Page 63 of Sweet Distraction

The lump in my throat grows bigger with each passing second.

“But here’s the thing, Rock,” Vince says, “if you don’t show up, then you’re letting that fucker who walked out on you when you were one year old win. You’re letting your selfish, revolving-door-of-a-mother win. You’re better than both of them. All of us can vouch for it.”

“The best thing about kids is they forgive and forget and are willing to love you for simply nothing. That’s why our parents’ actions hurt so bad,” Gizmo says.

“We know it’s hard, but you’ve gotta show up. You have to try. Be there for Poppy even if it’s just to watch the same stupid show over and over and over until your ears bleed,” Hawkin says, and Vince chuckles.

Fuck. Tears well, one falls over, and I wipe it away as fast as I can as I turn my back from them and take a few steps to compose myself.

My chest burns with shame. But there’s also . . . hope and a desire to do what they’re saying I should. From knowing they understand me when no one else possibly could. From knowing they believe in me.

I sniffle and am just about to turn back around when Gizmo says, “You’re right. Talking about fucking the nanny is way easier than this.”

Laughter rings out. God, I love these guys.

“So for clarification, have you or have you not fucked the nanny yet?” Hawkin asks.

My middle fingers go up, and I feel the ground steady beneath me a bit more. I welcome it.

“Must be a world record for him,” Gizmo says. “Three whole weeks. No pussy. Write it down, boys.”

“Oh shit, someone call Guinness,” Vince adds, tapping the snare. “Get this man a trophy.”

“Or a condom.”

“Or a cold shower.”

“No, no,” Hawkin says with mock seriousness. “I feel a song coming on.”

Gizmo kicks in a quick beat on his drums. Without prompting, Vince grabs his acoustic and throws in some chaotic chord progressions. Hawkin starts singing in an exaggerated and horrible falsetto.

She walked in with juice boxes, hair in a bun,

Thought she was here for the kid, not the fun.

Vince starts in, and you can barely hear the lyrics through his laughter.

She’s a sweet distraction, pure satisfaction,

Got the nanny cam catching all the action.

They both point to Gizmo and wait for him to add on. He’s on it in a second.

She’s in the kitchen making grilled cheese,

He’s behind her like, drop to your knees.

Hawkin holds his hand up to indicate he’s going next.

Finger-paint on the fridge, bra on the floor,

Who needs a tour bus when she locks the door?

They’re laughing so hard Hawkin nearly drops his water. Giz is bent over his drum set holding his stomach, shoulders shaking, and Vince just shakes his head like he’s already finishing writing the chorus in his brain.

And as if on cue, all three look my way, and I do the only thing I can do—I laugh with them. “You guys are regular fucking comedians.”

“We can keep going,” Gizmo says and lifts his sticks.