Chapter 26
26
Poppy
The words are out of his mouth, but I struggle to comprehend.
Before the accident, we had everything, instead of with you . . . I have a child.
Laird’s a dad? “What do you mean you have a child?”
“I might. I do? I don’t . . .” He bends, his large frame holding him captive to try to find the relief he’s seeking. “I don’t know.” Whispering the same to himself, he drags his hand through his hair and then rests his palms on his legs.
His breathing is strained, but my thoughts are too scattered to make sense of this. It was only a silly notion—us together, dating, starting a family—an order I had in my head. It was too soon to dream of such things. “What do you mean you don’t know? I don’t understand what you’re saying, Laird.”
He stands to his full height and rubs across his brow. “I just found out. I don’t know the details.” A dark silhouette against the sunshine of a California spring day. The contrast is stark, matching the blindside of the conversation I didn’t think I’d be having. Shoulders fallen along with his expression, but still so stunning that I wonder if pain burdens him just to lessen his perfection because a child won’t do it. He replies, “My manager is coming over.”
The vague responses aren’t leading me to answers. The turmoil in his eyes only put me more on edge. “Why? What’s going on?”
“The record label received paperwork sent to me.” Shame coats his throat as he tries to clear it and then looks away from me again. “It’s for a paternity test. Tommy’s bringing me the paperwork they received.”
Don’t jump ahead. Live in the present, Poppy. One day at a time. Breathe . The mantras I practiced, I repeated thousands of times when I was stuck in bed, the words that helped me survive return as if I’m back in Beacon.
I can assume all the answers, try to work through this like an algebra equation to find out what X is, but the only one who can help me solve it is Laird. I slow my speeding heart, needing to be the voice of reason, if not for him, then for myself. “Is this a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“I need you to look at me.” His eyes meet mine without hesitation, though there is an uncertainty that doesn’t belong there. Understandable. I’m not sure what to think either. “We just started dating, so it’s okay if you don’t want to share quite yet. It’s not my right to know. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize.” He comes around the coffee table and takes hold of my upper arms. “I hate myself for dragging my past into our lives right when we found each other again.”
He puts on a handsome face, but I think he’s in shock, mixing his words and timelines, but that can be sorted another time. “It makes me smile every time you slip and say things like that, like we’ve been together before.” I embrace him, holding him close, and find my smile spreading as I lean against his chest. Maybe it’s not the time, but selfishly, I want to enjoy these last few minutes we have before everything changes. Because it will. The test is not only about paternity, but how we survive it through the outcome.
Caressing my face, he says, “Remember I love you, okay?”
The question is ominous under the circumstances. “I know you love me.”
He nods and takes a breath that he’s seemingly been waiting to do. Did he think I wouldn’t love him because he has a child? Does he think I wouldn’t love his children because they’re born from another woman? I hadn’t noticed the cracks in our foundation, but I’m realizing we never built one. We just were one day. Ready-made.
Two people destiny toyed with, plopping us down in the middle of nowhere to see what would happen. We were tailor-made for each other. It worked. We fell hook, line, and sinker. Not a week old and the ground shifts beneath our feet.
But with all the steps we skipped, reality has hit. We don’t know each other. Not really. I whisper, “I won’t forget.” For him or me? For both of us.
A knock on the door causes me to separate, the tips of my fingers leaving him as he walks away. He says, “Tommy was already on his way over.”
We didn’t have time to talk about the role he wants me to play during the conversation or if he’d rather me go. I stand there unsure if I should, a weird feeling telling me to run.
I clasp my hands in front of me, swallowing it down to ignore it. That doesn’t work. It just lumps in my throat .
The door opens, and his manager comes in, tapping a large envelope on the palm of his hand. “Not the first time. Won’t be the last,” he says, coming in midsentence. “Oh.” He stops and looks at me. “Hi.” Looking confused, he turns to Laird. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to get in a word edgewise.”
I shift, feeling more uncomfortable than ever.
Turning to me, he says, “Hello, I’m Tommy.” The back of his hand lands on Laird’s chest. “His manager.” A hand is offered with a genuine smile.
Laird is quick to step in as if I’m meeting his parents for the first time. “Tommy O’Neill. Poppy Stanfield.” By all appearances, he looks like a nice enough guy in his jeans and button-down shirt. Nice shoes but not typical for the beach lifestyle in Malibu. I assume he lives in LA. No wedding ring which surprises me for some reason.
“Hi.” I shake his hand. “I’m . . .” I glance at Laird, who grins. “I’m going to get out of the way—”
“You’re not in the way,” Laird says before I finish.
I smile and notice Tommy’s brow furrowed as he turns to look at Laird again. He chooses to stay quiet. Although I don’t feel I can say it in front of company, I don’t think I should be a part of the initial conversation. I need to support Laird, not distract him.
With the three of us standing in silence, I thumb over my shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to pack my suitcase anyway.”
Tommy asks, “Oh, are you flying out?”
Volleying my gaze between him and Laird, I reply, “I live in LA. I’ve been here for a few days.”
“She was at Deer Lake with me,” Laird adds with a sense of pride. “She’s a chef.”
“Oh wow, that’s a score. I’m sure the food’s been great. ”
I laugh, though I’m not sure it’s even funny, but I say it anyway, “I’ve not actually gotten to cook too much, except for the past few days.”
Laird says, “We lost power at the lake.”
Shrugging, I say, “We were stuck with non-perishables for the most part.”
“Don’t let her downplay her skills,” Laird says with a chuckle. “She totally made a pasta dish that we reheated by fire, and yesterday we ate Mediterranean.” Laird snaps his fingers. “I forgot what you called it—”
“Harissa honey chicken.”
“It was amazing.”
Tommy moves to a barstool. “I feel like I’m interrupting, but now I’m also hungry.”
Even the lightest of laughter feels good to break some of the tension. “Well,” I start again, “I’m going to pack. I need to go to my place for clothes and…”
“I can go with you after this.”
I go to him first, lift onto my toes, and kiss him. For both of us. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.” I leave but can feel their eyes on me as I walk down the hall.
When I enter the room, I am about to close it, but I stop, realizing I left my phone in the living room. There’s no way I’m going out there to retrieve it. That doesn’t leave me much to do other than packing, which will take me all of five minutes.
“I told Mike we’d call him when I got here,” Tommy says, his voice carrying down the hallway. I still where I am. “The papers were delivered to Outlaw Records, but we sent copies to him since you need your lawyer involved.”
Footsteps and then the sound of papers is heard. Laird says, “Makes sense.”
A phone rings over speakerphone, and then another man answers, “Hey, Laird, how are you doing, man?” The concern in his attorney’s tone makes me nervous. Should I be, or am I overreacting?
“Shock?” A tugging in my chest has me wanting to run out and hug him. I don’t. But the rawness in his voice reveals his worries that he was trying to hide from me.
I shouldn’t stand here and eavesdrop. I hate that I even heard that much, guilt already clawing at my throat. I just can’t bring myself to close the door.
His attorney says, “That’s normal in these types of situations.” A pause. “Let me explain what this means. It’s a court-ordered paternity test. Standard in Tennessee and California. Pretty much everywhere. Although we use different terms in some places, it means the same thing. I’m not seeing any gotcha language, which is good, and being frank, it’s telling. She might not be coming after you. It reads to me as if she’s only trying to establish paternity of the biological father. I assume for child support, probably medical history, but there’s no paperwork in this filing for that. Yet.”
This has nothing to do with me, but I still find my heart breaking, suddenly grieving expectations I had no right to have. Not at this stage in the relationship. Reason plays no role in dreaming, though. I start to question if I know him as well as I thought I did.
“Yet?” Laird asks.
Walking to the suitcase, I push a few things around, unable to stop listening now.
“If you’re determined to be the father,” Mike says. Determined . . . determined to be the father, he’ll be in his life. Right? “That will be the next step. It’s not something that usually happens before facts are established.”
I don’t want to listen anymore, but that door will squeak, drawing their attention if I close it, and they will know I was eavesdropping. I move to the bed to lie down, but I can’t escape their conversation because the speaker’s volume is turned up so loud.
Ugh.
He goes on and on about needing to acknowledge receipt, scheduling the appointment with an approved lab, and if he wants to send a response.
I roll to my side, wishing these wooden floors didn’t carry every sound into the bedroom. Grabbing the other pillow, I cover my head, muffling the world and hoping to block it out entirely. I close my eyes, praying sleep distracts me enough from this reality.
It takes too long but then drags me under.
. . . piercing blue eyes . . .
. . . never have I ever . . .
. . . playing for keeps . . .
“Poppy?”
The feel of something grabbing me sends me scrambling toward the headboard and gasping for air. Sweating and with a thundering heart, I’m caught in the purgatory of sleep and reality as I stare into the eyes of my dreams.
“It’s okay,” Laird says. “You’re okay. You were dreaming.”
I blink a few times, tearing my gaze away from him to the sheets tangled under me. “Dreaming?” When I look back at him, I start breathing again.
Resettling closer to me, he cups my cheeks. “You called my name.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Bad dream?”
“I don’t remember it being bad.” The security of his hands gives me permission to close my eyes. “I remember feeling content.” Looking into his eyes again, I add, “Happy. ”
“Well, if you’re going to be calling my name, I’m glad it’s in a happy context.” He slides his hands back to push the hair out of my face.
I release a long breath as I glance at the ocean, my throat dry, and my breathing still jagged. When I look at him, I say, “It felt real.”
“That’s how dreams work, baby.” His smile is so sincere that I melt a little.
I can’t let it go, with the visions still lingering on the edge of my mind and getting fuzzier as the seconds pass by. “What about memories?”
His back stiffens as his lips part, his hands back to his sides. Words are on the cusp of his tongue, but then he closes his mouth again. Shifting on the bed, he turns away from me but then looks back. “I would imagine they work much the same way. Were you dreaming or remembering?”
My heart reconciles a regular routine, and I lick my lips. “There used to be only one difference from what I could tell.” I move to sit next to him, my feet on firm ground again.
“What was that?” he asks as if our lives depend on the answer.
“You were in one and not the other.”
Hope rises like the sun in his eyes. “And now?”
“They’re becoming one and the same.”