I shake my head. “Don’t worry. It’s actually kind of nice to have someone ask me about it. Nobody ever does, so I don’t mind. Don’t apologise, Poppy. I trust you not to run and tell my mom. I know you mean well.”
That makes her grin. “So what about your dad?”
My breath hitches as my father is dragged into the conversation. A rush of emotion hits me, and I feel myself begin to shut down as I clear my throat, the words jammed.
Not much gets to me. I have a pretty strong backbone, but when it comes to my father—it’s a very different story.
I was a daddy’s girl. We got on like a house on fire. I still remember the times we’d laugh at stupid cat videos until our sides hurt. The times he’d help me build a fort in the living room and we’d camp there all night with Chump beside us. The times we’d visit the stables near our house and beg the owners to let us ride their horses for an hour, promising to brush them down and muck them out as repayment.
But all those times are just distant memories now—memories I latch onto because I don’t want to forget them. I refuse to forget them. I refuse to give up on him.
He’s out there somewhere.
Nathan quickly notices my dissociation, and he glares at his little sister, his jaw ticking before he stands up to grab the TV remote, raising the volume to drown out her voice. “Poppy, I’m trying to watch TV. Can you quieten down? This is a good show.”
He hasn’t been paying attention to it at all, though. I know that because I’ve been paying attention to him.
I swallow, my lungs expanding as I breathe in oxygen, allowing the happy memories to drift to the back of my mind.
Nobody speaks, and I try my best to focus on the crappy scripted TV show playing on the television before us.
“Nathan, I thought you were tired. Leo’s settled now. You can go to bed.”
At his sister’s voice, he shakes his head, gesturing to the TV. “No, I like this show.”
It makes me cock my head because I seriously can’t imagine Nathan Slater enjoying a cheesy reality show marketed towards young females.
In fact, Iknowhe’s definitely not enjoying it because his eyebrows pinch together, and his mouth purses when someone on screen starts an argument with another over a drunken kiss.
I shift myself to be more comfortable on the couch, and I swear I see him raise his eyebrows at me—as if he’s asking if I’m going to be okay—but I convince myself it was just my imagination as Leo’s shrill cry rockets through the apartment.
12: Nathan
Iwake to my phone blaring on the bedside table in Poppy’s spare room. “Hello?” I groggily say into it after seeing Evan’s name flashing up on screen.
“I’ve been texting you for the past two hours.” His tone is cold. Grumpy fuck.
“And I’ve been asleep for the past two hours.”
Evan clearly doesn’t appreciate my comment. He steers the conversation towards his son, who I’m certain is still sound asleep in the room next to me. I’m hyper-aware of his presence, but it’s not just him I can feel in the apartment.
Mae stayed over last night. I heard her and Poppy giggling in her room a little past midnight. I even left my door ajar just so I could hear Mae’s laugh a little clearer, which is something I’m not proud of.
“Leo’s still sleeping off his cold. Poppy was great with him,” I tell Evan while brushing my teeth and throwing on a pair of sweatpants.
“Well, maybe if cheerleading doesn’t work out for her, being Leo’s nanny is on the cards.” Evan’s tone is semi-playful.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“Shut up. Get my kid ready.” He pauses. “But, in all seriousness, Nathan, thank you. It means a lot.”
“Hmm. I accept payments in either cash or bank transfer,” I kid before hanging up the phone and entering the kitchen, desperate for a cup of coffee.
I struggle to function without the stuff.
As I step through the curved archway into the sleek kitchen, my gaze is immediately drawn to a barely covered Mae, and I’m unable to look away. It’s clear she’s just woken up—the puffiness of her lips, the frizziness of her hair, and the haze in her eyes all give it away. She’s leaning against the granite countertop, a large glass of water in hand, and her fingers grip it a little tighter as she spots me.
“Morning,” she says, voice light and airy.
