Page 56 of Sweet Distraction

I wake up early. I’m dead tired—sleep was hard to come by for obvious reasons—but I figure if I get up early and am occupied with Poppy by the time he gets to us, that will make both our lives easier.

And a lot harder for him to talk to me. Alone.

Then again, will he? Or will he just pass it off as no big deal since he’s probably used to women willing to do anything for his attention?

Luckily for me, Poppy’s in a great mood. The sounds she makes to communicate—muted grunts, quiet sighs, emphatic assent—are more frequent now. Louder. Insistent. The therapist thinks she’ll be talking sooner rather than later but emphasized there is no “expected” timeframe.

But it feels like she is. Like she wants to. Sure the nightmares still come, but there’s more space between them than there was before.

And last night there were none.

So Poppy hums to herself as she eats breakfast. I hold a one-way conversation with her that’s responded to with more giggles than grunts. We take our routine morning walk through the neighborhood where I point out colors and flowers and insects we see on the way. When we get back, we practice our alphabet and sight words. We stack magnetic tiles until they collapse like tiny neon skyscrapers. All while I make every effort to avoid the hallway to his studio and keep clear of every corner of the house he might be in.

If I hear his footsteps, I go the other way. Every time I catch a glimpse of his silhouette down the hall, I duck into a room and stay there. But avoiding him doesn’t stop my stomach from fluttering or from my pulse racing like it’s being chased.

I need to get out more. If there’s one thing the infatuation with the kiss has taught me is that I’m narrowing my world too much. I need to step away from the house so that Poppy doesn’t consume my entire world . . . nor thoughts of Rocket and his kissable lips.

So I make a plan. A schedule for me. A new routine for Poppy with built-in quiet time, more time at the park, library days, music therapy appointments—space.

And a note.

I leave it on the counter in the kitchen like I’m dropping off an invoice.

Rocket,

Now that Poppy has more of a routine down, I’d like to adjust my hours and take off two evenings each week.

I’ve written out Poppy’s modified routine and mealtimes. She’ll be asleep most nights by seven. I’m giving you notice in case you need to arrange for someone else to come in and care for her, either a babysitter or one of the guys’ wives, if you’re unable to watch her.

Thank you,

Willow

Clinical. Professional. Safe. And options for him if he chooses not to watch her himself.

But all this—a new schedule and a posted letter—doesn’t save me from what I’ve been avoiding all day.

Knock. Knock.

Dread drops in my stomach at the sound because there’s only one person it could be.

I glance over to where Poppy is curled up in her favorite chair by the window. She has a dozen or so picture books on her lap and around her as she goes through one after another and “reads” to them.

“Willow?” Rocket’s voice sounds rough. Tired. Frayed around the edges like a guitar string about to snap. “I know it’s late, but do you have a minute?”

I stare at the knob. At the place my hand wants to reach but doesn’t. Can’t.

“If this is about the schedule I left on the counter,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, “we can talk about it in the morning.”

“Schedule? Not sure what you’re talking about, so no, it’s not.”

Shit.

I rest my forehead against the door and draw in a fortifying breath. It’s amazing how I’ve managed to keep myself so busy all day—crafts, playing, music, mindless chores—but just the sound of his voice on the other side of this door brings the feelings from last night crashing back.

“It’s about last night,” he says.

Oof.