Page 48 of Sweet Distraction

Poppy’s sitting on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, and a mixing bowl in front of her. She has a wooden spoon that’s way too big for her little hands, and yet her face is twisted in concentration as she stirs the ingredients.

“Awesome job,” Willow says, her face animated with pride, as she steps up beside her and holds out two eggs. “Are you sure you can do it?”

Poppy nods emphatically so that her pigtails bob. The wooden spoon is forgotten where it rests against the bowl in her quest for the eggs. Her face lights up when Willow places one in her cupped hands.

Such a simple thing—cracking the eggs—but clearly it makes her feel like a big kid. That’s not something I ever would have thought of letting her do.

Willow stands beside Poppy and gently guides her little hands as she cracks an egg into the bowl. She hits it a little too hard. The broken shell crumbles, and the yolk dribbles down the edge of the bowl, but the pride on her face and the belly giggle she emits? Adorable.

I stand rooted in place and just stare.

Not at the chaos. Not at the cookie mess or the noise or the fact that a toddler is barefoot and sitting on my damn marble countertops.

But at them.

Willow, with her easy warmth and steady hands. Poppy, with her wide eyes and giggles and impossibly perfect smile.

Then the realization hits me, and I’m gutted all over again. I’ll never be able to do that. Be like Willow. I’ll never be that soft. That safe. That steady.

Poppy’ll never laugh like that with me.

I’m the guy with shadows where memories should be. With wounds that have scarred over but never truly healed beneath. The man who used to dream of rockets and stars and escape routes because the world inside his own house was too transient to live in with new boyfriends always coming and going.

“You need to get lost tonight.”

“Mom.” I look toward the window where it’s already dark. “I can’t. It’s—freezing out there.”

“You don’t have to sit out in the backyard. The back seat of the car though.” I look up from the sketch I’m making. Her eyeliner is dark and smudged. Her lips are bright pink and her lipstick stretches beyond the outline of her lips. Her dress is tight and shows more of her than any son ever wants to see of their mother.

Here we go again.

“Again? Can’t we have some time without a new guy coming around?” It’s like an ever-revolving fucking door. One leaves. A new one gets brought in, is treated like a fucking king only until he isn’t, and then he’s out the door for the new man in the wings.

“Without a new guy?” she screeches. It’s as if I just told her she’s going to have to cut off an arm—or God forbid, spend any amount of alone time with her son. “Who do you think helps to pay for all these nice things we have?” The slur of her words says she’s been drinking. Clearly she doesn’t think too highly of him herself if she has to drink before the first date.

Nice things? I take a look around our place and almost laugh at that comment. But I know better than to speak up. I know the consequences of pissing off my mom, who will then tell the new boyfriend I’m an ungrateful prick. And that means either an ass whooping or less food or being forced to sleep outside while they moan and groan and do gross things out in here.

“Yep. Sure.” I huff the words out as I gather some things to occupy me in the car while I sit there tonight.

“Grab a blanket. I don’t want you to get cold,” she says. “That back window still isn’t rolling all the way up.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll wake you for school in the morning.”

No, you won’t. “Okay.”

“And I promise I’ll tell this one I have a kid sooner than the last one. They just never seem to want to stay around when they know I have you.”

“Uh-huh.” That’s what you said with the last guy.

My childhood wasn’t a home. It was survival.

The parade of men that passed through taught me exactly what I never wanted to be. Loneliness that dug its claws in deep and never let go. Affection wasn’t shown, and it sure as fuck wasn’t taught . . . and yet I’m just supposed to know how to give it? To show it? To . . . I don’t know what with it?

To have sex with a woman—then time after sex—it’s one thing. It’s a thank-you. A reaction. A means to an end. But to a little girl who asks nothing of you—from you—and who you’re terrified of ruining? That’s a whole different level of comprehension.

My phone buzzes in my hand and pulls me from my never-ending thoughts.