Page 51

Willow

R ocket’s been pacing the house all morning like he’s trying to outrun something he can’t name.

He’s showered. Changed. Ignored calls from the guys—who no doubt know he’s stressing.

Tossed on a hoodie, then ripped it off again.

Tried to eat. Left his plate where it was, barely touched, to walk back and forth on the grass out back.

Stayed there staring at the ground for what felt like forever before rushing into his studio.

Tried to play a few things in there but then cursed loudly and stalked back out.

Now he’s leaning against the window frame in the living room, staring out at the street like it might hold the answers to the custody hearing he’s dreading. He’s too afraid to admit that, of course.

Because that’s what this is all about. Nerves. Fear. The unknown.

I don’t need to hear him confess a thing to know he’s spiraling. I can hear his deep breaths from the other side of the room. He doesn’t look at me when I speak. He checks on Poppy every fifteen minutes like he’s already missing her.

“Hey, Caldwell.”

“Hmm.” He keeps staring at the street.

“I’m restless and feeling cooped up,” I lie. “And I haven’t figured out what to do for Poppy’s dinner yet. What do you say we get out of the house for a bit and grab a bite to eat?”

He glances my way for the first time. I swear I can see relief flood through his posture at the lifeline I’m giving him.

“Where do you want to go?”

“How does anywhere but here sound?” I laugh. “Grab a hat and sunglasses. Probably best if you take that BENT shirt off too so we can go incognito.”

He nods and a slow, steady smile paints his lips. I haven’t seen that all day, and it’s all I need to see to know I made the right suggestion. “Okay,” he says softly and then turns to Poppy. “We—you, Willow, and I—are going on a date. How does that sound?”

She squeals and runs to his arms. They babble as he carries her down the hall to his bedroom to change. I watch their backs as they go, marveling at what a difference a few months makes.

Night and day and in all the best ways.

And the good mood keeps rolling as we find a wood-fired pizza place and allow Poppy to make her own pizza. To say she was ecstatic is an understatement. Then to a boutique where Rocket spoils her with a new doll that she now has clutched under her arm, right beside her bunny.

We walk a few blocks down, side by side with Poppy on his hip, where the breeze is a welcome relief in this heat. It feels like time slows down and allows us to have this moment. Like it knows how bad we need it.

Laughter is constant, as is Poppy pointing at everything and wanting it. She takes one last bite of a pretzel from the cart we passed when we round a corner and stop when we see a tattoo parlor.

Poppy tugs on Rocket’s sleeve and points at the images in the window—the flowers, the dragons, the names inked into skin. She then looks at his arm and points.

“Dadda,” she says. “Like you.”

“Yes, like me,” Rocket says, tugging on her ponytail and holding one arm out so that she can see the similarities .

I glance over to Rocket, curious why he’s so quiet, and it’s like I can see whatever thought that just jolted into his brain hit him.

His body straightens. His eyes sharpen. That worry he’s been carrying seems to shift into something else. Something like resolve.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in a small studio tucked in the back of the shop. Music comes through the overhead speakers, but they turned it down for Poppy. The air smells like antiseptic and there’s the constant stop and start of a low buzz from other artists elsewhere in the studio.

Rocket’s shirtless, sitting on a black leather chair. I study the various tattoos he does have, each one a story in their own right, but something made him want to add another one.

And this one is different in every conceivable way.