26. Dylan
twenty-six
Dylan
The years of worry and weariness I thought were forever baked into my bones leach out of me, seeping from my limp muscles into a mattress that has never felt this soft. It couldn’t. Not when I was missing Poppy by my side, curled up in my arms while her warmth enveloped me in return.
So I don’t know how, hours after we drift off to sleep, I end up sprawled out on the far side of the bed. But when I realize she’s not snuggled up against me anymore, I roll and stretch my arm out, searching for her.
When I discover she’s not in bed at all, I sit up and look around the dark room, blinking away the last tendrils of sleep. My bedroom door is open even though I know I left it closed. I wanted to make sure Izzy would have to knock on the off-chance she went wandering in the night.
My stomach sinks as I flop back onto my pillow, staring up at the dark ceiling. Poppy’s gone. She ran.
I check the time on my phone—it’s twenty minutes past midnight—then toy with the corner of the sheet, plucking irritably at the cotton, as I weigh my options. I could pretend I never woke up and let her sleep the night in Daisy’s room. I could go looking for her and bring her back here. Tell her I can’t sleep without her.
But she must have snuck away from me for a reason, and the more I turn that question over in my mind, the more certain I feel about its answer. Poppy told me herself that morning in the woods. “ I never run from anything other than my own fears.” Add that to the worry she feels about telling Daisy the truth about us, plus the faith she put in her father and the way that bastard let her down, and the conclusion is obvious.
Poppy is afraid of what happened between us tonight. She’s scared it’ll all fall apart. That her best friend will hate her. That another man will break her heart.
But that’s not going to happen. I’ve spent months worried about Poppy hurting me , but I’m too far gone to care about that now. I’m reckless enough to risk it. She belongs here with me and Izzy, and no matter what it takes, I’m going to make sure she knows that.
There was something else she said on that hike about why she runs. “I never run from anything other than my own fears… and what I chase is the hope of my very own happily ever after.” The reminder gives me hope. Poppy’s mine. Ours. If she runs, I’ll bring her back—and find a way to prove to her the happily ever after she’s been searching for has been in Aster Springs all along.
As my thoughts coalesce into a plan and my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice a faint gleam of light coming from the far end of the hallway. Muffled sounds of someone moving about downstairs reach my ears, and then the smell of something burning tickles my nose.
I lurch off the mattress, nearly trip dragging on the pair of sweatpants that lie puddled on the floor, and run …
Then freeze in the doorway to the kitchen. Izzy stands on her step stool at the counter, her dark hair in a messy pile on her head and her pink tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she vigorously beats at batter in a large bowl. Poppy stands at the stovetop, dressed in candy-pink sweats that match the suit Izzy wears, her hair in a similar disheveled topknot, one fist on her hip and the other brandishing a spatula as she scowls at something sizzling in a skillet.
On the windowsill, Poppy’s phone leans against my mom’s old radio, quietly playing music I don’t immediately recognize but soon tugs at my memories—and my heart. It’s Fleetwood Mac. My mom’s favorite.
My heart slows and I grimace at a pang of regret. I didn’t listen hard enough when Poppy told me how much my family meant to her, and I should have. All the moments I took for granted growing up and she carried them all around the world only to bring them back to Aster Springs. To me. To us.
They’re so intent on their project that neither one notices me loitering in the doorway, so I lean against it, cross one ankle over the other and my arms over my bare chest, and as my heart pounds with memories and possibilities and so much goddamn love, I stand there and watch them.
“I think this one’s a little better,” Poppy whispers optimistically, frowning into the pan, but when she flips over the pancake, her foot stomps once in frustration. “Dammit!”
“Bad word,” Izzy mumbles, her focus still on her batter-mixing, and I fight a smile at how mundane her chastisement sounds. Like this happens every day.
“Yeah, yeah.” Poppy sighs as she flips the offending pancake into the trash. “Tell it to the judge.”
I take that as my cue to clear my throat, and I grin when Poppy and Izzy startle, my daughter spilling batter over the side of the mixing bowl, her hand, and the counter.
“Daddy!” Izzy’s eyes grow round and her voice is scandalized enough to make me chuckle.
“Did we wake you?” Poppy switches off the burner underneath the skillet. “Shoot. I’m sorry. I heard Izzy calling out for you, so I went to check on her. We decided we were wide awake and hungry—early bedtime and no dinner—so we snuck downstairs for a snack.”
Izzy’s arm shoots up and she points her finger. “It was Poppy’s idea to make pancakes.”
“Hey!” Poppy gives Izzy a playful nudge. “Tattletale.”
“It’s all right.” I push off the door frame and move into the kitchen, rubbing my bare stomach. “In fact, I could use a snack myself.”
Poppy drops her head to one side, contemplating me with a small smile that strikes me as adoring, then possibly wistful as she admires my chest. “Does that mean I can turn up the music?”
“Definitely.”
“Really?” Izzy grins up at me, then forgets she has batter on her hand as she swipes away a lock of hair and smears her forehead with the soupy mix. “You’re really going to let me stay up and eat pancakes with syrup in the middle of the night when I should be sleeping?”
“Yes.” I boop her little nose. “Really.”
She pumps her little fist. “Yes!”
I give Izzy a quick kiss on the top of her head before I accept a roll of paper towels from Poppy and clean her up, then I stand before them both with my arms spread wide.
“Well, chefs. Where do you want me?”
Poppy’s gray eyes sparkle as she thrusts the spatula at me with obvious relief. “You take over the cooking part of our pancake bonanza. Izzy’s got the batter under control, and I’ll get to work on the fruit.”
Poppy turns up the volume on her phone, and when the battery dies, we switch to Mom’s old radio. It still works, even if the tunes play with a little static, and it’s still set to my mother’s favorite station. This late, there are no announcers, just song after song from another era. A time when I was a kid, and my life was simple. I had no worries. No cares. Just midnight pancakes with the music playing, my dad spinning my mom around the kitchen, my brothers and sisters laughing… And Poppy. Always Poppy.
I finally flip the final perfect pancake onto a plate, then lift Izzy up onto a counter stool where she helps herself to a pancake, a shitload of syrup that forces me to bite my tongue, and a handful of strawberry slices that she scatters over the top.
“Mm,” she moans with her eyes closed and her first mouthful of syrupy pancakes packed inside her cheeks. “This is so yummy. I’m going to eat five of them.”
“It looks yummy.” Poppy stabs a fork into the plate of fruit and slides a slice of melon between her lips. “Mm. I think I’ll need ten.”
But when she moves to take the stool next to Izzy, I grab her hand and pull her toward me, twirling her into the middle of the kitchen and turning up the volume on the radio as she spins under my arm.
Poppy completes a swirl beneath my raised arm and laughs self-consciously as I set a hand on the small of her back and pull her against me. “What are you—”
“I’m dancing,” I tell her in a firm voice. “With you.”
She looks up at me through long, thick lashes, fighting a smile, then dips her gaze demurely, which seems so unlike her…until I catch her shooting a sneaky wink at Izzy, who replies with her lopsided double blink.
The music isn’t too slow nor too fast, a classic from the seventies, and I sway us from side to side, spinning Poppy again, dipping her like my dad used to dip my mom. From the counter, Izzy giggles, clapping her hands at what she decides is the best darn dance move she’s ever seen.
“Spin her again, Daddy!” she shouts.
“Like this?” I twirl fast enough that Poppy stumbles to keep up, clutching my shoulder and gripping my hand in hers, but she’s laughing. And so is Izzy. So am I.
Izzy jumps down from her stool and crashes between us, demanding to be spun like Poppy, so I switch partners, twirling Izzy under one arm as Poppy sashays her hips around the room, stopping to roll up a pancake and dip it in syrup, holding it up to my mouth so I can take a bite while I dance with my daughter.
The next song is an old favorite, so we eat on our feet, switching partners so Poppy can dance with Izzy, then Izzy can dance with me. I get my hands on Poppy again only for Izzy to squeeze her way between us, and somehow, we’re bopping along as a trio with Izzy on my hip, Poppy on my other arm, the girls holding hands.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Izzy this happy. I can’t remember the last time I felt this free.
And then the song changes.
It’s a slow one this time. Old and gritty playing through Mom’s ancient speakers, and I ease the rhythm of our feet. My eyes meet Poppy’s over the top of Izzy’s dark head, and we exchange small, knowing smiles.
She feels it too.
“This is boring,” Izzy declares as she wriggles out of my arms and onto the floor. “I’m going back to my pancakes.”
“Good idea, Iz,” I murmur, reaching out for Poppy’s hand before she can escape too.
I gently draw her close and press her against me—chest and hips and thighs—and after a slight hesitation, Poppy rests her head against my chest. We sway there in the middle of the kitchen, side to side, her head tucked under my chin so she can’t get away, her arm a vise around my waist like she’s scared to let go. I breathe in the cherry fragrance of her hair beneath my nose, feel the rapid beat of her heart against my chest, and watch my little girl on the other side of the room, more invested in feeding her bunny a forkful of syrupy strawberries than what’s going on with her father and her nanny.
And it’s all the confirmation I need. Poppy fits. She belongs. We love her. I’m in love with her.
“Dylan?” Poppy whispers as our steps slow to almost nothing.
“Mm?”
She lifts her head from my chest and gazes up at me, brow furrowed. “Maybe we should—”
“Kiss!” Izzy shouts.
Poppy takes a breath and fear lights in her eyes, but the idea does the opposite for me. I want to kiss her. I don’t want to hide the fact that a kiss feels exactly right in this moment.
Poppy blinks up at me, her fingertips pressing into the muscle at my waist. My gaze falls to her lips, upturned and parted. Waiting. Perfect.
“Dylan?” she whispers.
“Kiss!” Izzy demands again. “You’re dancing like a princess and Daddy is your prince, and they always kiss after they dance. So, go on. Kiss!”
I slip a hand around her neck, sift my fingers into her hair, and brush my lips against hers. Softly. Tenderly. Like a fairytale.
Poppy’s sweet breath trembles against my mouth, her eyes float closed, and a single tear leaks down her cheek. I tighten my grip on her, knowing she’s scared and wants to run.
But then she opens her eyes, and my throat catches at what I see in them. An invitation into her world—and fear I might not accept it.
I sweep my thumb over her skin to collect the falling teardrop, then drag the moisture over her top lip before I kiss away the salt.
Her hand slips up over my arm and her fingers circle my wrist. “Dylan,” she murmurs again. “What are we doing?”
“I—”
“Wow,” Izzy says from the other side of the kitchen and then she starts to clap. “That was better than a movie.”
Poppy’s fingers tighten around my wrist, her eyes light up, and both of us chuckle, but she’s the first to break eye contact as she slips out of my embrace.
“I think it’s time we went to bed, Little Bee,” she announces as she crosses the room and lifts Izzy off her chair. “We have soccer in the morning.”
Izzy hops down and lets Poppy wipe her face with a napkin. “Fine,” she sighs. “But I’m not even tired.”
I watch it all feeling a little dazed: the high of the moment followed by the low of it ending. Poppy’s realization that I crossed another line, and my desperation to tell her I meant to cross it.
“Leave the dishes,” Poppy says. “I’ll clean up in the morning.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I reply. “You girls go up to bed. I won’t be long.”
I watch them leave the room and waste ten minutes standing like an idiot in the middle of the kitchen as I debate my next move. How do I convince Poppy that I’m a safe space? How can I convince her to take a chance on me? How can I prove I’m not like Wade or her father or any of the other assholes she’s trusted in the past? How do I prove I’m worth the risk and convince her to stay?
In the end, I decide to handle one mess at a time, and putting the kitchen back in order helps me put my thoughts into order too. The answer to all my questions, when it comes to me, is as simple as it is complicated.
I have to choose Poppy, and to do that, I have to tell Daisy everything. Easy…and impossible.
It isn’t until I’m switching off the lights and climbing the stairs that I think about Izzy going to bed without me. Poppy didn’t call me to tuck her in. Is Izzy okay? Is she in there alone waiting for her daddy? Shit . How could I let myself get so distracted by what Poppy needs from me that I’d forget what I need to do for my daughter?
I take the steps two at a time, a familiar guilt pinching between my ribs and that old knot pulling at my neck, and rush to Izzy’s bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar, a soft pink light leaking into the hallway, and I push it open.
Izzy is asleep, her bunny under her arm and her chest rising and falling with the easy breaths of rest. Beside her is Poppy, sharing Izzy’s pillow, her eyes closed, her knees curled up, and her hands tucked under her cheek.
My heart swells, climbing into my throat and making it hard to breathe. While I’ve been worrying about how to prove I’m a safe place for Poppy, she’s already made herself a safe place for my daughter.
Right here in this bed is my world. My whole world. My future. My girls.
So I lift Poppy into my arms and carry her to my bed. Where she belongs.