Page 68 of Sweet Distraction

But when I unlock and open my front door, the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that used to be comforting but now just feels hollow and unsettling.

How the hell did that happen?

I don’t know why I stand there instead of heading to my room or game room like usual. Maybe I don’t want to be alone tonight. Maybe I’m curious what Poppy and Willow are doing. Maybe I don’t desperately crave the solitude like I used to because I have skin in the game and a riot of thoughts in my head.

The silence tells me to move on. To go to bed. And just as I decide to do that, I hear something. It’s not music or the hum of a television. It’s something softer.

Singing? Is that Willow?

I don’t hesitate. My feet move toward the sound like I don’t even have a say in the matter.

Her voice grows louder as I approach. At first, I think it’s a lullaby, but then stop when I hear the chorus. It’s one of our ballads.

I don’t know why that moves me. People all over the world sing our songs, and yet I stop at the open doorway of Poppy’s bedroom and listen.

Willow’s sitting against the headboard. Her feet are bare and crossed at the ankles. Her hair is loose and in waves over her shoulder. And then there’s Poppy, curled against Willow’s chest like a heartbeat outside her own body.

She continues singing softly, her voice not half-bad, while she strokes Poppy’s back in slow, even motions. Her face is soft and calm in a way I’ve never figured out how to be.

My gaze moves to Poppy. To my daughter.

For the first time, that word doesn’t get stuck in my throat. It doesn’t unsettle me or feel like a punch to the gut. It just is.

She simply is.

She’s asleep. Her tiny hand clutches Willow’s shirt, and one foot is kicked out from under the blanket. Her curls are sticking up all over the place, and her pajamas are pink. She looks a mess in that way that little kids do when they get hot and sweaty while they sleep. And she looks safe.

Fucking hell. The way that thought hits me . . .

I suddenly want to be that for her too despite the fear.

I can be that. I can do that. I can make myself enough for her, right?

Maybe knowing—experiencing—what not to do could make me know what to do?

I have to try. I have to . . .

She makes the softest of sounds and snuggles deeper into Willow. Something in my chest tightens—it’s fear gripped in hope.

But not over her being here.

What’s it going to take from me to be exactly who she needs me to be? I don’t know the answer, but . . . I have to try.

Poppy’s a walking mirror of everything I never thought I’d deserve. And now her grandparents want her? Strangers, but family. People with actual histories and photos and maybe a swing set in the backyard. People who probably know how to bake cookies without a tutorial and don’t need a nanny to show them how to raise a kid because they’ve already done it before.

Would she be better off with them?

No. The answer is definitive in my head, but logic questions that.

My chest aches with the weight of it, and I step into the room before I can talk myself out of it.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

Willow lifts her head, and when her eyes find mine, they light up. “Hi.” She scrunches her nose. It’s rather adorable. “How embarrassing to get caught butchering one of your songs.”

“Not at all. I liked it.”

“It’s ridiculous. I don’t know.” She’s flustered, and it’s cute. “I thought it might be nice for her to get used to your music. Kind of like it would help her get to know you or something. Whatever.”