Page 8

Rocket

I walk out of the room like I’m heading for a wall to slam into. Or maybe I’ve already hit it and am still staggered from the blow.

I can’t get away fast enough and the minute the door to my office shuts behind me, I press my hands to my knees and struggle to drag in a breath.

Christ.

She looksjust like me.

Not in the vague, might-be-yours, could-be-a-coincidence way. No. More like in the way that punches the breath straight from your lungs.

Same green eyes—wary and watchful and way too fucking serious for someone her age.

Same messed up eyebrow that I have where the end feathers up some like my dad’s did too.

And she’s so small.

My breath’s shaky as I scrub a hand through my hair before pulling down on the back of my neck.

Then my feet start moving—anything to abate the...who the fuck knows what it’s called that’s coursing through me. I pace across the space like action will keep me from losing it.

She’s three.

Fucking three.

Which means I missed all of it. Her first steps. First words. First everything.

So the fuck what, Rock? You don’t want a kid, right? What does it matter if you missed things people say should be unforgettable?

“Oh my God,” I mutter and bang my forehead gently against the wall knowing it’s going to do nothing to fix the situation.

This is all a bad fucking nightmare I can’t wake up from, and yet she’s sitting on my couch with her pink, chubby cheeks and unruly curls, like I used to have as a kid, telling me different.

She’s mine.

And now she’s here.

With her tiny sneakers and her tangled curls, and adamn suitcase the size of a backpack—as if that’s all she needs. As if that’s all shehas.

And isn’t that part of the problem that guts me the most?

Because it’s not just her resemblance or the timing or the way her fingers curled into Willow’s top like she already knows the world isn’t a safe place, but rather it’s the fact that her entire life fits into a zippered piece of carry-on luggage.

Like she’s something someone packed up and passed off.

Passed on so that now she’s here.

My breath is as shaky as my hands when I draw it in.

This isn’t a joke.

This isn’t a publicity stunt like Gizmo’s marriage originally was or some bullshit paternity rumor planted to salvage my reputation. There’s a lot of shit like that that goes on in the industry. This? This is real .

The problem is—I don’t know what the hell to do with her now.

I’m not a father. Far fucking from it. I’m a goddamn mess with a crazy tour schedule, a bad temper, a selfish streak a mile long, and a proven tendency to fuck things up.

I’ve ruined relationships, wrecked hotel rooms, and walked off stages mid-set. Christ, I couldn’t even get my own parents to love me enough to care.

I’ve broken a lot of things.

But this ?

This little girl with my eyes and nothing but a suitcase and a stranger to keep her steady?

Ican’t break her . And yet, it feels like that and music are all I’m good at doing.

I slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the cold tile, elbows on my knees, head between my hands.

I don’t even think about Willow.

Not at first.

Not until I hear a soft, muffled giggle drift down the hall. It’s not loud, but it’s enough to cut through the fog clouding my thoughts.

“There’s nowhere you can run, Caldwell,” I say to the empty room. Nothing to save me. Nothing to fix this.

I’d beg for the chance to.

I rise to my feet slowly. Each step back down the hallway feels like curiosity mixed with trepidation. Like intrigue laced with uncertainty. But they do keep moving, one step in front of the other, until I’m standing at the edge of the hallway, watching Willow with Poppy from afar.

Willow’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her long braid of dark hair is resting over one shoulder, her expression soft but focused.

Her smile is warm and sincere. Poppy is standing in front of her with a stuffed bunny tucked under her arm, while her other hand reaches out and taps Willow on the nose.

With each tap, Willow flails her arms dramatically, which causes Poppy to erupt into a fit of laughter. I watch this game play on for several minutes and fight the tilt that comes automatically to the corners of my lips.

But something is off and it takes me a second to catch it. Willow is talking. Willow is making funny sounds. Poppy’s face is lighting up with expressions and reactions... but she’s absolutely silent .

Is something wrong with her? The way the immediate thought hits me square in the solar plexus is unexpected and unwanted and claws at something I’m choosing to ignore. Knowingly.

Willow grins, points to her nose and then her eyes.

Poppy giggles softly, but her whole body responds—shoulders shaking, cheeks flushing, eyes lighting up.

And that crushing pressure behind my ribs? That ache in the hollow of my chest? It twists hard and sharp anddeep.

Because I’m watching them...and for the first time, I’mnotfront and center on the stage. Nah, I’m the guy standing in the wings, wondering if I even belong here. Knowing this is something that scares the shit out of me.

And knowing in the past when my hand was forced at something, I bucked even harder the other way.

Right now, my hand is being forced.

I cross my arms, jaw clenched, and heart hammering.

And as grateful as I am for Willow being here, knowing how to deal with Poppy, it only serves to make me feel like I’m already failing at something.

“Why don’t you come in so I can introduce you to her?” Willow asks without looking my way.

I rub my hands down my jeans-clad thighs and move into the room, jumpy like a junkie looking for his next fix.

I don’t know what to do or how to act. Sure, I’ve been around kids. I’m not good with them, but...it’s never really mattered. They’ve never been mine .

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Poppy,” Willow says calmly and puts both of her tiny hands in hers. “I want you to meet my friend. This is Rocket. He’s your...”

It’s like she has no clue how hard my heart’s pounding or how much that open-ended question she left dangling for me to answer just rendered me speechless.

I open my mouth and then close it. What the fuck am I? “ Friend ?” The word feels like molasses on my tongue. Overpowering, hard to swallow over, and in reality, a complete lie.

“Yes.” Willow nods and offers a compassionate smile my way. “ Your friend .” She may have said something else, but all sound is drowned out as Poppy turns my way and meets my eyes for the first time. Eyes that start and stop my heart simultaneously.

“Hi,” I say and smile, and then feel like an idiot when I add a wave to it after the fact.

She tilts her head to the side, her curls bouncing with the motion. Her eyes stop on the tattoos on my arms and then narrow as her lips twist in thought.

I feel judged in a way I’ve never felt before, in a way that matters more than any other time in my life, even though I’d swear up and down to anyone who asks me that I don’t care.

But I do .

“She’s not talking,” I say quietly, glancing at Willow for her to stop that niggling in the back of my head that something’s wrong.

Willow’s nod doesn’t ease that feeling at all. “Yes. The doctors say it’s a trauma response to ...”—her eyes flicker to Poppy and then back to me—“everything she saw last week. A coping mechanism that can last for however long she wants it to last.”

Everything she saw last week.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter more to myself than anyone as I process those words. Yes, I knew she was in the car, but now that Poppy’s here, now that I see how fucking small she is, how innocent she is, the knowledge hits differently. It wears on me differently.

“Mm-hm,” Willow says as she presses a kiss to Poppy’s tiny hands and then taps her on the nose as her voice softens. “But it’s okay to not want to talk, isn’t it, Poppy?”

Poppy nods and then looks my way, her eyes stalling on my ink again.

I hold my arms out and take a step closer. “Do you want to look at them?” I ask, causing her to startle and move behind Willow’s shoulder for what I can only assume is protection. “Maybe another time, then.”

I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her now that I’m this close.

Now that I can see the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose or how her fingernails are painted a light pink.

Now that I can see how tightly she clutches the stuffed rabbit beneath her arm or how she instinctively reached out upon seeing me to keep her hand on Willow’s shoulder.

Think, Caldwell. Say something. Do something.

So I take a step back, lift my hand, and wave.

Eyes the same color as mine hold me captive as seconds stretch before she offers me a shy, hesitant smile...and then waves back.