His sunglasses are on, his hat pulled down low. Although it’s warm outside, he’s wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He’s shielding himself, hiding, as much as he possibly can, which isn’t much.
I get out of the car before Maddie can run off, and he follows us to my father’s house. As soon as we reach it, Maddie goes right inside, while I hesitate on the sidewalk.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, looking at Jonathan. “Maddie will understand.”
He sighs. “It’s fine. I made this mess. I have to face it.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But…?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Feels like there ought to be a but.”
Jonathan laughs under his breath as my father steps out onto the porch, wiping his hands on the grilling apron he wears.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Nice party.”
“It’s not a party,” he grumbles. “It’s just a little thing.”
More like a test, maybe. A welcoming committee, except not quite as friendly as one of those might be.
“Mr. Garfield, sir.” Jonathan clears his throat. “I appreciate the invitation.”
“It’s what my granddaughter wanted,” he says. “Whatever it takes to make her happy. I’m sure you get that.”
“Of course,” Jonathan says.
“Well, then, I should get back to my grill.” My father looks at me, eyes suspicious, as he says, “Join me, Cunningham. We can catch up.”
Jonathan offers me a small smile, trying to be reassuring, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that the world is about to be turned upside down.
Gravity, don’t fail me now.
I mingle, avoiding certain conversations, dodging questions, sticking to simple pleasantries with the neighbors. Maddie, she’s running around, telling anyone who will listen about her daddy. I try to steer her elsewhere, but she’s a kid. She doesn’t understand why it’s all such a big deal. She just wants to share her happiness, while I can’t shake my unsettling feeling.
It’s growing, deepening, like a bottomless pit.
It’s about to hit us like a storm.
Every time I see Jonathan, he’s near my father, the two of them talking, both men tense like they’re on edge from the conversation. But when my father announces that it’s time to eat, Jonathan’s missing.
I fix Maddie a hot dog, settling her into a chair on the back patio, telling her to stay there while I go on a hunt for her father. He’s not outside, so I head into the house, hearing his voice—quiet, so quiet, bordering on despondent.
He’s talking on the phone.
“Just do whatever you can,” he says. “Try to get ahead of this before it spins out of control.”
He’s standing at the front door, alone, looking out.
“I know, I hear you, but I just… I can't,” he says after a moment. “I get it, and you're right, but I can't do that, so do what you can to stop this.”
Sighing, he hangs up, slipping his phone into his pocket. I absorb those words, the sound of his voice, as I take a step closer. The creaky floor alerts him to my presence, and he glances over his shoulder, a flash of panic showing.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” he says. “Had to talk to Cliff.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have PR put out a statement, asking for my privacy,” he says. “Not sure it’ll make a difference. Cliff thinks the only way to stop this from snowballing is if I leave, go make myself visible somewhere else to draw the attention away from here, so the story looks made up.”
“Are you going to?”
“No,” he says, hesitating. “Unless that's what you want.”
Before I have the chance to tell him what it is I want, he pulls me in front of him at the door, wrapping his arms around me, my back flush against his chest.
Leaning down, he whispers, “Look across the street.”
I do as he says. Everything seems quiet.
I’m not sure what he wants me to see.
The house directly across from us is old, and brick, with way too many potted plants surrounding the place. The couple who live there long ago retired. They’re currently in my father’s backyard, eating hot dogs with my daughter.
“What do you see?” he asks.
“A bunch of ugly plants.”
“Is that it?”
“Uh, a house, trees… there’s a mailbox and a flag and…” I trail off when movement catches my attention. Somebody’s lurking. “Who’s that?”
“He called himself a reporter.”
I glance back at Jonathan, surprised. “You talked to him?”
“No, but your father did. He knocked on his door this morning, wanting to talk to you.”
“Me?”
“Said he heard a girl might be around here that knows something about me,” he says. “Your father told him to get the hell off of his property, but then he spotted the guy lurking around the neighbors, so your father invited the neighbors over here.”
“Wow.” I’m not sure what to say. “Why my father’s house? Why not come to the apartment where I live?”
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, “but I'm sure they'll make it over that way eventually.”
The reporter slips out of sight, trying to go undetected.
“The food’s ready,” I say, still trying to process everything. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But still, you should eat,” I say, turning around to face Jonathan, patting his stomach playfully, trying not to dwell on the fact that our lives may be about to change. “Gotta keep your strength up, since I’m pretty sure the entertainment portion of this party is gonna be your interrogation.”
We head out back and fix ourselves plates. Jonathan barely eats, but he seems more at ease, even as the questions start.
They’re not personal. No, people don’t ask about our situation. Instead, they ask if Hollywood is glamorous. They ask if he knows their favorite celebrities.
He takes it all in stride.
He’s charming and witty.
He’s so much like that boy I fell in love with back at Fulton Edge Academy, no pretense at all.
He loves on Maddie, making her laugh as she sits on his lap, drawing pictures for neighbors to pass the time. She soaks up the love like it’s sunshine, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that not a single one of these people are going to say a bad word about him to that reporter.
“This was smart,” I say, approaching my father as he sits along the side of the patio, on the outskirts of the gathering.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.
I perch on the edge of his chair and look at him. “Yeah, you do. The whole ‘get the neighborhood on his side’ thing you orchestrated here. How’d you think of it?”
“I worked in politics,” he says. “I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve.”
“The second amendment exists for a reason,” my father says. “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. That’s what it says. There’s no ‘but’ to it, no stipulations or qualifications.”
“With all due respect, that’s bullshit,” Jonathan says. “Nobody wants a lunatic running around with an AK-47. That’s not what the Founding Fathers intended.”
“Oh? Does that mean you’ve spoken to them? Enlighten me—what did Thomas Jefferson say when you asked? Because I hate to break it to you, son, but watching Hamilton on Broadway doesn’t make you an expert on their intentions.”
“It’s common sense,” Jonathan says. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Now that’s bullshit,” my father says. “You can’t infringe on a constitutional right because you think someone might do something.”
Jonathan opens his mouth to respond, but I clear my throat loudly, interrupting, gathering their attention. I’m not sure how it even got started, but the two of them are sitt
ing in the living room, arguing politics—my father’s favorite pastime—while Maddie sleeps on the couch.
“While this conversation is absolutely riveting,” I say, “it’s getting late, so can you just agree to disagree?”
They stare at each other.
Neither wants to be the first to concede.
I have to say, it’s kind of nice to see the two of them having a conversation that has nothing to do with me.
“Blah, blah, blah, we’re never going to agree but I respect your viewpoint even though I think you’re an idiot,” I say, waving between them. “There, I covered it for both of you. Time to go home now.”
My father grumbles, something about me ruining his fun, as I lean down to hug him. Night has fallen. It’s dark outside. We’ve spent the entire day here, and I’m tired.
I scoop Maddie up. She mumbles in her sleep, her body heavy as she rests against me, her head on my shoulder. Jonathan stands, holding his hand out toward my father. “Mr. Garfield, sir.”
My father stares at his extended hand for a moment before waving him off, saying, “Cunningham.”
That’s about as close to a truce as I think these guys will ever get. Just Jonathan walking out of here without being castrated is progress, and he takes the brush off in stride, laughing to himself.
We leave, and I head to the car, my footsteps hurried. I set Maddie in her booster seat and am buckling her in when I hear a voice call out way too close to us. “Who's the kid, Johnny?”
“Get the hell away from us,” Jonathan says, and I look up, my heart racing when I see a guy there. The reporter.
He’s holding his phone. He’s recording.
“Come on, don’t be that way,” the guy says, coming even closer. “I’m just doing my job here.”
“Back off,” Jonathan warns.
I shut the car door. The guy isn’t backing off. Instead, he starts firing off rapid questions, each one worse than the one before it. “So, who's the woman? Is that her kid? Have you been screwing around with her? Huh? How long have you been seeing her? How long have you been cheating on Serena? Wait… is that your kid? Did you get her pregnant, Johnny? Knocked her up and what, paid her off so she’d keep her mouth shut? How much did it cost you? Why’d you do it? Don’t want anyone to know about the bastard?”
That’s it.
That’s what it takes.
The second that last word is out, Jonathan snaps. I see it, his expression hardening as anger takes over. He swings, cast and all, slamming the guy in the face, stunning him. Staggering, the guy drops his phone, and Jonathan stomps on it.
“I told you to back off,” Jonathan says, getting in the reporter’s face. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Jonathan, stop!” I run over when he shoves the guy, grabbing his arm to try to drag him away, but he resists. “Please, just… get in the car.”
He takes a few steps back as the guy shouts at him, something about getting what’s coming to him, but Jonathan isn’t fazed.
“Stay the hell away from me,” he says, “and stay away from my fucking family.”
“You’ll regret that!” the guy yells. “I got it all on video!”
Jonathan pulls away from me and grabs the cell phone from the sidewalk, the screen now cracked. It’s still recording. Jonathan presses the button to stop it, and I think he’s going to delete the video, or maybe take the phone, but instead, he hurls it at the guy.
The reporter tries to catch it, but it slips from his grip and clatters to the sidewalk by his feet.
“Fuck you and your video,” Jonathan says. “Don’t let me catch you around here again.”
He gets in the car. I hurry to get behind the wheel when the reporter snatches up his phone and says, “Still the same old Johnny Cunning.”
I speed home, my eyes flickering to the rearview mirror the entire drive. Maddie stays fast asleep. She missed the whole thing. Jonathan says nothing, flexing his fingers in and out of a loose fist around the cast, cringing the entire time.
I whip into a parking spot when I reach the apartment building, cutting the engine, my eyes scanning all around us, expecting an ambush.
Something touches my leg, and I jump, yelping. Jonathan’s hand is resting on my thigh.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hand is hurt.”
“It’s been hurt.”
“But still, that guy… he was a jerk.”
“I’m used to it,” he says, hesitating before adding, “as much as a person can get used to that. But he said some shit, and I know you’re not used to it.”
“I’m okay.”
He nods, but I don’t know if he believes me.
I don’t know if I believe me.
I’m shaking. Trembling.
His hand on my thigh is steady.
“We should go inside,” he says, nodding toward the building, “in case anybody shows up here.”
He carries Maddie this time, taking her into the apartment and straight to her bedroom while I lock up. Frazzled, I head for the kitchen, peeking in cabinets and groaning before grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the tap, taking a drink before mumbling to myself, “I’d kill for some alcohol right now.”
Why'd I have to pour that perfectly good whiskey out?
A light laugh echoes behind me. “I know the feeling.”
Jonathan stands in the doorway.
I give him a sheepish smile. “Shouldn’t have said that.”
“You don’t have to watch your words. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He pauses, shaking his head as he slowly approaches me. “Usually. Spent a lot of rehab working on that. Bad words don’t need to lead to bad deeds. Guess I’m still a work in progress.”
“We all are.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, eyeing me. “You seem pretty well put together.”
“Who, me? Assistant Manager at the Piggly Q?”
“You aren’t your job.”
“Good thing, because I don’t know if I’ll be working much longer. If they found my father, they probably found my job.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. I would've quit eventually. Just planned to be stubborn for a bit longer.”
He laughs at that, leaning against the counter beside me. “You always were the most hardheaded person I knew.”
“Yeah, well, you gave me a run for my money on that one. I met my match with you.”
“Match made in heaven.”
“Or hell. Depends on who you ask.”
“You,” he says. “I’m asking you.”
“I’d say a bit of both, then. We were fire and gasoline. We burned hot for a long time.”
“Past tense.”
“What?”
“You said that in the past tense.”
“Guess I’m used to talking about us that way.”
It gets quiet.
My hands are still shaking.
I’m tinkering with the glass, sipping on the water, trying to wrap my mind around what’s happening.
“I can go,” he says quietly. “I’ll understand if you’d rather me not be here.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you here?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really know where your head is, Kennedy. Sometimes I think I do, but other times…”
Setting the glass down, I grab his hand. “How about I show you?”
"Show me?"
I nod.
I pull him into the bedroom.
I push him down on the bed.
The clothes disappear, scattered along the floor, as our bodies tangle up in the sheets together. I’m on top of him, and he’s inside of me, my hands pressing flat against his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin.
The fire? It still burns.
Something tells me it always will, no matter who tries to put it out.
Footsteps pa
d around the apartment when I wake up. It’s early. I try to slip out of bed, but Jonathan grumbles and clings to me.
Laughing, I pry myself out of his arms and throw on some clothes. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear a clatter in the kitchen before a small voice says, “Uh-oh.”
“What in the world?” I say, seeing Maddie sitting on the counter, holding the box of Lucky Charms, a bowl on the floor. “What are you doing?”
“Breakfast,” she says.
I pull her off the counter and commandeer the box of cereal. “Why don’t you go find some cartoons to watch? I’ll bring you something to eat in a moment.”
“Okay, Mommy,” she says, skipping off to the living room. I pour her some cereal with milk and turn to leave the kitchen when a knock sounds through the apartment from the front door. Crap.
My heart drops.
I step that way, tensing when I see Maddie unlocking the door. “Sweetheart, wait!”
She yanks it right open. “Whoa.”
“Madison Jacqueline,” I hiss, starting toward her. “How many times do we have to talk about not opening—?”
The door.
I don’t get to say those words.
I stop dead in my tracks. A police officer stands there, on my doorstep, in full uniform. Whoa is right.
“Uh, hello,” I say. “Can I help you, Officer?”
“I’m actually looking for somebody,” the officer says, glancing past me, around my apartment.
“Who?” I ask.
A gritty voice chimes in behind me. “That would be me.”
I spin around. Jonathan stands there, still half asleep, only wearing sweatpants. “You?”
He nods.
I turn back to the officer.
He nods, too, confirming it.
It takes a second for things to make sense. When it clicks, I hand Maddie the bowl of cereal. “Take this to your room.”
“But you said we can’t eat in our rooms, ‘cuz that’s not what rooms are for.”
“I’m making an exception. Go play.”
I’m grateful she doesn’t put up a fight.
I don’t want her to see what I think is about to happen here. I don’t even want to see it, even though it won’t be my first time.