Page 116 of Sweet Distraction

Mrs. Whitmore looks at me with an unreadable expression. “You mean your daughter, now that Olivia is gone?”

“Yes, she is my daughter,” I say quietly, hands gripping the coffee cup so hard it buckles in the middle. “But she’s also your granddaughter. I’m not trying to take her away from you.”

For the slightest second, Mrs. Whitmore’s face softens, but Mr. Whitmore escalates the situation. “Take her away from us? We’ll be taking her away from you, you piece of shit. She’s all we have left of our daughter,” he says contemptuously. “We’ve already buried our child. We’re not going to stand by while the man who didn’t give a damn about Olivia pretends he can raise her.”

My throat locks up, and I bite back the inherent reflex to be defensive. Willow was right. She said they’d be angry due to their misplaced grief. She said they’d take it out on me and that I couldn’t take the bait.

She didn’t say how fucking hard that would be.

I clear my throat. “I know you’re hurting. I recognize and acknowledge that,” I say, voice scraping raw as I do everything I can to be the mature one in this conversation. Fuck, is it hard. “But she’s still my daughter.”

Mr. Whitmore’s eyes flare. “You didn’t care about Olivia,” he repeats.

“Just because the time we spent together wasn’t long . . . doesn’t mean I didn’t care about her. On a different level.” There is no easy way to answer that question.

Mrs. Whitmore’s brows lift, but I continue.

“I didn’t know about Poppy. If I had—” I stop, swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I would’ve shown up. I would’ve helped in every way possible. I would have been there from day one.”

“Would you have?” Mr. Whitmore asks. “Or would you have ghosted her like every other headline says you do?”

That one stings.

But I take the hit because he’s probably right. I’m not the same man I was three months ago. I give him that response, knowing now what I would have missed out on had the old me found out Olivia was pregnant.

And I also take the hit without arguing because he’s grieving. Because that pain doesn’t always know where to go, and maybe I’m the only place it can land.

“Headlines are just that, sir. You can find one to fit whichever narrative you wish to paint. But since Poppy has come into my life, I’m more conscious now about my choices and decisions than ever.”

Mrs. Whitmore places a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. It seems like it’s a silent request, like she can’t handle living in his pain anymore.

He looks at her, hesitates, and then leans back in his chair. Clearly he’s letting her take the lead now.

She turns to me, voice quieter now, but still firm.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” she says as her hand tightens on her husband’s arm. “May we still meet Poppy?”

My pulse races. “Yeah. Of course.” I look outside the window of the coffee shop where Willow just appeared and nod for her to come in. “She should know you. You’re part of her family. I’m not sure if Sandra informed you, but Poppy isn’t talking much. It’s a traumatic response to being with Olivia when . . . in the car during the accident.” Mrs. Whitmore blinks back tears. “She’s been seeing therapists to help her and has started saying words, but it’s sporadic. She can hear you and understands, she just chooses not to speak right now. So in case she doesn’t respond verbally, that’s why.”

The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as Willow walks in with Poppy on her hip. She spots me instantly and wriggles to get down.

Mrs. Whitmore sucks in an audible breath that expresses so much pain. It’s a humbling sound, but one I think I understand now.

Willow lowers Poppy, and she instantly runs to where I’m sitting. She looks at me and then to the strangers sitting across from me as she wraps one hand around my arm and the other tighter on her rabbit.

“Hey, Popstar,” I say as Willow steps up beside me and behind Poppy. “These are your mommy’s parents. Your grandparents.”

Poppy’s eyebrows furrow for a split second before she shifts to face them, her head tilting to its side as she studies them.

“Remember how we talked earlier about how they really wanted to meet you? Isn’t it special that you can meet and know your mommy’s mommy and daddy?” She twists her fingers into the hem of my shirt as if she’s deciding how she feels about this and them. “Like we talked about earlier, I know they might seem like strangers, but all they want to do is hang out here in the coffee shop, get to know you and bunny, and maybe buy you a treat or two.”

“Whatever treat you want,” Mrs. Whitmore says, voice shaky. “We just want to get to know you and be friends.”

Poppy twists her lips and looks back to me. “Willow and I are going to sit right over there.” I point to the far side of the smaller, basically empty café. “If you need us or feel scared like we might leave you, you can look and see that we haven’t.”

Her fingers twist a little more, and then after a long, long moment, she lets go. I can see her trying to be brave, as she cautiously moves closer to Mrs. Whitmore and points to the little purple dragon stuffed animal she’s produced from her purse.

“Hi there,” Mrs. Whitmore whispers in a broken voice as tears flood her eyes. “This is for you. Your mommy used to have one just like it when she was little.”