’t know why my candor surprises her. I’ve never really been one to beat around the bush, but by the slight shock open of her lips, I can tell it does.

“We’re also practicing our words.”

“She’s talking?” My head whips to Poppy and then back to Willow.

“No. Sorry. Only in her sleep. I didn’t—I meant I’m pointing out things in the yard and trying to use the limited amount of ASL—American Sign Language—that I know to try and give her words while she’s choosing not to talk.”

“Why do you say it like that? That she’s choosing not to talk?”

“She’s not really. Her brain has shut down that ability for her—or held it closer, depending on how you look at it—to protect her in some way. But none of what happened is under her control. When I tell her she’s making the choice not to talk, I’m trying to give her some control back. It’s a play on words that a toddler wouldn’t catch but that an adult would.”

I nod. Show me how to do it. Teach me the right words to say. But the words don’t come out, so I deflect. “You do know there’s a pool in the backyard, right? You could have taken her there instead.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Why not use it?”

“Your house is big and beautiful and a marvel of wonders to this little girl who grew up in a studio apartment. If I show her the pool, if I take her to it, then it becomes a thing she wants to do all the time. It becomes a threat to her safety.”

“What?”

“Right now, she’s scared of it. If I take her in and show her it, if she loves it, then I have to worry more about her slipping out the door to go to it.” She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “There’s no pool fence, Rocket. Sure, you have a perimeter fence or whatever was needed to pass inspection when it was installed, but there’s nothing that prevents her from walking out that back door and falling in it and dropping to the bottom. No sensors on the doors telling me a back door has been opened and a toddler has escaped to the backyard. So we’re focusing on the front yard, on places that are safer for now until I can introduce her properly elsewhere.”

I nod, I understand, but a fucking pool fence that will block the view I paid a shit ton for? Like . . .

“I can turn the door chimes on. It’s part of my alarm system. That’s easy.” And the damn sound going off will drive me crazy, but whatever.

“Thank you. It’ll help in all aspects when knowing if she opens a door or not, but the pool still worries me.”

“Fuck,” I mutter and scrub a hand through my hair.

“She was getting cooped up. I thought this would be okay. I hope you don’t—”

“No. It’s totally fine. It was . . . is cute.”

I follow Willow’s glance over to where Poppy is now picking blades of grass, and then throwing them up in the air and giggling as they fall down like confetti. Her curls are still damp—ringlets in pigtails—and her cheeks are flushed pink.

She’s adorable. Beautiful with her green eyes and olive complexion.

I stare at her, trying to process how that little perfect being somehow came partly from me, and then wonder how the fuck to talk to her. And wanting to, thinking about it, means that I’ve accepted this whole . . . situation, but I’m just not there yet. Immature? Perhaps. Real? Very.

“She seems so happy,” I murmur absently.

Willow’s gaze softens. “Right now, she is. The nightmares come when she sleeps. Almost every night, really. That’s why I’m trying to tire her out so maybe she might be so tired they don’t come.”

Jesus. What do I say to that? If I felt helpless before, I feel even more helpless now. “Is there anything that can be done to help her?”

“I have an appointment scheduled with a play therapist. Sandra had your assistant put Poppy on your medical insurance so I called around and found an opening next week. It won’t fix things overnight, but it’s a start. That and time and trust.” She smiles at Poppy. “Kids are way more resilient than they’re given credit for.”

“It’s like you’re her world right now.”

Willow looks at me—right at me—and for once, doesn’t blink. “It’s because I’m all she has.”

Those words hit me just as hard as the jealousy. The truth to them. The honesty that I’m not being what Poppy needs to be right now.

I shift, trying to shake off the weight that suddenly feels like it’s pressing on my chest. Poppy turns our way and smiles.

“Poppy,” Willow says. “Come show your favorite flower to Daddy.” Willow sucks in a breath the minute she realizes what she’s said.