Page 52 of Sweet Distraction

“Seriously though, do I need to come get you because you’re gonna cause trouble?”

“No,” I say through an exhale. “I’m good. Well, not really. I just need . . .”

“To breathe?” he finishes for me.

“Something like that.” Poppy on the counter with her little bare feet crossed and her pigtails bouncing flash through my mind.

“You drinking?”

If I have any more visuals like that, I’m going to be.

“Not yet,” I murmur. “Most likely not far off though.”

Another pause. Just long enough to mean something. “Don’t do anything stupid, Rock.”

My chuckle sounds bitter. “Never.”

“That wasn’t too convincing.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

He cusses softly, and it sounds like he scrubs a hand over his face. “When you’re in a better headspace, remind me to tell you about the time I found out about Jagger,” he says, referring to his son. “How Hawkin had to bail me out of jail at two in the morning because I punched a guy and then sat in the bed of a truck—probably not too far from where you might be right now—for a long time while Hawke straightened my ass out.”

A real laugh escapes me this time. “At least I haven’t punched anyone out.”

“Yet.”

“Yes. Yet.” I twist my lips as the horizon swallows the last bit of the sun. “I’m an asshole, right? Like she just lost her mom, and I’m here feeling sorry for myself that I have to grow the fuck up when I don’t want to.”

“Or maybe you’re worried you have to actually be the man you thought you could never be.”

And there he goes with the zinger.

“Christ,” I mutter.

“Feel the emotions, brother. Own them. It’ll be easier to come to terms with them than it will be to keep outrunning them.”

I stare out at the crashing waves. At the last remnants of color fading to dark on the horizon.

“I don’t know how,” I admit.

“You don’t have to know. Just don’t run from it. Especially not now.”

“That’s all I know how to do.”

His silence tells me he understands, but doesn’t want to hijack my feelings or my confusion, by telling me about his experience in a similar situation. He knows that’ll make me feel pathetic, and I’m grateful that he stays silent.

“Here’s what you need to do. You need to go find a bar and then park your car. Go in. Get shitfaced if you’d like. Don’t if you don’t. Leave your keys with the bartender, and I’ll get your car picked up and brought home for you. Do what you need to do. Drink. Fuck. Cry. Rage. Whatever it is that helps, but when you walk through the door of your house, you need to not bring that back with you.”

I grunt.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise. Just . . . remember we love you, okay? Even if you don’t believe in that shit.”

I grunt, throat too tight to do much more.

Then I end the call.

Because if I say anything else, the pieces I’ve held together for the past week are going to crack open completely.