19. Dylan
nineteen
Dylan
It’s mid-afternoon on Tuesday, and the restaurant is quiet, so I make a last-minute decision to dip out for an hour and surprise Poppy at the house. We haven’t had a minute alone since Valentine’s Day, and midnight sexts aren’t cutting it anymore. Not when I know what she tastes like and I’m craving the full course.
I make it back just in time to catch her pulling out of the gravel driveway to pick up Izzy from school, and I wave her down before she can leave. She pulls over and rolls down the passenger-side window with a pleased grin. “What are you doing here?”
I give her a wink that makes her nose crinkle with affection. “Playing hooky from work.”
I open the door and slip into the seat, then glance in the side mirror and out the back windshield. I can’t tell if there’s anyone nearby to see me kiss her, so I take her hand instead. “Step on it so we’ve got time to make out in the back seat before Izzy is let out from school.”
Poppy laughs as she checks the road and pulls out onto the street. “How old are you?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
I extract my fingers from hers so I can slide a hand along the inside of her denim-clad thigh, starting at the knee and moving higher. When my fingers brush the center seam of her jeans, Poppy bites her lips and stares harder at the road, and my dick is instantly hard.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” she mumbles. “And you’re not helping.”
“Sorry.” I remove my hand and shift in my seat, tugging at my pants to give myself more room in the crotch. “Can’t help it.”
Her eyes dart to the bulge between my legs, and she moans softly with regret. “Let’s talk,” she suggests. “To take our minds off that .”
“All right.” It’s weird how the idea of half an hour of conversation with Poppy gets me as excited as the thought of touching her. I’ve got her alone, and that’s all I need. “What do you want to talk about?”
“How about Izzy? She’s been at the new school for nearly a month. Now might be a good time to reflect on how it’s going.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” A quick glance at the speedometer confirms that Poppy is traveling just below the speed limit. “But keep driving like a grandmother, and there’ll be no time to kiss you before Izzy crashes our party.”
“You pay me to drive like a grandmother.” She cuts her eyes to me quickly before returning her attention to the road. “It’s in the job description. I’m being responsible.”
“You’re tormenting me.”
Her quivering lips and wide-eyed concentration tell me I’m right, even when she replies, “Me? Never.”
I rub my palms along the tops of my thighs to help me focus on something other than the desperate need to put my mouth on this woman. “According to her teacher, Izzy is settling in well,” I say. “She’s enjoying her schoolwork. Making friends.”
Poppy’s smirk morphs into beaming pride. “She’s killing it,” she agrees. “Did you hear anything from Ethan’s parents about Izzy’s invitation to family night?”
Izzy’s new best friend, a boy named Ethan, who shares her love of books and plays a mean six-string, was honored last week with an official-looking pink paper invite to the next Davenport family night. Usually reserved for game tournaments of Monopoly and Pictionary, Izzy decided this one would be a performance of all the skills she’s collected in the last few months. Soccer drills. Conversing in Spanish. A mini ballet recital. And tunes on the trumpet.
Ethan’s the lucky man who gets to back her up.
Everyone’s invited, and even Chord is making an effort to be there. It’s going to be a long night, and I’m not sure if anyone but me is looking forward to it, but one glance at Poppy across the car and I realize I’m wrong. At least one other person is as into it as I am.
“Yeah,” I say. “His mom texted and confirmed. We can let Izzy know this afternoon.”
“Fantastic.” Poppy shoots me a sunshine grin. “Izzy wanted me to type up a program that lists the order of events for the night. You want to throw some ideas around now?”
I could think of something else I’d like to throw around, but we’re fifteen minutes from school and nowhere near an empty field where we can pull over and maul each other. And Poppy knows it.
“Sure,” I agree with a defeated sigh. “And let’s serve something other than chips and dip for once.” I hold up a hand to stop her argument. “Nope. I don’t give a shit what Daisy says.”
Poppy shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”
“You got a pen and paper?”
“Just use your phone.”
I pat at my pockets and find them empty, even though I’ve usually got a pad of paper and pencil on me at the restaurant in case inspiration strikes.
“I hate tapping out notes with my thumbs,” I mutter, checking the car door for a scrap of paper or a rogue pen. “I work best when I can use my hands.”
“Well, I was going to call you an old man, but who am I to argue with a creative genius?” She glances at my fingers. “And those are very clever hands.”
“Fuck, yeah, they are.”
Poppy rolls her eyes but laughs lightly. “Check my tote.”
I raise my eyebrows in mock scandal. “You want me to go through your bag? Isn’t rifling through a woman’s personal belongings a good way to lose my balls?”
She laughs again. “You have my permission.”
I heave the bag out from the back seat and drop it in my lap. One look inside, and I’m genuinely horrified. It’s packed with…well, crap. Papers and pens and gum wrappers. Straws and pins and hair ties. Bandages and antiseptic. A phone charger. Mini toys and puzzles for Izzy. Old receipts and crumpled napkins…
I pin Poppy with a disgusted look. “Seriously?”
“What?” She tosses her head indignantly. “If I didn’t collect random shit, you wouldn’t have anything to write on right now, would you?”
“Jesus freaking…”
I decide it’s better not to argue so I rummage for a pen, then dig around for something blank enough to scribble on. I’ve located an almost-clean napkin when a small pink box catches my attention. One look at the label and I know what it is, and my dick pulses against its denim prison as I pull out the box.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding up the box between us.
Poppy’s eyes flit to the side, then back to the road as she fights a smile. “My Galentine’s Day present.”
“The seal is still intact,” I observe.
“Yeah. I haven’t had a chance to try it out yet.”
“We might have to do something about that.”
I peel back the plastic seal and open the box, pulling out a small pink silicone toy and switching it on. It hums to life, and I examine it with exaggerated interest.
Poppy fidgets in her seat as she narrows her eyes at the road. “I’d say keep talking, but we’ve still got fifteen minutes of driving, and I’m not sure my underwear can take it.”
I drop my head back on the headrest and groan.
“Focus,” she reminds me with a laugh. “You were looking for something to write on.”
My mind spins with thoughts of me bringing Poppy to orgasm with the toy between her thighs. I slip the mini vibrator into my pocket and the empty box back in her bag before I poke around for the almost-clean napkin I spotted earlier. I’ve lost it, and the best I can find now is a folded brochure. As I open it to look for some blank space, the name at the top catches my eye.
“This is the college where Izzy has her music lesson,” I say.
Poppy glances once at the pamphlet, then back at the road. “Uh-huh.”
I turn the paper over. “And this is information about their business administration program.”
Poppy hits her indicator and checks her blind spot before making a left turn. “Yep.”
Don’t jump to conclusions , I remind myself. Don’t let yourself hope . But it’s hard to keep my voice even when I ask, “Is this something you want to do? Go to Aster Springs Community College and study business?”
“Dylan,” she says in a tone that breaks my heart as much as it pisses me off. “Be serious.”
She doesn’t see herself the way I do. Bright and determined and capable of anything.
“I am being serious. Are you thinking about going back to school?”
Her hands tighten and release around the steering wheel, and she stares at the road with hyper-focus. “You and I both know I don’t have what it takes to study again.”
“I don’t know that,” I disagree. “Not at all. I think you’re incredible, and you can do anything you set your mind to.”
Poppy squints at the horizon, and hesitation shadows her brow. I know her well enough to recognize there’s something she wants to say, so I stay quiet and wait for her to talk.
“Do you know why Izzy is so lucky to have you as her dad?”
It’s not what I’m expecting, and although it’s a clumsy change in subject, I go with it for now. “I make a mean ratatouille?”
Poppy grimaces and sticks out her tongue with disgust. “Gross. No. She’s lucky because you were present enough to notice that she needed help in school, and you cared enough to investigate why and get the support she needs. And before you say you’re just doing what any parent in your situation would do, let me tell you—not all parents pay that much attention.”
Poppy and I are close enough in age that we went to school together for more years than not, and she never made a secret of the fact that she wasn’t interested in studying or grades. There were plenty of kids like that—fuck, I was one of them—so it never occurred to me to wonder why.
“Are you talking about Mona?” I ask.
“A few years after I left Aster Springs,” she says instead of answering my question, “I was nannying for a family in Connecticut. They had a twelve-year-old boy, and he wasn’t doing well in school. Some things that were hard for him used to be hard for me, too, and it made me think. Lucky for him, his parents listened to my concerns and did all the right things. He was assessed and diagnosed with dyslexia, the school was supportive, and things turned around. His mom still sends me updates every other month, and he’s graduating next year—with honors.”
I frown out the window, choosing my words carefully in case I’ve misunderstood the point Poppy is trying to make, but I don’t think I have. “Do you think you have dyslexia?”
Poppy nibbles her lip as she checks her side mirrors. “My self-diagnosis might not stand up in court, and maybe it’s not dyslexia exactly, but I’ve done enough research and worked with enough kids to know my brain isn’t typical. Reading is hard for me. Spelling is worse. I can remember things fine, but I hate writing them down. These aren’t the qualities of a good student.”
“Poppy—”
“It’s okay,” she says, but something in her voice tells me it isn’t. “I don’t blame Mona for missing the signs. She did the best she could, worked hard to put a roof over our heads and food on the table, and she was a high-school dropout herself. A person doesn’t need a higher education to succeed in life, and I think she assumed I wasn’t too clever and didn’t need the pressure of a parent who measured achievements by grades. I wasn’t destined for college so what was the point in making me feel bad about it?”
“I agree with the part about not needing to go to college,” I say. “And I think my mom and dad were a lot like Mona in that respect. Charlie is the only Davenport to get a degree. But it’s not always about needing an education. Sometimes, it’s about wanting one—or wanting the kind of job that requires it.”
Poppy shakes her head with a deprecating chortle that sounds forced. “Maybe things would be different if Mona noticed the signs when I was young, or if my dad had taken even a shred of interest in me, or if there was a single teacher who didn’t immediately write me off as a troublemaking simpleton, but they didn’t, and they’re not. I am who I am, and it’s too late to start again.”
“But if you could go back and change things,” I press. “If you could advocate for Little Poppy the way you take care of kids as a nanny, what would you want for yourself? What kind of future did you picture when you were young enough to still believe anything was possible?”
“What is this?” she asks with a more genuine laugh even as she dashes at the tears that spill down her cheeks. “A therapy session?”
“No.” I slide my hand over her thigh and squeeze it comfortingly. “It’s one friend talking to another, so she might feel better about something that’s bothering her.”
Poppy shakes her head with an amused huff. “You’re smooth, Davenport.”
I hit her with my best smolder. “Like honey.”
She rolls her eyes with a laugh, and the warmth in her expression when she glances my way bounces around the entire car. “I take it back. You’re not smooth. You’re a dork.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
She lifts her shoulders and drops them with a sigh. “Fine. Yes, if things were different, I’d want to run my own business. No. More than that. Build a whole brand. Create a salon where people feel comfortable in their own skin and where everyone walks out my doors with more self-love than they had when they arrived. And I know I don’t need a diploma to do that, but I like the idea of having one. It might make me less wistful about the opportunities I missed as a kid. I wouldn’t mind proving to myself that I can do it.”
The lift in her voice is proof of how important this is to her. It’s a good idea, and she can do it. I know she can. I can help her. Hell, Charlie can help her. She’s been on all of us about expanding Silver Leaf, and there was some talk a while back about opening our own spa to increase our appeal to the bridal market.
As soon as I think of it, my blood starts to buzz with ideas. Like I’ve figured it all out. For both of us. I’m about to tell Poppy that everything she wants is in the realm of possibility, but she goes on before I can say anything.
“But Dylan—I couldn’t do what you do. With all those reports and accounting and managing people and business planning? I’d sink fast, and I know it.”
“It’s hard,” I admit. “But—”
“And if it’s hard for you, imagine how impossible it would be for me. You have the support of your family, and you qualified as a chef before you had to run the restaurant yourself. I’d need to train in cosmetology and business management, and I just don’t know if I can do it.”
She trails off, blinking at the road ahead, and I reach for her knee again. “Poppy—”
“And I don’t want to be like my mom.” Her voice is firmer now. Like this is the real non-negotiable. “I don’t want to be so consumed by a business that I forget there are other things that matter in life. I never want to be so…so…self-involved.”
“You could never,” I reassure her.
“Plus, I’m happy as a nanny,” she says as a reflective smile steals across her mouth. “It’s rewarding and colorful and fun. Working with children has so much value. I’m making a difference, Dylan, and I don’t regret the path that brought me here. I’ve traveled the world, met beautiful people, made wonderful memories. Being a nanny gives me purpose. Not everyone has that.”
This conversation isn’t over—I’ve got too many solutions to her problems to let this go so easily—but I’m so taken by her in this moment that I let myself be diverted. She’s radiant. Hope and optimism glow beneath her skin. Always there. Always lighting her up.
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“How do you take something painful and shape it into something positive? How do you dress up a heartache to make it look like one of your happily ever afters?”
Izzy’s school appears up ahead, and Poppy casts me a sidelong look before pulling into the driveway. “How do you turn a bag of flour and a cup of water into pasta that makes your mouth water?”
“I add eggs,” I reply, like the recipe should be obvious. “Salt. Olive oil. I handle the dough just right. It’s never just flour and water.”
“There’s your answer.” Poppy pulls into a parking space, turns off the engine, and gives me a pretty smile. “ Life is never just flour and water. It’s so much more. The ingredients may be simple. On their own, they might not even taste any good. But with the right perspective and a little extra effort, there’s always the potential to create something from next to nothing.”
She reaches over and sifts her fingers through the strands of hair falling loose across my forehead, her expression contemplative as she traces the details of my face, and I watch the words spill from her perfect cherry lips, completely under her spell.
“Everyone has the power to be happy.”