Page 18

Rocket

P oppy’s sitting on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, and a mixing bowl in front of her. She has a wooden spoon that’s way too big for her little hands, and yet her face is twisted in concentration as she stirs the ingredients.

“Awesome job,” Willow says, her face animated with pride, as she steps up beside her and holds out two eggs. “Are you sure you can do it?”

Poppy nods emphatically so that her pigtails bob. The wooden spoon is forgotten where it rests against the bowl in her quest for the eggs. Her face lights up when Willow places one in her cupped hands.

Such a simple thing—cracking the eggs—but clearly it makes her feel like a big kid. That’s not something I ever would have thought of letting her do.

Willow stands beside Poppy and gently guides her little hands as she cracks an egg into the bowl. She hits it a little too hard. The broken shell crumbles, and the yolk dribbles down the edge of the bowl, but the pride on her face and the belly giggle she emits? Adorable.

I stand rooted in place and just stare.

Not at the chaos. Not at the cookie mess or the noise or the fact that a toddler is barefoot and sitting on my damn marble countertops.

But at them.

Willow, with her easy warmth and steady hands. Poppy, with her wide eyes and giggles and impossibly perfect smile.

Then the realization hits me, and I’m gutted all over again. I’ll never be able to do that. Be like Willow. I’ll never be that soft. That safe. That steady.

Poppy’ll never laugh like that with me.

I’m the guy with shadows where memories should be. With wounds that have scarred over but never truly healed beneath. The man who used to dream of rockets and stars and escape routes because the world inside his own house was too transient to live in with new boyfriends always coming and going.

“You need to get lost tonight.”

“Mom.” I look toward the window where it’s already dark. “I can’t. It’s—freezing out there.”

“You don’t have to sit out in the backyard.

The back seat of the car though.” I look up from the sketch I’m making.

Her eyeliner is dark and smudged. Her lips are bright pink and her lipstick stretches beyond the outline of her lips.

Her dress is tight and shows more of her than any son ever wants to see of their mother.

Here we go again.

“Again? Can’t we have some time without a new guy coming around?” It’s like an ever-revolving fucking door. One leaves. A new one gets brought in, is treated like a fucking king only until he isn’t, and then he’s out the door for the new man in the wings.

“Without a new guy?” she screeches. It’s as if I just told her she’s going to have to cut off an arm—or God forbid, spend any amount of alone time with her son.

“Who do you think helps to pay for all these nice things we have?” The slur of her words says she’s been drinking.

Clearly she doesn’t think too highly of him herself if she has to drink before the first date.

Nice things? I take a look around our place and almost laugh at that comment.

But I know better than to speak up. I know the consequences of pissing off my mom, who will then tell the new boyfriend I’m an ungrateful prick.

And that means either an ass whooping or less food or being forced to sleep outside while they moan and groan and do gross things out in here.

“Yep. Sure.” I huff the words out as I gather some things to occupy me in the car while I sit there tonight.

“Grab a blanket. I don’t want you to get cold,” she says. “That back window still isn’t rolling all the way up.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll wake you for school in the morning.”

No, you won’t . “Okay.”

“And I promise I’ll tell this one I have a kid sooner than the last one. They just never seem to want to stay around when they know I have you.”

“Uh-huh.” That’s what you said with the last guy.

My childhood wasn’t a home. It was survival .

The parade of men that passed through taught me exactly what I never wanted to be.

Loneliness that dug its claws in deep and never let go.

Affection wasn’t shown, and it sure as fuck wasn’t taught .

.. and yet I’m just supposed to know how to give it?

To show it? To ... I don’t know what with it?

To have sex with a woman—then time after sex—it’s one thing. It’s a thank-you. A reaction. A means to an end. But to a little girl who asks nothing of you—from you—and who you’re terrified of ruining? That’s a whole different level of comprehension.

My phone buzzes in my hand and pulls me from my never-ending thoughts.

Vince:Sorry, we held them off as long as we could

I blink.

“The hell does that—”

Ding-dong.

Fuck. It’s such a rare sound, one that means whoever’s here is already on my approval list at the guard shack. Between the text and that knowledge, I already know who it is.

Poppy whips her head up like a rabbit about to bolt.

Willow shoots me a look. “Do you know who that is?”

“No,” I lie.

But I do.

I open the door, and there they are. A feminine wall of energy. Perfume. Designer handbags. Matching grins.

Quinlan. Bristol. Hendrix .

I’m fucked.

“Get out of the way, Caldwell,” Quinlan says as she puts a hand on my chest and pushes past me. “You’ve been holding out too long so we took matters into our own hands.”

Bristol presses a kiss to my cheek as she brushes past. “This was all her idea.”

Hendrix pulls me in for a quick, sympathetic hug. “It was all our idea.”

And with a sigh, I follow behind my bandmates’ wives and their quest to finally meet Poppy.

The gasps come first. Then the squeals of delight and clapping of hands. I trail close enough behind to see Poppy’s face as she takes in these three new faces. She sits a little taller with a glance from Willow to me and then back to them.

“Look at her curls,” Bristol says, practically vibrating as she steps into the kitchen.

“And those Caldwell eyes,” Quinlan says.

Hendrix? She doesn’t even speak—she just makes a squeaky noise in her throat and beelines for the counter.

Poppy shrinks a little as Willow steps closer to her, and she tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Hey, whoa—maybe ease in—” But the wave of my hands over my head is futile. They’re already descending.

Willow smiles at Poppy and leans in. “It’s okay, sweetie. They’re Dadd—Rocket’s friends and are just excited to meet you.”

Poppy peeks over her shoulder at the women standing there staring at her expectantly.

Then she nods, just once, as her shoulders square and her smile lights up her face. And just like that ... she lets them in.

Literally and figuratively.

“Oooh, she’s a brave one,” Quinlan coos, crouching to eye level. “That’s good. We like brave girls.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Bristol says. “Look at her eyes. She’s totally a mini you, Rocket.”

I choke. “What?”

“I said she looks like you,” Bristol says, glancing back at me with a wink. “It’s unmistakable.”

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.