Page 70 of Shattered Dreams
The press can't get enough of the story. They're calling it a spectacular fall from grace, a cautionary tale about fame and infidelity and what happens when golden boys turn bad. I don't even care what they say anymore. Let them write their pieces and hot takes. I've already said everything that matters to who matters the most—begged her until my voice was raw, cried until I had nothing left, bled my heart out on this very couch night after night. None of it changed a damn thing.
I'm still here, alone, drowning in the mess I made.
A shuffle breaks through the silence, and I hear the padding of tiny feet against the hardwood floor. I glance toward the hallway just in time to see Poppy making her way into the living room, her favourite stuffed rabbit dangling from one small hand, dark curls a sleepy mess around her face.
My heart fucking breaks at the sight of her. Our creation, our baby, our fuckingworld.
She stops when she sees me sprawled across the couch like some sort of broken toy that nobody wants to play with anymore.
"Daddy?"
My throat tightens until I can barely breathe. "Hey there, Pop."
She walks over slowly, eyes that mirror my own squinting in the morning light as she takes in my appearance. Her little hand reaches up to touch my stubbled cheek with the kind ofgentle concern that makes me want to disappear into the couch cushions.
No one has touched me like that in so long. Like theycare.
"You look really old," she says with the brutal honesty that only children possess.
I manage a chuckle, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Thanks a lot, kiddo."
She frowns and climbs onto the couch next to me, settling against my side like she belongs there despite everything I've done to tear this family apart. "You don't look like a prince anymore."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I freeze completely.
"What do you mean?"
Poppy shrugs like she's stating the most obvious truth in the world. "You used to look like a prince when you would pick me up from daycare. When you laughed and your eyes got all wrinkly. And you always smelled like something Mommy got you for Christmas. Now you smell sad."
Jesus fucking Christ.Straight out of the mouth of my baby.
She's not wrong though, and that makes it worse. I haven't shaved in days. I can't remember the last time I bothered with a proper shower or worked out or did any of the things that used to be second nature. This t-shirt is wrinkled and probably still stained from that disastrous night when I lost my mind and ruined everything good in my life. I rub at my jaw, trying to hide the way my hands are shaking.
"I'm sorry, Pops. I'm really sorry."
She looks up at me with those big green eyes that are so much like mine it physically hurts to meet her gaze. "Did you fight a bad guy, Daddy?"
I swallow hard around the lump in my throat that feels like it's made of broken glass. "No, sweetheart. I was the bad guy."
She blinks slowly, processing this information with the kind of seriousness that no child should have to carry. "Did you say sorry to the people you hurt?"
"Yeah, baby. I did."
"Does Mommy know?"
Oh, she knows alright. She fucking hates me.
I don't answer because I can't. Instead, I press a kiss to her forehead and pull her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her small body like I can somehow hold onto this one piece of good that's left in my completely fucked-up life.
She lets me hold her, melting into my chest and humming some little song under her breath that I recognize from one of her favourite cartoons. I close my eyes and let her weight anchor me to something real, something innocent, something that reminds me that I used to be better than this.
"I miss when you and Mommy were happy," she comments so softly I almost don't hear her.
I can’t breathe.She knows, even though we have tried to maintain a semblance of normality around her; she knows. Maybe because I’m such a fucking wreck.
"Me too, Pop. Me too."
It's the kind of pain that goes deeper than anything I've ever experienced physically. I can't out-train this agony or throw a ball hard enough to make it disappear. I can't ice it or stretch it or pop painkillers until it becomes manageable. It's just there, buried deep in my bones.
