“You mind if I get dressed?” Jonathan asks, his voice casual. “I’m sure there are lurkers.”
“Go ahead,” the officer says. “Just don’t take too long.”
It only takes him a minute, maybe two, before he returns, fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, leather jacket, shoes on. I stand here in shock as Jonathan approaches the officer.
“What’s the warrant for?” he asks. “Assault?”
The officer nods. “And criminal mischief.”
Jonathan turns around, putting his hands behind his back. He’s placed in handcuffs, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it, nor does he look surprised.
He kisses me, just a brush against my lips, before he says, “I’ll be back when I can.”
Chapter 22
JONATHAN
Cliff is typing away on his Blackberry.
I’ve always hated that damn thing.
He’s never been married, which is no surprise, considering so much of his life is spent glued to that screen. A string of flings is all he has time for. He always says his work is his wife.
It didn’t take too long, after I called from the police station, for Cliff to make it up here from the city, where he was busy working.
Working on fixing my other messes, while I was busy creating more of them.
We’re sitting in an interrogation room, just him and I. I’ve been free to go for half an hour, but Cliff wanted to talk somewhere private, so the police offered this space up—you know, in exchange for some autographs.
Problem is, Cliff hasn’t said a word since we sat down, too busy typing whatever it is he’s typing.
“So… good talk,” I say after a long stretch of silence. “Captivating conversation we’re having.”
“Oh, am I boring you?” he asks, still not looking up. “Sorry, I’m a little busy talking to PR about coordinating a press release to explain your arrest. I’ll try to do better next time.”
“Not sure there’s anything to explain,” I say. “Video makes it all pretty self-explanatory.”
He shakes his head. “What were you thinking, Johnny?”
“He called my daughter a bastard.”
“So? They're just words. Don’t punch the guy while he’s recording. You just gave him grounds for a lawsuit, which means a settlement, which means more money out of your pocket.” He sets down his Blackberry and starts shifting through his briefcase, pulling a stack of papers out and sliding them to me. “Your lawyer sent these for you to look over.”
I glance at the top sheet.
Confidentiality Agreement.
“What’s this for?”
“To ensure Miss Garfield's continued discretion.”
I blink at it for a moment before looking at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he asks as he picks the Blackberry up.
No, he doesn’t.
“I’m not asking her to sign this,” I say, shoving it all at him without even reading any of it.
“Would you rather me ask her?”
“It’s unnecessary. She doesn’t need one.”
“I disagree. Better safe than sorry.”
“It’s offensive. There’s no way she’d even sign that shit.”
“Why wouldn’t she? She signed the previous one.”
I stare at him as those words sink in. “What do you mean she signed the previous one?”
“I mean she already signed an agreement. This is just an updated version.”
“You had her sign one of these? Seriously?”
“Of course I did,” he says. “I had it drawn up the moment I signed you.”
I don’t even know what to say.
He never mentioned it.
Hell, neither did she.
I give this man a lot of leeway when it comes to my affairs. He’s coordinated damn near every part of my life for quite a few years now. I don’t know everything he’s done on my behalf. Pretty sure I wouldn’t want to know some of it. So I won’t say I’m surprised he did that.
But I am surprised she didn’t tell me about it.
“You also need to establish paternity… not that there’s any doubt.” His eyes flicker to me. “There isn’t, is there?”
“No doubt at all.”
“Regardless, legally, you need to do it. And then you’ll need a custody arrangement drawn up with a visitation schedule.”
“Things are working out fine.”
“For now,” he says, “but you don’t want to find yourself in a position where you can’t see your daughter when Miss Garfield runs you out of her life again.”
When. Not if.
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“History tells a different story.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure you’re paid to manage my career, not judge my personal life.”
“It’s all the same with you, Johnny. Like it or not, your personal life affects your career.”
“I don’t like it.”
He stares at me, grabbing that stack of papers and shoving them back in his briefcase. “I have other clients to attend to today, ones I've been neglecting lately because of you. Do you need a ride to the inn?”
“I’m not staying there.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With her.”
“At the address on Elm?”
I hesitate. Elm. That’s where her father lives, the house she grew up in. “She doesn’t live there.”
“Are you sure? Because that’s where the checks are still being sent every month.”
“Positive,” I say. “You don’t know about her apartment?”
“How would I? You don’t tell me anything.”
He sounds genuinely frustrated by that.
“How’d Serena know? She showed up at the apartment.”
“Who knows how anybody knows anything?" he grumbles, shoving his chair back to stand. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride wherever it is you’re going. I still think you're better off leaving town, at least until this blows over, but you're the one who has to live with it, so… you do you, Johnny, and I'll do what I can to work around it.”
I stand in front of the apartment door, torn between knocking and walking right in. It’s not my apartment, but I feel at home here. I go back and forth for a moment before reaching for the knob, my stomach sinking when it won’t turn.
Well, that solves my problem.
Locked.
Hesitantly, I tap on the thick wood.
Footsteps approach, pausing there for a long moment before the locks jingle and the door flies open. BAM. Kennedy’s on me, knocking into me with so much force I nearly fall backward. She hugs me, whispering, “You’re back.”
I laugh. “It’s been like six hours.”
“Felt like another six years,” she says, dragging me inside so she can lock the door. "I keep forgetting to give you a key.”
“A key.”
“Yeah, so you don’t have to knock next time,” she says. “Unless you don’t want it. I just figured…”
“Please,” I say. “I’d like that.”
She smiles softly, walking into the kitchen and digging a key out of a drawer. She holds it out to me, the key in her palm, but I grab her entire hand and pull her to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “For still letting me stay, despite… you know.”
“Despite you beating up a reporter?” She kisses me, a soft peck. “Despite you getting arrested?” Another kiss. “Despite your tabloid-wife showing up and blowing our chance at privacy?”
One more kiss, and I laugh against her lips. “Pretty much.”
I slide the key from her palm, pocketing it. The moment I do, I hear Madison in her bedroom talking to someone.
“Oh, by the way,” Kennedy says, “your sister is visiting.”
I stall there, in the living room.
That’s the last thing I need.
“She heard about the video,” Kennedy explains, “so she came to see you.”
r />
“And what, yell at me about growing up? Lecture me on responsibility?”
A throat clears nearby, and I know it’s her before she speaks. “More like I came to high-five you, but you know, that, too. You should do all that.”
“Grow up and be responsible?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
I shake my head. “I’m trying.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but she bites her tongue when Madison bursts in. Madison gasps and runs over, slamming into me like her mother did, hugging my waist. “Daddy, you’re here!”
“I am,” I say, ruffling her hair. “Geez, I haven’t had people this excited to see me since my last red carpet.”
“Can I go to the red carpets?” Madison asks.
“Someday,” I tell her. “If your mother says it’s okay.”
“Mommy? Can I?”
“We’ll see,” Kennedy says.
Madison looks up at me, grinning. “She said okay!”
I smile. “Pretty sure that’s not what she said, but nice try.”
Madison is off again to play, and I sit down on the couch, running a hand through my hair.
“I’ll give you two some time to talk,” Kennedy says before disappearing to her bedroom, leaving me alone with my sister.
“Oh, goody,” I say. “Because jail wasn’t enough fun, I get some quality family time on top of it.”
Meghan laughs, kicking my shin to get me to move as she squeezes past to sit on the couch.
“Speaking of family,” she says, pulling out her phone.
I lower my head with a sigh. “Can we not?”
“Dad’s who told me about the situation,” she says. “He sent me a message this morning.”
“Awesome.”
She clears her throat, her voice dropping mockingly low as she imitates our father’s voice, reading his message. “My dearest Meghan, it has been brought to my attention that your brother was involved in yet another altercation with the media. As a staunch supporter of free press, a defender of the first amendment, someone will likely be contacting me for a comment. I felt it was only fair to warn you beforehand. Grant B. Cunningham.”
“Pretty sure James Madison wasn’t all about protecting someone’s right to verbally attack a child.”
“James Madison didn’t even really believe in the First Amendment,” Meghan says. “For him, it was all about holding politicians accountable.”
“There you go,” I say. “Send him a message back and say James Madison would tell him to shove his opinion up his ass.”
“Yeah, sadly, too late for that.” Meghan waves her phone toward me, showing me an article before she reads part of it. “Former Speaker of the House Grant Cunningham issued a statement saying he’s deeply troubled by his son’s behavior. Free press is essential to a free society, the statement reads. Violence against members of the media should not be condoned. While John has a history of outbursts, it is my hope that this situation will serve as a wake-up call for him.”
“That’s rich, coming from him. He probably doesn’t even give a shit how any of this affects my kid.”
Meghan continues to read. “When asked about his rumored granddaughter, Former Speaker Cunningham commented that he never speaks on family matters.”
“Unless it’s to drag me through the mud.”
“Well, in his defense, you make it so easy,” she says. I cut my eyes at her, not amused, and she holds her hands up. “I’m joking.”
“Did they call you for a comment?” I ask.
“Of course not.” She rolls her eyes. “I doubt they even called him. He probably contacted them, desperate to be relevant.”
“Pity,” I say. “You could’ve told them what an irresponsible asshole I am.”
“That’s not what I would’ve said.” She shoves her phone in her back pocket as she stands up. “I would’ve told them to get off your ass. You’re trying.”
The second time you find yourself in Clifford Caldwell’s office, he again gives your folder thirty seconds of attention before closing it.
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says.
You hesitate. “What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t want to hear any of it, but I need to know all of it.”
“It’s all on my resume.”
A slight smile touches his lips. “Not your work. I’m not an agent. I’m a manager. My job is you. So how about you tell me who you think you are, and I’ll tell you who you’re going to be.”
You tell him the basics of Jonathan Cunningham. There isn’t much beyond your dysfunctional family. You tell him about the woman waiting for you at home, even though he already knows all about her.
You talk for a few minutes, and when you stop, he says, “So now let’s talk about Johnny.”
Johnny Cunning.
That’s who you become.
Johnny sounds more approachable than Jonathan. Cunningham makes people think of your father, so you drop the last syllable. The name tweak alone takes you from being the rich kid in a political family to the mysterious guy that somehow feels familiar. You keep them guessing, you don’t answer questions... but you set out on a path that keeps you on their minds at all times.
That’s the plan.
He tells you he can make you the biggest name in Hollywood. All you have to do is listen to him and do what he says.
A contract is drawn up before you even leave the office. You read it. You should’ve had a lawyer read it, but when opportunity knocks, you have a habit of just throwing open the door.
You sign it, right then and there.
Instead of going to the apartment afterward, you detour to the diner, where she is. She’s working, flitting around in her little pink uniform, laughing and joking and flirting. You stand outside on the sidewalk, watching her. She notices you and smiles.
Slipping outside, she asks, “How’d it go?”
“You’re looking at a man under management.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
She squeals, doing a flying leap right into your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist, clinging to you. You hug her and laugh as she frantically kisses all over your face.
“I’m so proud, Jonathan,” she says. “And so, so happy for you.”
“For us,” you say. “This is for you, too.”
She loosens her hold, her feet back on the sidewalk. “You better not forget that when you’ve got all these rabid fangirls trying to get in your pants.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll always be the only rabid fangirl for me.”
She grins, nudging you. “Well, Mister Big Shot, I need to get back to work… you know, just until you hit it big and I can quit my job.”
She heads back into the diner. You go home.
And you don’t know this, but a few minutes after you leave, Clifford Caldwell walks into the diner. He nearly stole your moment again. He sits down in her section, brazenly ordering coffee, and slides a paper to her. “Sign it.”
Confidentiality Agreement.
She hesitates. “No.”
“Sign it, or his career’s already over.”
She doesn’t understand the point.
So she calls his bluff and he leaves.
She's not signing anything.
Everything goes back to normal. Weeks pass. You’re getting worried. You don’t know why your brand-new manager isn’t taking your calls.
She knows why, though.
So she shows up at Clifford Caldwell’s office and signs that stupid paper, swearing she'll never publicly disclose anything about you or any of this. Not that she ever would, but it worries her why the man is so fixated on keeping her silent.
The next day, your phone finally rings in the middle of the night, and things take off. Meetings. So many meetings. You need to sign with a new agent. You need to talk to some publicists. You need better headshots. There are classes t
o take and vocal coaches to see, not to mention prepping for auditions and creating a more appealing demo reel.
You get paid for none of that. No, you get billed. Clifford covers all the costs upfront, but it’ll be charged to you. Long hours, day and night. Your schedule gets so crazy you can’t keep up.
She does, though. A calendar on the wall in the living room has all of it scribbled down. She keeps you on track, even as she works overtime. She’s covering the bills. She’s buying the food. She cooks, and cleans, and she waits up for you the nights you’re late, even though she’s exhausted. Even when she just wants to get some sleep.
She smiles and tells you it’s okay when your first big audition falls on her nineteenth birthday.
Months pass, months of chaos. The days all meld together. Time slips away. You miss holidays, but so does she. You celebrate Christmas in January.
You book your first movie. It’s one of those teen romantic comedies. You play the best friend. No more Guy #3 or Heroin Dealer. Your character has a name—Greg Barlow. It films locally. She visits you on set a few times, but you're both so busy that she can only stay a few minutes.
The movie wraps on your second Dreamiversary. You take her out to celebrate, but every penny you earned from the movie went to reimbursement, so celebrating entails hanging out in a park together.
“Do you still love me?” she asks, sitting across from you at a picnic table. You’re holding her hands, gently stroking her skin with your thumbs.
“Of course I do.”
“More than everything?”
“Anything,” he says. “Why are you asking?”
“I just miss hearing it,” she says.
You stare at her. It’s been awhile since you’ve said it. It wasn’t intentional. Life just gets crazy, but she understands. Even writing time has been scarce. Whenever she gets the chance, her thoughts are a jumbled mess, the words a blur. The poetry is all gone. The metaphors. The symbolism. They’ve disappeared. It’s all become a hazy mass of stripped-down syllables on paper.
“I love you,” you say. “More than everything in this park. More than every line of dialogue I’ve ever spoken. More than I love Hollywood. Is that still enough, K? My love?”