Page 70 of Sweet Distraction

She’s right. I do.

Poppy’s foot brushes my thigh as I settle in beside the two of them on Poppy’s bed. Willow’s shoulder grazes mine, and the silence between us is comfortable. It feels earned.

“She doesn’t roll off this in the middle of the night?” I ask.

“There are sides that I raise up once she’s asleep.”

“There are?” I look down at the net-rail contraption thing and chuckle. “Guess you have it covered.”

“I do indeed. What’s on your mind, Rocket?” she asks.

“The usual.”

She angles her head to the side and meets my eyes. She searches for something I’m not certain of. “It’s more than the usual. What’s wrong?”

I almost say it.

Almost tell her about the call. About the grandparents. About how this irrational fear I suddenly have that they might be able to provide Poppy with more than I can—emotionally, developmentally, and more. That I might lose the first thing I’ve ever wanted that didn’t come in the form of applause or adrenaline or escape.

But I stop myself.

Because what if she thinks less of me?

What if saying it out loud makes it real?

Instead, I shake my head. I hesitate. My sigh could be misinterpreted a million different ways, but I’m past caring. “Help me understand,” I finally say. “How can I be better?”

Her body stiffens beside mine. “Be you. That’s all she needs.”

I snort, but when she places her hand on mine and squeezes, the sarcastic comment on my tongue dies.

“Sing your songs to her. Hum them. Dance to them. Make your voice familiar to her. Not just talking to me but to her. Pick one of your favorites, twist the words around, and make it about her. Make it hers.”

Her words hit home. Take root. Grow into seeds of hope.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Trying is all she wants.”

I reach out and run my thumb over her tiny fingers. “She makes me feel helpless,” I say as Willow rubs her thumb back and forth over the top of my hand. “She doesn’t talk, and so I don’t know what she wants or needs and as a man, that’s not easy.”

Willow nods, but I’m left wondering what kind of voodoo magic this woman has. I don’t talk about my feelings, and I sure as shit don’t admit I’m helpless. Yet here in a span of a few weeks, I’ve cracked open like a book and am saying shit I’d never thought I’d say.

“Did your mom ever look at you, and you just knew she loved you? That she was proud of you?” Willow asks.

The question slams into me. There’s no need to search for a memory that I know doesn’t exist. I’ve tried. I refuse to try again and come up empty-handed. “Next example,” I say drolly.

Willow nods, not pushing. “Okay, then what about with the guys?” she says. “You’re onstage, and you can’t talk to each other above the music, right? And yet you know what they’re saying. It’s the look they give you. Your bandmates’ cues. Their energy. You just know. That’s how it is with Poppy. She just knows you care about her through looks and actions.”

I glance at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “There’s so much more to communication for her than words. There’s hand gestures and expressions and touch. She uses all of those things to communicate with you.”

She wiggles her fingers in her sleep that are still in my hand. Her skin is so soft. So warm.

“You make it look easy,” I murmur.

Willow smiles. “No. It’s never easy. I just have more practice.”