Page 15

“Oh. Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Willow grins, quick and crooked, and then looks away like it costs her something to keep it playful. At least there’s that .

“Poppy wanted to cool off, and I thought it was a good opportunity to get her outside in the sun for a bit and get some of her energy out.”

“She’s smiling,” I murmur.

Willow nods as she angles her head and studies me. “Yes. She is. More and more. It takes time to build trust, even with a three-year-old.”

I’m not sure if that’s a dig or a suggestion, but I just nod and hold those brown eyes. “Suggestion noted.”

“That’s not what I meant. That it was a suggestion.” Her cheeks flush with color. She’s flustered. “That you’re doing something wrong.”

“Wills, I’m doing everything wrong. I know it.” I glance over to Poppy where she’s studying the flowers. “It’s hard to break cycles you’ve lived in your whole life.”

I don’t know why my candor surprises her. I’ve never really been one to beat around the bush, but by the slight shock open of her lips, I can tell it does.

“We’re also practicing our words.”

“She’s talking?” My head whips to Poppy and then back to Willow.

“No. Sorry. Only in her sleep. I didn’t—I meant I’m pointing out things in the yard and trying to use the limited amount of ASL—American Sign Language—that I know to try and give her words while she’s choosing not to talk.”

“Why do you say it like that? That she’s choosing not to talk?”

“She’s not really. Her brain has shut down that ability for her—or held it closer, depending on how you look at it—to protect her in some way.

But none of what happened is under her control.

When I tell her she’s making the choice not to talk, I’m trying to give her some control back.

It’s a play on words that a toddler wouldn’t catch but that an adult would. ”

I nod. Show me how to do it. Teach me the right words to say . But the words don’t come out, so I deflect. “You do know there’s a pool in the backyard, right? You could have taken her there instead.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Why not use it?”

“Your house is big and beautiful and a marvel of wonders to this little girl who grew up in a studio apartment. If I show her the pool, if I take her to it, then it becomes a thing she wants to do all the time. It becomes a threat to her safety.”

“What?”

“Right now, she’s scared of it. If I take her in and show her it, if she loves it, then I have to worry more about her slipping out the door to go to it.

” She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “There’s no pool fence, Rocket.

Sure, you have a perimeter fence or whatever was needed to pass inspection when it was installed, but there’s nothing that prevents her from walking out that back door and falling in it and dropping to the bottom.

No sensors on the doors telling me a back door has been opened and a toddler has escaped to the backyard.

So we’re focusing on the front yard, on places that are safer for now until I can introduce her properly elsewhere. ”

I nod, I understand, but a fucking pool fence that will block the view I paid a shit ton for? Like...

“I can turn the door chimes on. It’s part of my alarm system. That’s easy.” And the damn sound going off will drive me crazy, but whatever.

“Thank you. It’ll help in all aspects when knowing if she opens a door or not, but the pool still worries me.”

“Fuck,” I mutter and scrub a hand through my hair.

“She was getting cooped up. I thought this would be okay. I hope you don’t—”

“No. It’s totally fine. It was . . . is cute. ”

I follow Willow’s glance over to where Poppy is now picking blades of grass, and then throwing them up in the air and giggling as they fall down like confetti. Her curls are still damp—ringlets in pigtails—and her cheeks are flushed pink.

She’s adorable. Beautiful with her green eyes and olive complexion.

I stare at her, trying to process how that little perfect being somehow came partly from me, and then wonder how the fuck to talk to her. And wanting to, thinking about it, means that I’ve accepted this whole...situation, but I’m just not there yet. Immature? Perhaps . Real? Very .

“She seems so happy,” I murmur absently.

Willow’s gaze softens. “Right now, she is. The nightmares come when she sleeps. Almost every night, really. That’s why I’m trying to tire her out so maybe she might be so tired they don’t come.”

Jesus. What do I say to that? If I felt helpless before, I feel even more helpless now. “Is there anything that can be done to help her?”

“I have an appointment scheduled with a play therapist. Sandra had your assistant put Poppy on your medical insurance so I called around and found an opening next week. It won’t fix things overnight, but it’s a start.

That and time and trust.” She smiles at Poppy.

“Kids are way more resilient than they’re given credit for. ”

“It’s like you’re her world right now.”

Willow looks at me—right at me—and for once, doesn’t blink. “It’s because I’m all she has.”

Those words hit me just as hard as the jealousy. The truth to them. The honesty that I’m not being what Poppy needs to be right now.

I shift, trying to shake off the weight that suddenly feels like it’s pressing on my chest. Poppy turns our way and smiles.

“Poppy,” Willow says. “Come show your favorite flower to Daddy.” Willow sucks in a breath the minute she realizes what she’s said.

The same damn second that I hear it.

I freeze. The uncertainty of that term and the negative connotation it’s held for me my whole life, startling me. The one I don’t want to own yet.

“I’m sorry,” Willow murmurs to me, regret woven into it. “I didn’t mean to—it was a slip of the—”

Poppy bounds up to us, breaking the tension. She holds three different colored flowers in her hands as she steps up to me, head angled as she studies me like a grown-up would. Her brow is furrowed and expression confused .

Willow’s head shakes back and forth emphatically. “No. I meant friend,” she says, sounding anxious.

I could tell her it’s okay. I could say it’s no big deal, but for some reason, I don’t. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am emotionally constipated, but a part of me wants to see how this plays out.

Will Poppy hear the term, the label , and simply believe it?

Does she even know what it means since she’s never had one?

Or if she does know what it means, will she reject the thought that this man kneeling in front of her, covered in weird markings and who is clearly scared of her, as being her dad?

Does it matter?

Yes. It does. And I hate that it does.

All I know is that by prolonging this reveal the harder it’s going to be for Poppy. Again, selfish asshole .

Poppy points to me, and between the expression on her face and the shrug of her shoulders, I know she’s asking Willow, “Then who is he?” in reference to me.

Willow moves abruptly, heads toward the planter, and picks up a decorative garden stone I have in one of my flower beds. It’s about three inches wide and light gray in color with black swirls of sediment in it. She moves back to us, drops to her knees beside Poppy, and holds the stone out to her.

Poppy furrows her brows but takes the rock and then giggles when her hand dips under its weight. She hums a sound, almost as if to say how heavy it is.

“I know,” Willow says. She points to the stone in Poppy’s hands and then points to me and says. “Rock.”

“I’m her rock?” I say out of reflex but unknowingly play into the game Willow is setting up.

“More like her rock”—Willow points to the stone and then to me—“ et !” The way she says the last part has Poppy erupting into a fit of laughter before scrambling to get closer to me.

I suck in a breath as she steps into my personal space, closer than she’s ever been before to me.

Her eyes grow big as she holds the rock up next to my face.

.. and then bursts out laughing again. This time, it’s a deep belly giggle that has chills chasing over my skin and something cracking over that hardened shell of my heart.

And fuck ... I don’t like how it feels.

She waits until the laughter subsides and tries it again. This time when she sticks the rock next to my face, I say, “Rock,” and then I throw my arms up in the air and say, “Et!”

She falls into another fit of belly giggles so her pigtails bounce and her hands tighten on the rock in her hand.

“Don’t look now, Rocket, but someone thinks you’re funny.”

I nod because my tongue feels thick in my mouth. I don’t know why I just did that, but it feels good to have made her laugh.

The breeze kicks up. Willow’s hair dances across her shoulders, and Poppy keeps laughing.

Suddenly, I don’t want to leave and finish my workout or hop on another Zoom with Gizmo.

I want to stay right here, standing on the patio, watching my daught— Poppy —laugh and trying to figure out how to be someone she can count on.

I want to ask Willow how she knows so much. I want to know what makes her think I have what it takes to do this when I don’t even know.

Too much.

Too quick.

Just too fucking much.

But instead, I step back and clear my throat, retreating toward the door.

“Rocket?” Willow calls after me.

“I’ve gotta finish what I was doing,” I mumble, embarrassed that I can’t keep my emotions in check. Uncertain when it seems like that’s where I’ve lived the past two weeks. “I have to—yeah—you know ...”

And like a goddamn coward, I retreat into my house.

Why? Why has a garden rock, a giggle, and bouncing curls brought me to my knees? Why, after all these years of success with BENT, am I only able to focus on the thought that I’m a failure? That this—being good at being a dad—is something I’ll never be able to do?

Why can’t I accept this? Accept her? “Why the fuck not?” I grit out as I shut the door behind me.

Sure I’ve failed in the past. But that failure only ever affected me.

If I fail this time around? The consequences would be so much greater. Would affect more than just me.

Fuck .