I shake my head, my fist tightening around the crumbled up confidentiality agreement. I don't even know what to say to any of that, so I just walk away.
Before I can slip the phone in my pocket, it vibrates with a message.
I glance at the screen.
It’s from Jonathan.
That girl is crazy. She asked me to describe my cock.
I laugh at that, despite everything else going on. What did you tell her?
Seriously? What do you THINK I told her?
I start to type ‘that she’s lost her mind’ when another text comes through.
I told her it was the most beautiful nine inches in the fucking world, baby. ;)
“Daddy! Daddy! Guess what!”
Maddie runs right for him the second we’re safely inside the apartment, too excited to even notice the police officer lurking outside, a patrol car parked cockeyed not far from my front door to keep everyone at a distance.
Jonathan’s in the kitchen cooking again—or well, he's trying to. I smell something burning. I don’t think he’s any better at it than I am. He shuts a burner on the stove off, shoving the pan aside before looking at us. “What?”
“Today, at school, Mrs. Appleton said that we’re gonna do a play!”
He raises an eyebrow. “A play?”
She nods excitedly. “It’s about the weather outside and water and stuff! We got to pick parts, but we did it with a hat, ‘cuz everyone wanted to be the sun, but not me! I get to be a snowflake!”
“Wow, that’s awesome,” he says, grinning at her. “I think I’d want to be a snowflake, too.”
“It’s not ‘till the end of school,” she says. “Will you come watch?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll be there.”
She runs off, saying something about needing to practice, even though ‘end of school’ is still over a month away. I lean against the kitchen counter beside the stove, my eyes settling on the food. “Hot dogs.”
“Yeah, I fucked them all up,” he says with a laugh. “I walked away for one second and all hell broke loose in the pan.”
“We like our hot dogs like that around here,” I say. “The more burnt, the better.”
“Good,” he says. “Because they’re so burnt they’re pretty much black.”
He starts looking through the cabinets, pulling out a box of Mac & Cheese to make to go with them. Other than the stove, the apartment is scrubbed spotless. I can tell he’s been cleaning, even though it wasn’t messy to begin with. The domesticity, although appreciated, stirs up an unsettling feeling.
He’s growing restless.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Many reasons.”
He starts boiling the macaroni and ignores my question for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer it. Eventually, though, he says, “Been one of those days.”
“You want a drink.”
He cuts his eyes at me. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’m not okay. It’s just…”
“You want a drink.”
“Yeah.” His eyes go back to the stove, like he doesn’t want to look at me. “Disappointed?”
“Depends,” I say. “Did you get drunk while I was working?”
“Of course not,” he says.
“Then I have no reason to be disappointed.”
“It doesn’t bother you that I’m weak?” he asks. “Everything to lose, and still, I’d give my left nut for just a sip.”
“That’s not being weak, Jonathan. I’ve seen you weak. I’ve seen you so drunk you couldn’t stand, so high I doubted you’d ever come down, but here you are.”
He looks at me again.
“The only way you’re going to disappoint me is if you show up here drunk,” I say. “Or, you know, if you don’t show up at all.”
“You don't have to worry about that,” he says, switching the subject. “So, how was your day?”
My day? “Honestly, I’d give both your nuts for a drink after the afternoon I had.”
He cringes. “That bad?”
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the paper I’ve been carrying around all day. It’s folded into a small square now, wrinkled and torn. I’ve smoothed it out and crumpled it up multiple times, reading the words over and over to the point that I have passages memorized. I’ve agonized over whether I’m doing the right thing and I’m still not sure.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I hand the paper to him.
Brow furrowing, he unfolds it, his eyes scanning over the unsigned confidentiality agreement.
“I’ll sign it,” I tell him, “if that’s what you need.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I hope you know I’d never sell you out,” I say. “I’d never sell your story. I’d never even tell your story. It’s not mine to tell.”
He shoots me an incredulous look, one that stings, before he says, “It’s just as much your story, Kennedy. You have every right to tell it.”
“But I wouldn't do that to you.”
The incredulous look gives way to something else. Suspicion. “Is that why you stopped writing? I know Cliff had you sign one of these a long time ago.” He shakes the crumpled paper at me. “Is this what made you stop telling our story?”
I hesitate. I want to say no, because it isn’t—not in the way he’s thinking. But yet, it is. It’s one of many things that veered our story the direction it went, making it end the way it ended. But I don’t know how to explain that.
His expression changes again, my silence upsetting him. There’s anger in his eyes and tension in his jaw, almost like someone hit him—someone he trusted, someone that’s supposed to care for him, someone that’s never supposed to cause him harm. My chest gets tighter as my eyes start to burn, my vision blurring. I’m trying not to cry, but his expression is breaking me.
He tears the paper up, ripping it to tiny pieces before throwing it in the trashcan. “I don’t need you to sign it.”
I reach for him, worried, because I’ve seen him do this before. I saw it so many times when we were younger, him withdrawing. I touch his arm but he pulls away, putting space between us.
“Jonathan…”
Before I can say anything else, before he can react, Maddie runs into the kitchen, announcing she’s hungry. Jonathan’s expression changes again, the shift so abrupt it nearly takes my breath away. He smiles, not letting her see he’s upset, the actor kicking in. He gets her a hot dog, finishing making the Mac & Cheese, settling her in at the table and kissing the top of her head before turning to me, the shift happening again. Anger.
He walks past me, out of the kitchen, saying, “I need to take a walk,” as he heads straight for the front door.
I follow him.
“Wait,” I say quietly, not wanting Maddie to overhear. “Please, don’t walk out when you’re like this.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I just need some air.”
He’s gone then, and I stand there, staring at the front door, until Maddie finishes her hot dog and walks out of the kitchen, asking, “Where’d Daddy go?”
“He had to do some grown-up stuff. He’ll be back later.”
Later. Much later.
I’m putting Maddie to bed, reading to her, and she’s looking a bit worried that her father hasn’t returned, when the apartment door opens. Maddie shoves right out of bed, abandoning me mid-book to run to him. I hear his laughter echo through the apartment and see his smile as he carries her back into her bedroom. I watch as he tucks her in, not saying a word to me.
I suddenly feel invisible.
I hand the book to Jonathan, mumbling, “You can finish,” before leaving the room.
I’m changing out of my uniform when Jonathan comes into the bedroom, sighing as he sits down on my bed. I can feel his eyes watching me as I put on pajamas. I'm no longer invisible. No, I feel startlingly naked at the moment, even covered by clothes.
/> “I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I say, needing to say something, because the tension is gnawing at me. “You were having a rough day. I only made it worse.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “I told you not to tiptoe around me.”
“You’re upset.”
“But not at you,” he says. “I’m just… I’m pissed off at the situation. I’m mad because of what my bullshit has done to you. Whenever I try to make things better, you end up suffering.”
“I’m not suffering.”
He ignores that and keeps talking. “They say to make amends—it’s the only way to be a better person, to have a better life, but not if fixing myself means hurting someone else. Make amends, unless it causes further harm. I spent the past year telling myself not to come here, not to do this, because I’d end up fucking up what you've built, but I thought maybe it would be okay. I thought, hey, maybe it’ll work out, but here we are—you can’t even go outside without being harassed, and my manager's throwing confidentiality agreements at you because god forbid you be free to exist in your own goddamn story.”
“I’m not suffering,” I say again. “You’re not hurting me by being here. You’re not hurting us by being a father. All you’re hurting, Jonathan, is your image.”
“I don’t give a shit about my image.”
But he does. He's been that person for a long time now.
“Johnny Cunning doesn’t have a family, just like he didn’t have a girlfriend,” I say. “Johnny Cunning has a famous model-slash-actress that may or may not be his wife. Johnny Cunning doesn’t hang out in small towns or go to school plays to see some little girl pretend to be a snowflake. The only white powdery stuff Johnny Cunning ever gave a crap about was cocaine.”
He says nothing, staring at the floor.
“Maybe you don’t see it, because you walk in his shoes every day. Maybe you’re too close, but from the outside, where I am, it’s obvious. You’re two different people. You have two different lives. I share a story with one of them. And until you decide who you really are, who you want to be, nothing’s going to change.”
“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know.” I push him back on the bed just enough to crawl onto his lap. My hands frame his face as I make him look at me. “I know, Jonathan. You've always wanted to make me feel good.”
“Because I love you,” he says.
“More than whiskey?” I ask.
“More than whiskey,” he agrees. “More than cocaine.”
“More than models-slash-actresses?”
“I don’t even like them most days. But I love you. I swear to fuck, I’ve loved you since before my eighteenth birthday when we sat on your father’s couch and watched me play dead on television.”
“My favorite thing you’ve ever done,” I whisper, kissing him. “You still owe me that autograph, dead kid on Law & Order.”
Chapter 24
JONATHAN
“Come on, sweetheart!” Kennedy yells, looking at her watch as she stands by the front door. “Time to go! I need to get to work.”
“I’ll take her,” I say, “if you want.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Madison comes tromping through, dragging her backpack behind her. “I want Daddy to take me to school again! Please?”
Kennedy blinks a few times, mumbling, “Or maybe you do.”
“I got it,” I say. “No problem.”
She hesitates before giving a resigned sigh when Madison grabs my hand. “You got everything you need?”
Madison nods. “Yep.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Kennedy says. “You got something for Show & Tell?”
Another nod. “Yep.”
“Breezeo?” Kennedy guesses.
A grin this time. “Yep.”
“Of course,” she mumbles, bending down to kiss Madison on the forehead. “Have a good day. Love you.”
“Love you, Mommy,” Madison says. “More than even Show & Tell.”
“More than your daddy’s burnt hot dogs,” Kennedy says playfully, standing back up. Leaning over, she kisses me, lingering there as she smiles softly, whispering, “I’ll see you after work.”
She’s gone then, out the door, as Madison tugs on my hand. “Come on, Daddy. Time to go to school.”
It’s tricky, taking this kid to school in the mornings. There’s a cop parked in front of the apartment. There will be one in front of the school, too. But the in-between is where things are a bit sketchy. It’s only a few blocks over, but in our situation it’s like playing a fucking game of Jumanji.
Roll the dice and hope the bloodsuckers don’t pop out and swarm your ass.
We got lucky yesterday, but today, not so much. A block away from the school, someone calls my name from across the street and jogs over, trying to get me to stop.
I ignore him and keep walking.
“Daddy, that guy’s talking to you,” Madison says.
“I know,” I say. “Pretend he’s not there.”
“Like he’s invisible?” she asks. “Like Breezeo?”
“Exactly like that,” I say. “No matter what he says or does, act like he’s nothing but air.”
“I can do that,” she says with a nod. “And now since I’m a snowflake, I don’t even got ears. I don’t hear nothing.”
“Good girl.”
The guy tries. Jesus, does he try.
More than once I want to haul off and punch him in the fucking mouth for what he says in front of my daughter. Are you drinking again? Still getting high? Why’d you assault that reporter? Are you pissed off the world has learned your dirty little secret? Cute kid, why’d you try to hide her? Are you ashamed of her mother or something?
My footsteps stall in front of the school, and I look down at Madison. “Go on inside.”
I try to let go of her hand, but she resists, squeezing me tighter, tugging. “No, you gotta come, too.”
“I have to come inside?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Just ‘cuz,” she says, pulling as hard as she can, trying to get me to budge. I concede, following her inside, letting her lead me to her classroom.
“Shouldn’t I have to sign in at the office or something?” I ask. “Show ID? They don’t just let adults roam the halls, do they?”
“I dunno,” she says, shrugging.
“Well, that clears that up…”
She pulls me into the classroom, stopping right at the doorway. “Ta-da!”
I glance down at her, confused, as everyone in the classroom looks at us. “Is it career day or something?”
“No, silly,” Madison says. “Show & Tell!”
“What?”
“We can bring a favorite thing so we can show each other,” she says, explaining Show & Tell to me, like she thinks I’m just not getting it. “But nothing too expensive, ‘cuz it could get stole, but I didn’t pay nothing for you.”
“You brought me for Show & Tell?” I ask incredulously. “I thought you brought Breezeo.”
The moment I say that, it clicks.
I’m the Breezeo she brought today.
“Duh,” Madison says. “Mrs. Appleton, can I do my Show & Tell now? ‘Cuz I can’t keep him in my backpack ‘till lunch.”
The teacher doesn’t seem to have any idea of what to say, so she just waves at Madison, giving her permission. Madison pulls me to the front of the classroom as the bell rings.
“This is my daddy, but he’s not just my daddy. He’s also Breezeo. The real Breezeo!”
There are a few ohhs and ahhs, but a little boy in the back scoffs. “He doesn’t look like Breezeo.”
“Well, he is,” Madison says before looking at me. “Right, Daddy?”
Talk about awkward. “Right.”
The teacher clears her throat. “Questions come afterward, guys. Not during the presentation.”
I look at the woman with d
isbelief. “Questions?”
She nods, mildly amused.
“First, I got my daddy… I dunno when,” Madison says, brow furrowing as she thinks about that. Guess I don’t fit into the format. “When I was a baby, I think, but I didn’t know ‘till I was five. And, uh, I think my mommy gave him to me.”
The teacher is trying very hard not to laugh.
“Second, he was made by his mommy and daddy, but I don’t know them,” Madison says. “And third, he’s one of my favorite things ‘cuz he’s my daddy. And ‘cuz he’s Breezeo. So thank you for listening and raise your hands if you have questions.”
Way too many hands shoot up, including the teacher’s aide lurking in the back of the classroom. Madison grins, bubbling with excitement from being the center of attention.
“Can I get a chair?” I ask. “I have a feeling I’m going to be here for a while.”
After my ass is planted in a seat, the questions start. Is Breezeo really real? Can he go invisible? When did he become Breezeo? How come he doesn’t look like him? Madison answers them the best she can, but I chime in occasionally to clarify that I’m, in fact, not actually a superhero.
“But are superheroes real?” a little boy asks.
Madison looks at me expectantly, yielding to my expertise on that one, but I’ve got nothing. I’m not killing the imagination of a room full of kindergarteners with that reality. The paparazzi coming after me are bad enough. Moms with torches? Hell no.
“Heroes are certainly real,” the teacher’s aide says. “Mr. Cunning actually saved a young woman from being hit by a car recently.”
There goes the ohhs and ahhs, a ‘whoa’ or two tossed in for good measure.
“Wasn’t that big of a deal,” I say, looking at my wrist. “I just happened to be standing there when it happened.”
Mrs. Appleton chimes in. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to get started on today’s lesson.”
I seem to be the only one not disappointed by that. The teacher thanks me and Maddie hugs me and I’m out the door and heading down the hallway before the teacher’s aide can cry this morning.
Stepping outside, I see the damn guy still lurking that followed us here. Lowering my head, I walk past him as he asks, “Johnny, what does your wife think about this whole thing?”