Page 5 of Sweet Distraction

“Yes. Poppy was there.”

Right. Poppy. Fuck.

“Where is she now? Are Olivia’s parents watching her in the meantime?”

“No. Child Protective Services has temporary custody of her. They’ve moved fast since her window of stability is small. They’re looking to find someone to help ease the transition to whatever is next for her. Someone who can build trust. I was told they’re looking to place her temporarily with a nanny who is familiar with trauma and might provide support while everything is figured out.”

“A nanny?”

“Yes. Perhaps if this goes that way, it’s someone who can stay on and help you with the transition as well, seeing as she’ll already be vetted.”

“Don’t.” I hold up my hands. The last thing I want to talk about is nannies and toddlers and— “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

I blink hard and look around my place. Around the trophies of my life—Grammys and platinum records and pictures of a life lived alone—and wonder what the fuck is going on?

My bandmates are married. My bandmates have kids. I’ve watched each of them succumb to it over the years . . . but it’s not something I ever had on my future radar.

Sandra sets the letter down in front of me. “The letter is short. You should read it.”

I stare at the papers like they’re a live grenade, but not reading them doesn’t change the situation. My fingers tremble as I take it.

Rocket,

If you’re reading this, then something’s happened to me. I know this isn’t fair to spring on you, but I didn’t know how else to do it. Poppy is yours. She always has been. One look at her and you’ll see it.

Our night of fun created this incredible little girl. You never asked for any of this and so I chose to keep her. I chose to love her. And even though I know those choices made her my responsibility, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to tell you a hundred times, but I was scared you wouldn’t want her. I was scared you’d reject her like my parents wanted me to do. But if you are only finding out about her now, I should have told you. I hope, more than anything, that you’ll want to know her. And that since you’re reading this, that you’ll try to give her what I no longer can.

-Olivia

I stare at the handwriting until the letters blur. I shuffle to the one beneath it—a birth certificate with my name clear as fucking day under the section for “father.” If the letter didn’t give me a jolt, then the birth certificate sure as shit did.

Father: Gavin Aaron Caldwell.

Mother: Olivia Francis Whitmore.

Child: Poppy Grace Whitmore.

Everything inside me goes still.

“She could be lying,” I say hoarsely.

“She could,” Sandra agrees.

“Why name me on this if she wasn’t going to tell me?” I ask, trying to reason with logic in a situation that’s completely illogical.

“There are legal ramifications that come from your name stated as the father. It allows the mother to ask for support at any given time. Things like that,” Sandra says. “But she didn’t. In past cases, I’ve seen mothers do this—name the father—maybe planning on telling Poppy the truth later in life, but . . . that’s a guess.”

A three-year-old little girl.

“This has to be a mistake. A total mistake.” My heart hammers, and my hands shake in a way they never have before.

“Again, that’s why we test. But if the results come back that she’s yours . . . you need to be prepared for that. This little girl has just lost everything she’s ever known and will need you.”

My head drops, fingers clenched around the letter. I should feel anger. Panic. Fear.

But all I can manage is focusing on the insanity of this. The randomness on a Friday morning. The ability this might have to fuck up my pretty fucking terrific life.

“She’s just a kid,” I murmur. “And if she’s mine . . .” I trail off, the weight of that if pressing harder than I expect.