Page 50 of Sweet Distraction

Quinlan grins and sits on a barstool in front of Poppy, lowering her voice like she’s trading secrets. “Are you making these cookies all by yourself? Wow. You really are smart.”

Poppy’s lips curl. The tiniest smile.

I blink again.

What the hell is happening? It’s like estrogen central in here. Between the pitch of their voices and them all talking at once, overwhelmed is an understatement.

“Guys. Hello,” I try again. I clap my hands to get their attention. “Everyone. This is Willow. Willow, this is Quinlan. Hendrix. Bristol.” Each one lifts their hand as I call their name. “Everyone.”

There’s a rushed cacophony of sound as greetings and hugs are exchanged so fast my head spins.

“Willow is one of us now. Accepted and liked,” Bristol says making Willow’s eyes widen and head startle. I think she’s just as shell-shocked by this whirlwind as Poppy.

“You can go now,” Hendrix says to me with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We can take it from here.”

She doesn’t wait for me to say a word. Instead, she reaches out and runs a fingertip over Poppy’s red painted toenails. “So pretty. That’s my favorite color.”

Poppy practically preens under her compliment.

I take a step back, more like a stumble back, to sink into a chair by the window, and watch the chaos take shape.

And Willow steps into it seamlessly. I’m not sure why I expected otherwise, but she does calmly. Effortlessly. Steadily with a hand on Poppy’s back as they finish making the cookie dough while praise flies like confetti.

They love both of them.

Of course they do.

My phone buzzes again. I expect it to be another apology from the guys. Instead it’s Quinlan.

Quinlan: No wonder you’re hiding her from the guys. They’d razz the shit out of you if they knew how perfect she was for you.

I glance across the room, meet her eyes, and deliberately scratch my cheek with my middle finger. She lifts her brows and barks out a laugh that has everyone glancing her way. She just shakes it in a never-mind gesture.

And they just go on and on.

Bristol is now showing Poppy a sparkly bracelet and promising to bring a matching one next time. Hendrix has somehow built a pillow fort out of my throw cushions for after the cookies are done, and Poppy is trying to decide whether she even wants to finish them or if the fort is more inviting.

And I just sit there.

Watching it unfold. Watching my old world integrate with this new one I don’t quite understand yet. Watching three women accept my daughter. One who doesn’t talk but who they all completely understand.

This is what normal looks like.

What real looks like.

They know how to be. How to talk to kids. How to read moods. How to offer snacks and build trust without even thinking about it.

And then there’s me.

Sitting here like a fucking tourist in a life I think I want but can’t quite recognize.

Like I missed the memo that came with fatherhood and domesticity and knowing what to do when a kid cries or clings or stares up at you like you’re supposed to have answers.

I stand up too fast. My throat burns and chest hurts and head spins. I bump into the table behind the couch. Willow notices the sound and looks my way.

“Everything okay?” Willow mouths, her head tilting toward me as she brushes a curl from Poppy’s cheek.

“Yeah. I just . . . I’ll be back.”