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Willow

I check my text messages again, even though I know I’ve already checked six times today.

For anything from Rocket.

For a response from Poppy through her kid’s messaging app. It’s not like she knows how to spell, but the emojis came and the silly pictures right behind them that no doubt Hendrix or Quinlan or Bristol are helping her send while they take turns watching her to help Rocket out.

But there is nothing.

I didn’t expect one from Rocket—as much as I hoped there would be one—but Poppy has been “sending” me silly pictures.

But nope. Nothing new. The last communication in our chat was from me—a short video, shaky and too overtly cheerful, where I told herI missed herand tried to make her laugh with a dancing stuffed bunny I may have bought just for that video.

I’ve had to leave the kids I’ve nannied before. It’s always brutal, always heartbreaking, and yet it’s typically a bittersweet transition. I know they’re too old for me, their families are happy with the time I’ve spent with them, and I’ve left them in a good place.

This time it’s so much harder. So much ... more everything. My chest hurts constantly, and my thoughts never stop about what I could’ve done differently. And I just miss them .

The problem? I know what I’m missing. I know the hope and the happiness and the feeling of pure contentment that they brought me that is now gone.

Missing her, I scroll up to see her last message. She “sent” a heart and a dinosaur emoji with a picture of her sticking her tongue out.

It’s not enough.

None of it is.

My apartment feels empty. Stagnant. Too freaking quiet.

There is no babbling toddler. No music being played somewhere in the house, whether it’s Rocket humming something he’s trying to write over and over or the random piano sessions between Poppy and Rocket.

There’s not the smell of his cologne or the bark of his laugh.

It’s just me. Just an empty fridge because I have no appetite or desire to go to the store.

There’s texts though. The endless stream from everyone continually asking if I’m okay.

My mom. Lily. Hendrix. Quinlan. Bristol. Even the guys have checked in, trying to remain neutral but checking in, nonetheless.

Every call or text starts with the same question—“Are you okay?” or “How are you doing?”

And every time, I give the same lie. “I’m fine.”

But I’m not fine. I’m sofar from beingfine that I think I forgot what fine ever felt like.

It’s been five days since my testimony, and the judge’s ruling can’t come fast enough.

In the meantime, Rocket’s gone quiet too. He’s shut me out so completely that I can’t help wondering if maybe he thinks that’showhe wins. If maybe he really believes the Whitmores are the better option. That Poppy would be safer in their picture-perfect, retired world.

The thought makes me sick.

Because I know him. I know the way he looks at Poppy like she’s his second chance at everything. I know how gently he tells her he loves herwhen she’s asleep.

So how could he possibly believe he’s not good enough?

I close my laptop on my course selection site and look around at my apartment, at my home. It doesn’t feel like my home anymore.

Because what defines what a home is? It’s not where you live.

It’s where you love. It’s where you can fight and make up.

Where you can laugh so hard your stomach hurts and sit in silence without talking and it be okay.

It’s the first person you want to call when you get good news . .. and bad news.

It isn’t this apartment that looks like time stood still, that feels like the old me, the before-Rocket me ...

It washim. And Poppy.

I wipe at my face and open my phone. My fingers hover over Rocket’s name before I sigh and scroll down to Vince’s instead. It’s easier to text him: Can you just check on him for me? Please? Make sure he’s okay?

It’s short and sweet. He’ll know what I mean.

I stare out the window after I hit send, lost in thought, and wishing Rocket was sitting there. It’s a silly thought, a hopeful and desperate one, but for one second—for one single heartbeat—I swear he is there. I swear that I feel him. Ridiculous.

And yet, on the off chance he is, I whisper, “I love you,” to the darkness beyond, and hope somehow it will get to him.

But when I blink again, it’s just headlights and reflections. Just a man with a camera leaning against a streetlamp, already creating a headline to disparage me.

Just me, alone in the quiet, praying Rocket hasn’t already decided he’s not worthy of the love we have.