Page 46

Rocket

I ’ve played to eighty thousand screaming fans without missing a beat.

I’ve stood half-drunk on rooftops while paparazzi chased a car they thought I was in like a pack of wolves on the city streets below.

I confronted my mom when I was a teenager and told her I no longer wanted her in my life because all she brought me was hurt, even though I knew that meant I might become homeless.

But nothing, and I meannothing, has made my hands sweat like this moment. Like right now.

I tap my fingers against the paper coffee cup, trying to abate some of the tension. It doesn’t work. My palms are slick, and my knee won’t stop bouncing.

Because I’m terrified of losing my daughter.

I’ve never met Olivia’s parents before. Never even heard their names until recently—Jean and Denny Whitmore. And now I’ve invited them to a coffee shop two blocks from the venue like I’m not about to be their worst nightmare in real time. Or them, mine.

Grief? Anger? A slap across the face?

I can easily handle that, but what I didn’t expect was the weight of silence that enters before they even say a word.

Mrs. Whitmore walks in first—spine stiff, shoulders tight, her purse clutched like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Mr. Whitmore’s not far behind. His stare lands on me and doesn’t leave. It’s cold. Controlled.

I stand before they reach the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore—”

“You have some nerve thinking you’re better for her than we are,” Mr. Whitmore says. His jaw’s clenched so tight I don’t know how his teeth aren’t cracking.

I nod and struggle with what to say. Everything I had planned in my head has disappeared. “I just wanted to talk. About Poppy.”

Mrs. Whitmore looks at me with an unreadable expression. “You mean your daughter, now that Olivia is gone?”

“Yes, she is my daughter,” I say quietly, hands gripping the coffee cup so hard it buckles in the middle. “But she’s also your granddaughter. I’m not trying to take her away from you.”

For the slightest second, Mrs. Whitmore’s face softens, but Mr. Whitmore escalates the situation.

“Take her away from us? We’ll be taking her away from you, you piece of shit.

She’s all we have left of our daughter,” he says contemptuously.

“We’ve already buried our child. We’re not going to stand by while the man who didn’t give a damn about Olivia pretends he can raise her. ”

My throat locks up, and I bite back the inherent reflex to be defensive. Willow was right. She said they’d be angry due to their misplaced grief. She said they’d take it out on me and that I couldn’t take the bait.

She didn’t say how fucking hard that would be.

I clear my throat. “I know you’re hurting. I recognize and acknowledge that,” I say, voice scraping raw as I do everything I can to be the mature one in this conversation. Fuck, is it hard. “But she’s still my daughter.”

Mr. Whitmore’s eyes flare. “You didn’t care about Olivia,” he repeats.

“Just because the time we spent together wasn’t long ... doesn’t mean I didn’t care about her. On a different level.” There is no easy way to answer that question.

Mrs. Whitmore’s brows lift, but I continue .

“I didn’t know about Poppy. If I had—” I stop, swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I would’ve shown up. I would’ve helped in every way possible. I would have been there from day one.”

“Would you have?” Mr. Whitmore asks. “Or would you have ghosted her like every other headline says you do?”

That one stings.

But I take the hit because he’s probably right. I’m not the same man I was three months ago. I give him that response, knowing now what I would have missed out on had the old me found out Olivia was pregnant.

And I also take the hit without arguing because he’s grieving. Because that pain doesn’t always know where to go, and maybe I’m the only place it can land.

“Headlines are just that, sir. You can find one to fit whichever narrative you wish to paint. But since Poppy has come into my life, I’m more conscious now about my choices and decisions than ever.”

Mrs. Whitmore places a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. It seems like it’s a silent request, like she can’t handle living in his pain anymore.

He looks at her, hesitates, and then leans back in his chair. Clearly he’s letting her take the lead now.

She turns to me, voice quieter now, but still firm.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” she says as her hand tightens on her husband’s arm. “May we still meet Poppy?”

My pulse races. “Yeah. Of course.” I look outside the window of the coffee shop where Willow just appeared and nod for her to come in.

“She should know you. You’re part of her family.

I’m not sure if Sandra informed you, but Poppy isn’t talking much.

It’s a traumatic response to being with Olivia when .

.. in the car during the accident.” Mrs. Whitmore blinks back tears.

“She’s been seeing therapists to help her and has started saying words, but it’s sporadic.

She can hear you and understands, she just chooses not to speak right now.

So in case she doesn’t respond verbally, that’s why. ”

The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as Willow walks in with Poppy on her hip. She spots me instantly and wriggles to get down.

Mrs. Whitmore sucks in an audible breath that expresses so much pain. It’s a humbling sound, but one I think I understand now.

Willow lowers Poppy, and she instantly runs to where I’m sitting. She looks at me and then to the strangers sitting across from me as she wraps one hand around my arm and the other tighter on her rabbit .

“Hey, Popstar,” I say as Willow steps up beside me and behind Poppy. “These are your mommy’s parents. Your grandparents.”

Poppy’s eyebrows furrow for a split second before she shifts to face them, her head tilting to its side as she studies them.

“Remember how we talked earlier about how they really wanted to meet you? Isn’t it special that you can meet and know your mommy’s mommy and daddy?

” She twists her fingers into the hem of my shirt as if she’s deciding how she feels about this and them.

“Like we talked about earlier, I know they might seem like strangers, but all they want to do is hang out here in the coffee shop, get to know you and bunny, and maybe buy you a treat or two.”

“Whatever treat you want,” Mrs. Whitmore says, voice shaky. “We just want to get to know you and be friends.”

Poppy twists her lips and looks back to me. “Willow and I are going to sit right over there.” I point to the far side of the smaller, basically empty café. “If you need us or feel scared like we might leave you, you can look and see that we haven’t.”

Her fingers twist a little more, and then after a long, long moment, she lets go. I can see her trying to be brave, as she cautiously moves closer to Mrs. Whitmore and points to the little purple dragon stuffed animal she’s produced from her purse.

“Hi there,” Mrs. Whitmore whispers in a broken voice as tears flood her eyes. “This is for you. Your mommy used to have one just like it when she was little.”

Mr. Whitmore stays frozen in place, but the way he works his throat looks like he’s swallowing broken glass.

Mrs. Whitmore reaches up and runs the back of her hand down Poppy’s cheek, and her shoulders shudder as she fights the emotion. “This is your grandpa,” she says and points to Mr. Whitmore.

Willow rocks on her heels, clearly as uncomfortable as I am. We feel weird standing here, like we’re invading their privacy, but at the same time, we need to do what’s best for Poppy.

I clear my throat. “Poppy, are you okay if we sit right there?” I point to the table and chairs about fifteen feet away.

She glances at the table and then back to me several times before nodding.

“Okay. We’ll be right there. We’re not going anywhere,” I repeat.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Whitmore says .

Willow moves to the table with me, her arm brushing mine. She doesn’t say anything as we walk, but I feel her gaze on me.

We take a seat, and I give an unsteady but encouraging smile to Poppy who’s making sure we actually sit down. Once Poppy is convinced that we’re not leaving and turns her attention back to the Whitmores, Willow reaches out to hold my hand as I struggle not to look back toward them.

“You did good,” Willow murmurs.

I don’t answer. I don’t know if I can.

Besides the guys, Poppy is the first person I’ve ever cared about. The first person to show me what unconditional love is.

It’s an overwhelming feeling.

As is what I feel for Willow. I hated but appreciated that Vince made me talk about it last night. About the woman seated across the table.

“So? You and Willow good?” Vince asks. His tone is quiet, reflective. Way different from the teasing tone the guys typically use with me.

They know Willow and I are fucking. They know I haven’t entertained anyone else in my dressing room—or elsewhere.

But his tone, the look on his face, and the bottle of beer he slides in front of me say I’m about to get a Vincent Jennings, big brother chat.

This should be interesting.

“Good? Yeah, I guess?” He raises his eyebrows at me. I roll my eyes. “You’re asking because why?”

“Being on tour can be a lot. Pressure. Togetherness. Annoyance. You guys managing that all right?”

“Yeah. There’s been none of that.”

“Huh.”

“Huh? Dude. Do you forget she lives with me at home? That she came in not thinking too highly of me, therefore, there wasn’t many more ways to go than up when it came to her opinion of me.”

“True. You were kind of an asshole. But I like this guy you are now. Poppy’s changed you ... for the better.”

“Poppy and Willow,” I murmur more to myself than to anyone.

His eyebrows shoot up. “You included her in that statement.”

I nod slowly, trying to figure out what he’s getting at. “I did. Why?”

“No reason.”

“You wouldn’t have said it if there wasn’t a reason.”

“It’s just that when you start including a woman in the reasons you’ve become a better man, then maybe it’s time to look a little closer at that woman. At that relationship. And maybe, you know, figure out how to hold on a little tighter to it.”

His words aren’t anything I haven’t been thinking in the dark of the night when I stare at the ceiling with Willow nearby. But hearing them out loud, knowing someone else has noticed it, is huge. Jarring. Fucking with my head.

“It’s so different with her.”

“You need to ask yourself this. If there were no Poppy, if that side of it were to go away, would you still feel the same about her?”

“Yes.”

He nods. It’s slow and measured as is his next sip of his beer. “Well, there’s that.”

Talking emotions is not my strong suit. Never has been. But this is Vince, and Vince is ... the sounding board in our group. Plus, he’s been through this in his own way.

I draw in a deep breath and just talk without fear of judgment.

“I’ve never known anyone that I can be comfortable in silence with yet still feel.

..heard.” Damn, I wish this beer were something stronger.

“She likes me for me. She saw the worst before she saw the better. She doesn’t expect me to be. ..perfect.”

“She just wants you to show up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t fuck that up, Rock. I’ve watched her with you and you’re right. She’s cool. She’s fucking amazing with Poppy.”

I laugh because he’s right.

She’s fucking amazing with Poppy. Don’t know how I would have gotten through the last five weeks without her.

The chime on the door pulls me from my thoughts and back to the woman before me. To the situation at hand.

Willow is watching Poppy—eyes soft, smile faint.

“ If there were no Poppy, if that side of it were to go away, would you still feel the same about her?”

Yes.

And for the first time, I let myself wonder ... what if this isn’t just temporary?

What if this is the beginning of something I never believed I could have? That I deserve to have?

To quote Vince, don’t fuck it up .