Page 87 of Sunshine
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 pretendI 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 hurtingme, 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, andrun…
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’rereallygoing 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.
