“I’m sure I’m prying, so you don’t have to answer. But I didn’t realize you had a daughter.”
I debate what to tell her. She’s right. She is prying, and I don’t owe her any explanation. But there’s something about her that makes me want to talk, which is not like me. I realize I have to get used to talking about Belle and her presence in my life. This is as good a time as any to start.
“It’s complicated. She grew up with her mom, mostly in London. This is the first time she’s ever stayed with me. We’re getting to know each other,” I admit.
Belle didn’t complain when she was left with me, a father she barely knew. She was withdrawn, but she didn’t complain. How chaotic had her life been to make her so adaptable? And how would she—how would we—adapt when her mother returns to take her back?
“How are you holding up?” Poppy asks me gently, as if she can read the turmoil on my face.
“We’re managing,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t stick my nose into your business. But I feel like it’s only fair because you know about my problems. You may not realize it because I’m such a hot mess right now, but I’m really good at advice. I’m a fixer.”
“I’m not much of a talker,” I grunt out. I don’t share my business with anyone. It’s the way I’m wired. And being famous has only made me that much more guarded, that much more wary.
“I get it,” is all Poppy says.
Silence stretches like a rubber band until it can’t stretch anymore, and I—who normally love silence—break first.
“Belle’s mom left her with me unexpectedly. I had to start this movie, but I didn’t feel right leaving her in Los Angeles with a nanny.” The words tumble from me. “We’re here for a few months to shoot. I have to rent a house, hire a nanny, and try to give her a normal routine. Something she deserves.”
Poppy beams at me, and the horror that I’ve said too much, that I’ve put my trust in a stranger, is replaced by a feeling of rightness. It makes no logical sense, but in my years of doing stunts, I’ve learned to lead with my intuition.
Poppy places one hand on mine and squeezes. She’s petite, but there’s a gentle strength in her touch. “You’re doing exactly what you should do. I can see your bond with her already. A house and some stability are just what she needs. You’re doing really well.”
I feel like one of her students, getting a gold star at the end of the day. But it works. A weight lifts, and I’m dizzy with the lightness of it. I hadn’t realized how heavy the load I carried was until I shared it. I’ve been concentrating on surviving each day, praying I don’t fuck up this fatherhood thing too badly, praying that I, with a million flaws, can do right by my daughter and give her what she needs.
I have people in my life—a manager, costars, acquaintances—but no one I confide in. Yet somehow, in this dark elevator with this girl, I’m spilling my secrets.
If we stay in the elevator much longer, I fear I’ll tell her the rest. How I hadn’t even known I’d had a child. Then six months ago, Claire, my ex, called to tell me I had a daughter. We confirmed it with a DNA test, but I already knew the truth the second she sent me a photo of Belle. She had my hair, my eyes, even the same small cleft in her chin. The resemblance is undeniable.
Claire and I dated for only a short while, but my simple lifestyle wasn’t flashy enough for her. She set her sights on a better prospect who would give her the designer life she wanted, and when she found out she was pregnant, she told him the baby was his. But when that marriage eventually ended in divorce, the truth came out about Belle’s paternity. With Claire now single, her latest billionaire boyfriend isn’t interested in playing dad to a seven-year-old.
So she finally told me the truth. I was in the middle of shooting a movie, but I flew to visit Belle on the breaks I could get over the next few months, trying to get to know her, trying to figure out how to relate to a little girl who was shy and withdrawn around me.
And then just when I finished my shoot, Claire showed up in LA with my daughter, said she would be spending several months traveling with her new boyfriend and needed me to take care of Belle. And then she left without telling me exactly when she would return, as if Belle were nothing but an afterthought.
I can’t share any of this, though, and risk the tabloids finding out the truth. The public relations spin on this is delicate. I never want Belle to know how cavalierly her mother lied about her for all those years. My manager only recently leaked the fact that I had a daughter to the press, sharing a photo of us and inventing a much simpler backstory. I’ve always refused to play any PR game before, but if this is spun wrong, it would result in a media-feeding frenzy and Belle would be the loser.
“It’s obvious how much Belle trusts you,” Poppy says, pulling me out of my deep thoughts about my ex and the mess she created by lying for all these years.
I look away, avoiding my elevator mate’s keen gaze, trying to remind myself that she’s still basically a stranger. I don’t want her to see the guilt in my eyes. The uncertainty. If I’d been a better father, I would have somehow known about Belle. I could have found her, made sure she was okay, years ago. Instead, I have seven years of wasted time, seven years of Belle being shuttled between an endless succession of nannies, according to the few stories she’s shared.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone the big, tough action star isn’t so tough after all.”
“And what about you?” I ask, needing to turn the tables.
“What about me?”
“You got me to talk, something that no one does. So now it’s your turn.”
She looks away. “I already told you way too much. And, I’m the listener. I’m the helper.”
“So no one listens? No one helps you?”
Her smile shifts but doesn’t falter. “I’ve lived in the same town my whole life. If I need something, I have plenty of people I can call. But I prefer being there for others, not the other way around.”
“Because…”
