Page 11 of Sweet Distraction

“You okay?” she asks solemnly.

“You’re sure?” I croak. A little girl. A three-year-old whose mom just died and no doubt whose world is more fucking upside down than mine is right now.

“I’m sure.” She gives me a moment to absorb this, if that’s even possible.

And I don’t. Can’t. I do what I’ve always done before and focus on what’s next. On shoving how I feel—lost, helpless, forced, unprepared—down and moving one foot in front of the other while I let the fog of confusion consume me. I need logistics and tangibles. Something other than the thudding of my heart.

“What does that mean?” My throat feels like acid poured over sandpaper. I’m sure it doesn’t sound much better either.

“Your introduction and her placement with you will be tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I screech.

“It’s being arranged as we speak.” Her voice is so steadfast there’s no wiggle room, and yet I ask my question like there is.

“What do you mean tomorrow?” I shove up out of my seat and let my long legs eat up the length of the room.

“You’re her dad. You’re where she belongs.”

There has never been a more ludicrous statement spoken before. Not when it comes to me, anyway.

“I’m the furthest thing from a dad. I didn’t even have one to know how to be one. How am I supposed to—” Full-on panic sets in. I’m split between wanting to jump in my pool and sink to its bottom, or getting in my car and driving as far the fuck away from here and her as possible.

Both make me chickenshit. Both make this real.

I love my life. I have a damn good one. Like . . .

“No one expects you to walk into this with a degree in parenting. You’ll take it one day at a time. I have faith in you that you’ll figure it out.”

While I appreciate her encouragement, it falls on deaf ears.

“So . . . what? I have no say in the matter? Just ‘surprise, you have a kid,’ and it—she’s dropped on my doorstep?”

“She’s not a piece of luggage, so no, she won’t be just dropped per se, and no, Rocket, you don’t have any say in the matter because the test proved she is yours.”

“She can’t come tomorrow. I can’t . . . I’m . . .” On tour. But I’m not so I can’t use my go-to excuse for this. “I’ve got a schedule and appearances and a fucking life. I can’t just become a dad and—”

“Look,” she says sternly, pulling me from the spiral I’m going down. “I know this is a lot.”

“A lot? Sandra . . . I’m not dad material.” How can I be when my own never set anything close to an example? When my own didn’t even want me?

“If you think you’re lost, think of her. Poppy. She’s a little girl who just lost her mother and is being taken away from everything she’s ever known to come live with a father she’s never met. If you think you’re confused, think how she feels.”

Fuck. This isn’t happening.

“Gavin? You there?”

That silence I had drowned in all week slowly suffocates me until my chest burns and my body shakes.

“I need you to listen to me, yes?”

“I’m here.”

“She currently has a caretaker . . . a nanny, so to speak, who’s been looking after her this week. Apparently, Poppy’s taken to her well. The nanny’s name is Willow Adams. From what the CPS officer has expressed, Willow has the experience and skills that are needed—someone Poppy trusts. The state has paid for Willow’s services during this transition, but it would probably be for the best to keep her on until you find someone who suits you—”

“Vet her. Hire her. Keep her on.”

“Rocket, you haven’t even met her.”