Page 15 of Sweet Distraction

But then I can see it—the shift. The second he shoves down being mesmerized and becomes . . . indifferent? Almost as if he’s not sure he’ll accept this new reality.

I wasn’t sure what I expected when Alan divulged who Poppy’s father was, and the whole ride over here I’ve been playing out this first meeting in my head. I figured it would be emotionally charged but wasn’t certain what that charged emotion would be.

Or how awkward and intrusive it would feel to be a part of this moment.

Would I want a witness to me rejecting my own daughter? Because that’s what his physical recoil says when he takes a step back and just stares.

“Mr. Caldwell?” Alan prompts.

The muscle in his jaw clenches as we all wait in the suspended silence. His voice is gravel when he finally speaks. “This can’t be real. She can’t be—”

“Like I said,” Alan says, “I understand this is all quite a shock to you and will take some time to process, but the sooner we get Poppy with you and integrated into your life, the better it is for her emotionally and mentally. She’s been through more than most adults can handle in a very short amount of time.”

“May we come in?” I ask.

Rocket’s eyes flicker to mine for the first time and then immediately back to Poppy. “Sure. Yes. Come in.”

His movements are jerky. Mechanical. And if I weren’t standing here, seeing the whites of his eyes, I’d question if the man was strung out.

But he’s not.

He’s panicked. Terrified. Unsettled in the worst way possible and not sure what to do.

The smallest part of me feels for him. I do. But an even bigger part of me feels for the little girl in my arms who’ll need him to step up to the plate for her.

I just hope that he does.

Rocket ushers us inside. The interior of his home is nothing like I expected. I thought I’d find sleek modern furniture in monochromatic tones that felt cold and unlived in. Instead, I find warm tones and sprawling couches that look like you could sit down on them only to realize later you’ve slept for hours.

Where I thought I’d find empty booze bottles littering the coffee table and maybe a stray bra missed or stashed in a corner, from my vantage point, everything seems to be tidy and in its place.

The man leading us down the wide hallway may smell from what I assume was a late night of drinking, but he did, in fact, pick up his house. Or he has people for that.

But if he does, they are nowhere to be found to greet the newest addition to the household.

The hallway leads into a massive room that opens up with high, vaulted ceilings. The space has a chef’s kitchen on the far side, a sitting area around a large television on the other and the whole western-facing wall has windows that overlook an extensive backyard—patio cover, fireplace, pool on one side, large grass area on the other.

And while there’s a bag of trash tied up and sitting against a door, everything else is clean. No dirty dishes stacked in the sink. No random person crashed out on the couch. No bongs displayed like art on the shelves.

Yes, I’ve seen it all in my time working with families, but my first impression here—other than the man beside me—is that he wanted to make a good one. That he was in fact trying.

Either that or he’s freakishly clean.

I’ll assume he’s typically somewhere in the middle on a normal day, so at least there’s a sense here that he cares.

It’s not a huge sign, but it’s better than none at all.

He clears his throat and narrows his brows as he seems to notice anyone other than Poppy is here for the first time. “Do—uh—you want to sit down? She, uh, looks heavy.”

“Yes. She’s getting to be.” I shift her in my arms. “Thank you.”

I move toward one of those massive couches I was admiring in the other room and sit down, grateful to have some support. Carrying a sleeping toddler is like carrying dead weight.

“Forgive me. Where are my manners?” Alan says. “Mr. Caldwell, this is Willow Adams. I know Sandra has coordinated her staying on for a probationary period while—”

“Hey.” Rocket’s gaze finally shifts to me, and he nods in greeting.

“You ready to do this?” I ask and then cringe at the stupidest comment in the world. Of course he isn’t. By the look on his face, he’d rather have every tooth pulled without Novocain than be here, but when I get nervous, I say the most awkward things.