Page 72 of Sweet Distraction

“Those forms you’ve been filling out for college?”

You.

“Something like that,” I say.

We sit there like that for a minute, saying nothing and just watching the world outside move by.

He breaks the silence first. “Tour starts again in a few weeks.”

I glance over. “You excited to get back to doing what you love?”

He makes a face I can’t decipher. “I don’t know. Usually, yeah. But now . . .”

“Now there’s a three-year-old in the picture.”

“And her nanny,” he adds, a crooked grin crawling over his lips. “Ever been on tour before?”

I snort. “You heard my singing earlier. Of course I have. With talent like that, I’ve sold out stadiums.”

Everything about him relaxes. “Damn, you must have been the one who broke our record.”

“I was. I hate to break it to you.” I smile at him and contemplate that I should have taken that drink he offered.

“Don’t worry. We’ll win that title back.”

“I have no doubt.”

“So are you excited to go on tour with us then?”

My head startles. “I—uh—figured I’d be staying back with Poppy. That way you can have a bit of your old life back, and I can . . . get her used to her new one.”

He narrows his eyebrows, but his only response is, “Right.”

The word feels hostile. Irritated. And here I thought I was giving him what he wants. “Poppy’s barely settled. It’s a big ask, throwing her into another unknown. Constant changes. New places. Loud crowds.” I rest my chin on my knee and cave to the need to explain. “I think Poppy’s doing okay because she has structure right now. The idea of upending that . . .”

He nods slowly. “And if I’m not around, how am I supposed to connect with her?”

The question is quiet. Honest. I look at him, really look at him.

For the first time, I believe he gets it. That he’s not just going through the motions or waiting for the storm to pass. That he’s actually trying.

“I don’t know. When it comes down to it, it’s your call what you want to do. She’s your daughter.”

“You mean I’m her rock . . . et,” he says and pretends to hold a rock next to his ear that makes us both chuckle.

“Yes. You are her rock . . . et.”

“God, that made me laugh. Her expression and giggle and . . . she’s funny,” he muses over the lip of his glass.

“Probably a bad choice on my end to pick up a rock for comparison, but I was startled.”

“I like it. Don’t apologize.” He takes another sip and darts his tongue out to lick his lips. “At some point soon, I need to tell her I’m her dad. Does she even know what that is?”

“It’s a good idea to . . . and if I’m honest, I don’t know how much she knows. She overheard us talking. She’s overheard the wives talking about the two of you looking like each other. She’s a very intelligent little girl. She might already know.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and the scraping sound of his stubble fills the room.

I rest my head on the side of the couch, sink farther into the plush couch, and meet his gaze. “Why music, Rocket? Where did that start?”