Page 26

Rocket

Hawkin: Thought of some more lyrics.

Me: This isn’t helping our next album get written.

Hawkin: No, but it’s making you laugh. Here’s a verse:

It started with snack time, ended in sin,

One minute she’s reading, the next she’s all in.

She’s got bedtime vibes and after-dark plans,

Who knew the nanny came with such great hands?

I sit in my driveway and shake my head. The smile’s there, but the stress of Sandra’s phone call lingers like a hangover after a long bender.

“Thanks, brother,” I say to no one as I rest my head against the headrest and stare at my house. The lights are on in the family room and kitchen. All I want to do is go inside, but how the hell can I when this fucking storm cloud is hovering over my head?

How do I fight for something I only just started believing was worth fighting for?

Having the money and means to take care of someone doesn’t always mean you’re the right person for the job. It doesn’t make you qualified.

Maybe it won’t end up how Sandra thinks. Maybe Olivia’s parents are just desperate to have a piece of their daughter in their life and want visitation rights. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And maybe I’ve never sold out stadiums night after night before.

Fuck, man.

This is what you wanted, Rock. Your freedom back. Your ability to choose if you want to be responsible, depending on the situation. A house void of sippy cups and stuffed animals stuck between couch cushions. Not having to think of anyone other than yourself and what’s best for your bandmates.

The thoughts swirl and nag. This invisible war that started before I even knew I had skin in the game, and now I’m just ... I don’t know what the fuck I am.

All I know is that the old me would have taken the easy way out. Hands up. Hands off. Walked away.

But the new me?

New me? What the fuck, it’s been a month, dude. There’s no way you’ve changed that much.

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, butfamily.

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.”

“Don’t apologize.” I look around the room.

Willow has done her best to make the space softer, more welcoming for a toddler.

Stuffed animal chairs. A mini table with plastic chairs and an organizer of some sort on the top.

A stack of books in the corner. How stupid was I not to think of it before?

“Is there anything else you need for her? Not that I’m not late to the party or anything,” I joke.

She smooths a hand over Poppy’s curls and smiles softly. “Thank you. It’s been fine so far. She’s comfortable in her space, and that’s important for when I eventually leave.”

Leave . The word is like a knife to my chest. I’d like to the think it’s merely because of the panic factor of doing this all on my own, but I know better than that.

My house feels different. My life’s been altered. And it’s not because I have a new roommate.

It’s because of her.

“Rocket? You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Fine.” I offer a smile. “We’re not talking about you leaving unless you want me having a heart attack. Anything else you need though?”

“Maybe just more of you.” Her voice is soft, knowing, and more than anything, searching. Am I still going to try harder like I said I was the other night? Am I still willing to be what’s expected of me?

Our eyes hold, and I nod. “I’m here right now.”

“You are.” She tilts her head and studies me. “You can come in, you know.”

I take a step forward. Then another.

Poppy stirs when I get close. Her eyes flutter open, sleepy and sluggish, and land on me. For a second, I think she might cry. Instead, she lifts one tiny hand, fingers reaching out toward me, fingers flickering in a wave as the slightest smile ghosts her lips.

It’s a barely-there smile, but it punches a hole through my ribs and makes my heart feel so different .

Then she lays her head back on Willow’s chest and sighs, already drifting again.

My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, and thoughts I’ve never had before seem to own my mind.

“She asked for Olivia again,” Willow says, interrupting my thoughts. I welcome the change in topic but not the heaviness of the new one.

“Was she okay?”

“Hmm. I don’t know that she’ll ever be okay —her mom was her world—but we can do our best to support her.”

“I know you said the therapist said she was making progress, helping her cope better. Is it still working?”

“Two days a week isn’t going to take away the pain, but it’ll help. Her therapist said to expect the nightmares to lessen but that they’ll pop up every now and again. She said to try and keep her mom alive for Poppy as much as possible ...”

“Which is hard since neither of us really knew her.”

“True, but I’ve pieced together the life I think she had from pictures I found on social media.

From talking to her mom’s best friend, Jackie, who I’d love to let Poppy see.

I show the pictures to Poppy, and when she’s in them, I ask her if she remembers that day.

I try and talk about her so that Poppy isn’t afraid to when she finally speaks. ”

“You’re amazing,” I whisper. All this for my daughter, someone she’s not even related to, while I sat and debated and stood idly by.

“Not amazing.” Her smile is soft and flips my stomach. “Just trying to help your tiny human.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling overwhelmed. “For that. For this. For ... just thank you.”

She nods and jokes, “That’s what you pay me for.”

“Funny thing is, Wills, I think even if I didn’t pay you, you’d still try and do it because that’s just who you are.”

“You might be right.” Her cheeks flush and eyes blink. She pats the bed beside her. “Come. Sit.”

I hesitate.

She raises an eyebrow like she knows I’ll do it anyway.

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 justknewshe 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.”

Poppy stirs so that her beloved bunny falls into my lap. I pick it up and toy with the ears. The damn thing has seen better days.

The same could be said for me.

When I look up, Willow’s watching me. Her expression is guarded, but her eyes hold nothing but warmth. There’s no judgment in them. No mockery. “Thank you for being patient with me. For helping teach me. I just hope I can be the man and father she deserves. I just hope I can make her love me.”

Her eyes fill with tears—quick and quiet—and I don’t know whythathits me hardest. Why her softness undoes me more than any song ever has.

“You will be. You already are. It’s just hiding,” she says. “She’ll love you because you’re her dad. She’ll trust you because you won’t let her down. She’ll want you to be the one to hold her because you’re where she’ll feel safest.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“So was becoming a world famous rock star and you kicked ass at that, right?”