Page 32

Rocket

I ’m not gonna lie, I was cocky as fuck thinking I could do this.

Once I got over the image of Willow in that dress and remembered this was her night off, my first thought?

How hard can this be? I’ve watched her for store runs.

I’ve played with her while Willow went out for a run. This is just that, times a few hours.

Turns out I was wrong. This is way harder than I thought.

It’s me. It’s quiet. And there’s a tiny person in front of me holding a raggedy stuffed bunny, blinking at me to ask where her entertainment is.

I should be used to this. I entertain for a living. But not little people and not someone who doesn’t talk back.

Lord help me, I’m trying though.

“So, Popstar, what do you want to do now?” I ask. She blinks, tilts her head and chews on the ear of her bunny. “I mean, I know we’re supposed to get the wiggles out, but how about I show you something that I love? Something that you’ve looked at but never gotten to touch? ”

Her shoulders straighten. I have her attention now.

I hold out my hand for her, and when she takes it, we move to the front room where the piano is. I sit on the bench and pat my thigh. “C’mon.” Her eyes widen to epic proportions. She’s not supposed to touch this. “I’ll show you.”

She hesitates only a second before stepping forward, carefully climbing onto my lap like she’s unsure whether I’m testing her and she’ll be in trouble for taking the invite.

I move with slow, deliberate motions and settle her on my lap. Her body’s small and warm and solid. Her curls tickle my chin.

“You want me to play something?” I ask.

Her head bobs, and I begin a slow but upbeat lullaby. I don’t remember the name but I’m sure Diana Finkleman would be proud that I still remember it all these years later.

She moves to the sounds I create. Her body sways between my arms as I work the keys. When I finish, she claps and squeaks in excitement. In pure joy.

My smile’s automatic. My heart’s full that I can share this with her. That I can create this for her.

“Do you want to try?” I ask, and her nod is immediate. “Okay. Tap where I point.”

Her fingers hit the first key and she jolts back almost as if she can’t believe she did that.

“Good job. That was all you. Let’s do it again.”

And so we do. Key after key. We begin playing a jilted melody that lacks in finesse what it makes up in heart. She babbles sounds with it, showing me what her voice might sound like someday.

But her frustration comes too. She miss-hits keys and tenses up. The palm of her hand presses down and makes a jarring sound that causes her to grunt in irritation.

“It’s okay, Pops. Daddy’s got you,” I say. Then freeze.

Poppy’s fingers aren’t moving anymore. She turns slowly so that she can look up at me at the same time I realize what I just said.

Our eyes lock. Hold.

Her eyebrows narrow. Question.

She points at me and I nod, the words barely audible when I find them again. “Yes. I’m your daddy.”

Her lips twist as she studies me. As she reaches up a hand and runs it down the side of my face—almost as if touching is believing—before pulling it back. And then she gives me the slightest of nods, acceptance without question, before pointing to the piano keys and asking me to show her again.

I’m not sure how long it takes for me to exhale the breath I’m holding, but when I do, the world is still spinning. My heart’s still beating. And nothing’s really changed other than Poppy knows, and she didn’t scream and cry over it.

She hits a few more. Soft. Then louder.

She giggles.

It’s the first sound I’ve heard from her all day.

And it wrecks me in the best damn way.

“You’re a natural,” I tell her. “Better watch out. I might lose my job.”

She presses three keys at once. It sounds like chaos. Beautiful, innocent chaos.

I press a few notes of my own. A simple little melody, nothing serious. She watches my hands, then tries to copy them with hers. She gets it all wrong, and we both laugh—mine quiet, hers hidden in the crinkle of her eyes.

“Wanna make up a song?” I ask. “Just you and me?”

She nods, curls bouncing.

So we do.

It’s nonsense and messy and too many sharps and flats.

But it’s ours.

And right now, it’s exactly what we need. It’s perfect.

But that perfection doesn’t hold us over until bedtime. We build blocks simply so I can hear her laughter.

Every time I get my tower to a certain height, she swings her arm and knocks it over. I react by falling back and flailing, which causes her to mimic me as she holds her belly that hurts from laughing so hard.

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

That sound—her laughter—is pure and wholesome, and I’ll never tire of hearing it.

“You’re a menace,” I say as I prop myself up on my elbows and exaggerate how tired I am from building and it being knocked over.

She just laughs and throws the red block again. When it hits me on the shoulder, I flop back again and earn more giggles.

I lay on my back with my eyes closed and just soak in the sound. This might be the weirdest version of happiness I’ve ever known.

But it doesn’t last .

Twenty minutes later, just like the piano, the block game has worn itself out. We’ve read the stack of books and drunk the juice she told me she wanted, which is now in her hand despite her teeth already being brushed, is no longer what she wants.

Enter the meltdown phase.

A big one—by my standards anyway.

She’s on the floor, little hands balled into fists, tears streaking down her cheeks. It doesn’t take long for that to lead to foot stomping followed by rocking back and forth on the ground hysterics.

Over what? I have no idea but isn’t that par for the course?

I’m at a loss—for what to say. For what to do. For ... fucking anything.

“Hey, hey. No. Poppy, it’s okay.”

But it’s not. She’s sobbing now. Loud, choked sounds fill the room. The kind that rips straight through you and makes you feel helpless.

I panic.

Do I call someone? Willow’s out of the picture. She deserves her night off, and I refuse to let her know I can’t handle it.

One of the bandmates’ wives—Quinlan? Bristol? Hendrix?

I reach for my phone and grip it tightly as the sobbing gets louder, but I stop myself from calling someone for help.

Wait. What was that thing? The thing the nurse told Hawkin’s wife when I went to visit them right after they’d had their first baby?

Skin-to-skin. Skin-on-skin? That’s a thing, right?

For babies. For newborns. But I’m fucking desperate here, and I’ll try it. It can’t hurt. I strip my shirt over my head as Poppy wails louder.

I pick up her squirming body, then sit down on the couch and lift her into my lap.

She fights it for a second, hands hit and feet kick as I hold her close.

This isn’t going to work. But just as helplessness kicks in, her little hand flattens against my chest. She lifts her head and pauses, brow furrowed and attention distracted when she sees the ink on my chest.

This is what’s going to save the day for me? My tattoos? Fucking figures .

She begins tracing the intricate designs.

Her touch is slow and curious as her sobs subside to sniffles and silent hitches of her shoulders.

She stops every few seconds and looks closer at one of the designs as if she’s trying to figure out the colors or where to trace next, her eyes widening and lips moving as she whispers to herself in words only she understands .

Not sure what else to do, I begin to sing and am rewarded instantly with her flattening her palm first and then her cheek against my chest as she feels the vibrations. She looks up at me and smiles—her eyes red and cheeks splotchy—but it’s still a smile. I’ll take it.

We sit like this for some time, me singing silly verses of BENT songs—in the best of my ability lullaby form—and her tracing my tattoos.

With each minute that passes, her breathing begins to even out, and her hand begins to slow.

She curls up against my chest, her tiny body fitting into mine like she’s always belonged there.

“Daddy.” I swear she whispers it but when I look down at her, she’s sound asleep.

Did I hear that? Did I wish it into existence? I don’t know, but I love the warmth that rushes through me, even at the thought of her saying it.

So I just sit here with one arm wrapped around her and the other stroking her back.

I breathe in everything about my daughter—the scent of her shampoo, the weight of her head against my chest, the soft twitching as she falls asleep.

It settles something in my chest I didn’t know was out of place until now.

It makes up my mind for me like I ever had a choice.

I want to earn the right to be her dad.

Not because I have no choice.

Not because the court says I have to be.

But because she’s mine.