Page 86 of Sweet Distraction

That sound—her laughter—is pure and wholesome, and I’ll never tire of hearing it.

“You’re a menace,” I say as I prop myself up on my elbows and exaggerate how tired I am from building and it being knocked over.

She just laughs and throws the red block again. When it hits me on the shoulder, I flop back again and earn more giggles.

I lay on my back with my eyes closed and just soak in the sound. This might be the weirdest version of happiness I’ve ever known.

But it doesn’t last.

Twenty minutes later, just like the piano, the block game has worn itself out. We’ve read the stack of books and drunk the juice she told me she wanted, which is now in her hand despite her teeth already being brushed, is no longer what she wants.

Enter the meltdown phase.

A big one—by my standards anyway.

She’s on the floor, little hands balled into fists, tears streaking down her cheeks. It doesn’t take long for that to lead to foot stomping followed by rocking back and forth on the ground hysterics.

Over what? I have no idea but isn’t that par for the course?

I’m at a loss—for what to say. For what to do. For . . . fucking anything.

“Hey, hey. No. Poppy, it’s okay.”

But it’s not. She’s sobbing now. Loud, choked sounds fill the room. The kind that rips straight through you and makes you feel helpless.

I panic.

Do I call someone? Willow’s out of the picture. She deserves her night off, and I refuse to let her know I can’t handle it.

One of the bandmates’ wives—Quinlan? Bristol? Hendrix?

I reach for my phone and grip it tightly as the sobbing gets louder, but I stop myself from calling someone for help.

Wait. What was that thing? The thing the nurse told Hawkin’s wife when I went to visit them right after they’d had their first baby?

Skin-to-skin. Skin-on-skin? That’s a thing, right?

For babies. For newborns. But I’m fucking desperate here, and I’ll try it. It can’t hurt. I strip my shirt over my head as Poppy wails louder.

I pick up her squirming body, then sit down on the couch and lift her into my lap.

She fights it for a second, hands hit and feet kick as I hold her close.

This isn’t going to work. But just as helplessness kicks in, her little hand flattens against my chest. She lifts her head and pauses, brow furrowed and attention distracted when she sees the ink on my chest.

This is what’s going to save the day for me? My tattoos? Fucking figures.

She begins tracing the intricate designs. Her touch is slow and curious as her sobs subside to sniffles and silent hitches of her shoulders. She stops every few seconds and looks closer at one of the designs as if she’s trying to figure out the colors or where to trace next, her eyes widening and lips moving as she whispers to herself in words only she understands.

Not sure what else to do, I begin to sing and am rewarded instantly with her flattening her palm first and then her cheek against my chest as she feels the vibrations. She looks up at me and smiles—her eyes red and cheeks splotchy—but it’s still a smile. I’ll take it.

We sit like this for some time, me singing silly verses of BENT songs—in the best of my ability lullaby form—and her tracing my tattoos. With each minute that passes, her breathing begins to even out, and her hand begins to slow. She curls up against my chest, her tiny body fitting into mine like she’s always belonged there.

“Daddy.” I swear she whispers it but when I look down at her, she’s sound asleep.

Did I hear that? Did I wish it into existence? I don’t know, but I love the warmth that rushes through me, even at the thought of her saying it.

So I just sit here with one arm wrapped around her and the other stroking her back.