“Oh, sweet girl.” Poppy adjusts the blankets, her movements gentle and sure. “We need a distraction. What do you think? Story? Song?”
“She likes Motown,” I hear myself say as I step inside and close the door behind me.
Poppy looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”
“Nadine swears by it.” I move closer, drawn in despite everything.
Nadine. Right.
“Okay then.” Poppy starts humming—badly, off-key—but soft and sweet, and something in my chest loosens.
I should leave. Instead, I sit right there on the floor, back against the couch. Close enough to feel her warmth and catch hints of her perfume beneath the smell of wet dog.
“‘Cruisin’’?” I guess, recognizing the melody despite her terrible pitch.
She laughs quietly, the sound cracking something open inside me. “I don’t know the words.”
“That’s barely Motown.”
“I don’t know any Motown.” She keeps humming, her fingers stroking Muffin’s ears with infinite patience.
“Tragic.”
“Yeah, well.” She continues humming, but her voice wavers. “Add it to my list of failures.”
“Poppy—”
“Don’t.” Her voice is barely a whisper, raw. “Not tonight.”
So I don’t. I just sit there while she hums to my neighbor’s neurotic dog. The storm rages outside, rain lashing against the windows. Inside, it’s just us, terrible humming, a wet dog, and all the things we’ve said to each other.
Eventually, the thunder fades. Muffin’s breathing evens out, stops shaking. Her body goes heavy with sleep.
Falls asleep.
“You can go,” Poppy says without looking at me, still stroking Muffin’s ears. “She’s okay now.”
“What about you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m fine.” But her voice is hollow.
“Liar.”
She finally meets my eyes, and I see it all there—exhaustion, hurt, frustration. “Takes one to know one.”
Fair.
I stand, joints protesting from sitting on the floor, and brush off my jeans. “I’m sorry. About earlier.”
“Which part? The robot thing or calling me naïve?” Her voice is flat, carefully neutral.
“Both. All of it. The things I said were…” I trail off, searching for the right word. There isn’t one.
She looks back at Muffin, her profile sharp in the dim light. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Poppy—”
“Please just go.” Her voice cracks slightly, and I hate that I did this. “I can’t do this tonight.”
