Page 57

Willow

P oppy’s laughter is a sound I don’t deserve. It’s like a balm to my soul—something that feels better for now but that I know doesn’t fix anything.

She’s sitting beside me at the small kiddie table Rocket put in what he’s now deemed her new playroom. It’s one of the extra bedrooms on his side of the house, situated off the kitchen and before his studio, the game room, and then his bedroom.

Within days of the hearing, it became a kick-ass playroom full of sensory items, stuffed animals, a rocking horse, and every new trendy item I can think of.

He’s either willing her to remain in his custody, or he’s finding an excuse to be so busy he doesn’t have to be alone with me.

Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

The matching game that Poppy is playing has her throwing her hands up and cheering each time she turns a card over and makes the match .

Begging this moment and these memories to be enough, but the courtroom’s still echoing in my head. That lawyer’s voice. The shame burned through me even though his accusations were lies. The way the entire room stared at me, questioning if they were true.

I take my turn and flip over a crown and then a frog. Poppy’s eyes light up as she urges me to hurry up and turn the cards back over so she can make her match. And when I do, she hops on the crown card I turned over and then turns another one over to match it.

“Yay, Poppy!” She squeals and claps in excitement.

I cheer too but I also stutter in motion because she just said more words. Two strung together for the first time. And it’s almost as if she’s so excited, she doesn’t even realize the words came out.

And as her therapist advised, I don’t make a big deal about it. I let it go and cheer on her accomplishments instead.

I grin as tears burn at the backs of my eyes and hold Poppy’s hand up high. “Winner. Winner. Chicken dinner,” I shout out loud.

She giggles, and my heart soars.

This fierce, brilliant, big-hearted little girl deserves everything in the world, even if I might’ve just ruined her shot at staying with the man who loves her most.

The wait until our court date next week is already excruciating.

Until the judge’s decision is made. And while I appreciate she’s taking her time to go through every character statement, every motion, or whatever it’s called that’s been filed, in the meantime, our lives hang precariously in the balance.

And that’s never a good place to be.

It leads to overthinking. To self-doubt. To wondering what I could have done better.

If I hadn’t gotten involved with Rocket, if I hadn’t followed my heart and my lust, if I hadn’t crossed the damn line and let him become my distraction, then none of this would’ve happened.

My word would have held. My opinions would be valid.

Fuck.

My phone buzzes on the table, so I pick it up, the tears threatening harder now.

“Hey, Mom.”

“How’s my girl? ”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “You mean the disaster barely holding it together?” I laugh.

“I don’t like what they’re saying about you. What they’re implying.”

“Neither do I, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“Mr. Farley put out a statement. Did you see that?” she says of my old employer, whom Mr. Sally tried to implicate.

“He stated that you were nothing but professional in your years working with him and his family. That you were accepted to the university on your exceedingly high marks and that call or no call from him, you would’ve been accepted into the program. ”

“That was nice of him, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. But maybe his threats to sue various media sites for defamation will lead them to retract their statements and issue an apology.”

“The truth only gets a tenth of the coverage the lies do.”

“Sweetheart, I wish there was something I could do. Someway I could help.”

“I know you do.” There’s nothing anyone can. Not Rocket. Not his PR team. Not the kind words his bandmates have given to the press. Not my silence.

“Just remember that none of it matters. Not really. The people who love you know who you are.”

My eyes sting. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn’t exactly feel like that.”

There’s a pause, then her voice softens even more. “How are things with Rocket? You haven’t even mentioned him.”

I swallow hard and hate that that one question from my mom has all of my insecurities and worries and heartache that have been building day after day since the hearing bubble up. “Strained, I guess. Distant. It’s like we’re the same but I feel like he’s pulling away.”

“Because of what happened in court or ...”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I’m so sick of thinking about it.

Of worrying about it. “He’s never been a relationship guy so maybe all this press has spooked him into realizing that’s what we actually are even though we haven’t actually defined it.

Maybe he’s afraid of losing Poppy, and since our whole relationship started and has been defined by her, maybe he thinks that means I’d leave too.

Or maybe he just realized this is too much . .. I don’t know, Mom.”

“Why don’t you talk to him about it? From what you’ve said, he seems to be a good listener. ”

The thought has crossed my mind a million times only to be shoved away by not wanting to add more stress to any of our plates.

“It’ll work itself out,” I say and beg myself to believe it.

I hear her inhale like she wants to say something but then pauses only briefly. “Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

The door creaks behind me. I turn, and Rocket stands in the doorway, Poppy’s beloved rabbit in his hand. His eyes flick from me to my phone, then back again.

Exhaustion emanates off him, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

“Mom, I’ll call you later,” I say.

She says something, but I don’t hear it. I’m too busy setting my phone down and trying to hear over my pulse pounding in my ears.

Rocket crosses the room in a few strides, and without a word, he pulls me into him. I collapse into the warmth of him and just simply hold on.

We stand like that. No words. Just breathing. Justme holding on.

But his grip says it all. It’s too light, like he’s afraid of crushing something fragile. Like he’s already started letting go.

I bury my face into his chest and hold on tighter, desperate for something to say. “Poppy matched the crowns today.”

His lips press against the top of my head, and I can feel it spread into a smile. “She’d make a damn good queen.”

I nod against him, the lump in my throat stealing my voice.

Something in his stillness, something in the way his hands don’t wander, or the way his eyes don’t meet mine, tells me what he won’t say.

This is the start of goodbye.

And I don’t know how to stop it.