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Rocket

T he beer in my hand is warm.

I can’t remember the last time I took a sip. I’ve just been holding it, letting the label peel beneath my thumb while the guys talk around me.

We’re in my backyard. It’s late afternoon, and the guys showed up without warning. They waltzed in like I’d invited them, loaded my fridge with beer, and brought pizza with my favorite toppings. Vince and Hawkin brought their youngest kids so that Poppy would have someone to play with.

I know what they’re doing. It’s a circle-the-wagons approach to make sure I’m okay. I appreciate it, know they have my back, but it doesn’t help.

The best part? They know I’m in a shit mood and don’t expect much from me in return. There’s something to be said about old friends.

I glance over to where Poppy’s in the grass, giggling as Vince’s youngest son shows her how to race matchbox cars down the patio steps.

I sit and watch, absent when I’ve been anything but that with her this past week. It’s almost as if I’ve been hanging on for dear life instead. Present and trying to pretend I don’t feel like I’m bleeding out on the inside.

The wives have been helping as much as they can outside of their own lives. The new nanny interviewing process has been happening—but I don’t like anyone ... because they’re not her .

So I haven’t pulled the trigger on hiring a new one.

Just been relying on Quinlan, Bristol, and Hendrix and borrowing their nannies and backup nannies in the interim.

Poppy has ramped up the meltdowns, so most nights have ended in sobs that have almost broken me.

I hate that I pushed a person she loves out of her life.

I hate that her tears are because her little heart is broken. .. again.

So, it’s messy, hard, and confusing but it’s what’s working. Sort of . However it only serves to prove to me how perfectly Willow fits her.

In my house.

In my life.

So that’s why the guys are here, showing up unannounced, and circling me like wolves that know I’m wounded. They’re not loud. Not aggressive. Just here. Drinking their beers, waiting for the moment I stop pretending I’m fine.

I’m not fine.

Willow isn’t here.

My chest hurts constantly. The music has stopped in my head.

And I have to face the judge in twenty-four hours’ time.

“I was able to get her to grant it,” Sandra says and then sighs in exasperation while relief slowly finds its way through me. “Now do you want to explain to me why you just demanded I call the judge and ask for another appearance with the court before she gives her final decision?”

“I’d rather not.”

“What do you plan on saying?” she asks.

Like a song that’s begging to be written, the things I want to speak in front of the court have run circles in my head, but I haven’t found the right words to say them yet.

One last plea before she rules.

“Sandra, I need you to trust me. I’m going to do what’s best for Poppy.”

She makes a noncommittal sound that says she doesn’t exactly trust me or what I’m going to say. “I’m not a fan of surprises, Rocket.”

And I’m not a fan of throwing people under the bus to save my own skin.

“Well, I’ve learned to get used to them. ”

She snorts. “I’ll let you know she doesn’t like her time wasted and simply squeezed you in as a courtesy to me. The Whitmores are still in town as they were waiting for her decision before leaving—”

“So they could take Poppy if ruled in their favor,” I say absently.

“Yes. I assume. So all the players will be there, but please, don’t waste her time or she will hold it against you.”

“Noted.”

“So we didn’t just come here to watch you mope, Caldwell,” Hawkin says.

“Shit, man. If you nurse that beer any harder, you’re going to need to put a nipple on it,” Gizmo adds.

“What we’re here to say,” Vince chimes in, “is that you’re a fucking idiot.” He glances over to the kids but they’re far enough away that they don’t hear his cursing.

I glance up. Don’t argue. Don’t flinch. I’m exhausted, and my eyes burn from too many sleepless nights and not enough answers.

Gizmo nudges my elbow with his. “You love them. Willow and Poppy. We all see it.”

The beer bottle thuds as I set it down harder than I mean to. I can’t sit still, so I shove up out of the chair and move around the patio. “Yeah? And look where that got them. Poppy is possibly leaving and Willow is gone.”

“Willow’s gone because you forced her to go. Not because she wanted to leave,” Vince says in his low, even tone. “And look where running from them is gettingyou.”

That one hits. I flinch but keep moving.

“I’m not good for them. You heard what was said in court. You saw what has been said in the papers about her. She’s dealing with the ramifications of me.”

Hawkin stands and blocks my path. His face is calm, his eyebrows are raised, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips. “You mean like we have to every day?”

The joke is meant to be funny, to lighten the mood. I laugh. Or try to, at least. It sounds like gravel and hurts to come out. “Exactly,” I grate out.

“You’re missing the entire fucking point, Rock,” Gizmo says.

“Which point would that be?” I ask.

“Willow didn’t need saving. She’s a grown woman with a stiff spine and a strong resolve. Dating you showed that shit. What she really needed was for you to tell her to stay. To fight for her. To prove to her that by blood or by choice, you choose her.”

My throat tightens. “I thought letting her go would protect her. That it would ...”

“Dude, family isn’t something you protect by leaving. It’s something you protect bystaying. Besides, what’s been said has already been said. Can’t take that shit back, but you can make going forward better.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. It’s only accented by Poppy’s squeal and the clapping of her hands. How is it in such a short period, I fell in love with two people and feel like I’m drowning on dry land at the thought of not having them both?

Hawkin leans in, voice low and raw. “You love her? Then go fucking fix it.”

That’s it.

No frills. No hope. Just the truth like a fucking blade in my heart.

I drop my head into my hands, and for the first time in longer than I can admit, I cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Justbroken silence as a tear slides down my cheek that I shove away with the back of my hand like it never happened.

Having made their point—that they’re here for me, that they’re not going to let me get away with fucking up—the guys quietly pick up their bottles, give me one last look, and leave.

Poppy climbs up onto my lap, too tired to play anymore, as the sky turns orange and the light fades. She curls into my chest, her little fingers finding the poppy tattoo over my heart.

She traces it.

Just like she did the first time.

Just like Willow did the last time.

“I’m going to make this right, Popstar.” I press my lips to the top of her head and close my eyes.

“I’m going to fight like hell to keep you.

And fight like hell to get her back. I don’t know if she’ll forgive me.

I don’t know if I deserve her. But that’s the thing about love, right? You fight for it anyway.”

She looks up at me and smiles like she understands what I’m saying. She presses a kiss to the poppy and just about guts me. Then she asks, “Song, Dadda?”

To find my voice, to use it, even when I don’t think it holds much value.

I nod. I smile. I begin to sing her favorite BENT song, the one she always hums and then eventually falls asleep to .

Probably not a good career insight, but what the fuck, right?

Her fingers slow. Her breathing deepens. She snuggles in closer. She’s happy here. With me. I can’t lose her. I can’t lose the happiness I found. I can’t lose the woman who made my world complete.

My boys were right.

“Dude, family isn’t something you protect by leaving. It’s something you protect bystaying.”

“You love her? Then go fucking fix it.”

It’s time I prepare to fight like hell. I am worth that. And so are my girls.