Ghosted

  “It’s a C, not a K,” I say, pointing. “T-a-c-o, not t-a-k-o.”

  “Thank you,” she says, erasing the whole damn word just to rewrite it properly.

  “Anytime, kiddo.”

  Kennedy walks back in a minute later, shoving her phone in the back pocket of her work khakis. She doesn’t even look at me as she starts rambling something about homework and dinner and bedtime, reciting rules that Madison soundlessly mimics the same time her mother says them. Clearly, she’s heard this all before…

  “Wait, you mean I’m watching her?” I ask, surprised.

  Kennedy turns my way. “You wanted to, didn’t you? If not, I can call my dad back.”

  “No, no, I did… I do. I’m just surprised.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Like you said—she’s your daughter.”

  She kisses the top of Madison’s head and says something about being back as soon as she can, and then she’s gone, out the door, heading to work, leaving me sitting here, having not absorbed any of her instructions.

  Yeah, I’m going to fuck this up.

  Madison finishes drawing her table and adds a tiger and a teardrop into the mix before declaring herself done with homework. She shoves the paper in her backpack before pulling out a beat up notebook and a pencil pouch jammed full of markers. She spreads them out along the table and opens the notebook, flipping through page after page of scribbles.

  “What do you have there?” I ask, leaning over, trying to look at the pages, when she inhales sharply and throws herself on top of it, blocking me from seeing anything.

  “No, don’t look!” she says, shoving my face away. “It’s not ready!”

  “Okay, okay,” I say with a laugh. “I won’t look.”

  “Better not, ‘cuz it’s not ready yet for you to look.”

  “I won’t look until you tell me I can.”

  Only after I say that does she settle back into her chair, satisfied her work is safe. There’s so much of Kennedy in that girl that it’s almost like déjà vu watching her.

  Shaking my head, I stand up and look around the kitchen. “Any idea what we’re supposed to do about dinner? I know your mother said something about it.”

  “She said no junk food, gotta have real food.”

  I glance in the cabinets. “Define real food.”

  “Pizza,” she says.

  “Ah, pizza I can do,” I say, seeing a flyer on the refrigerator door for delivery.

  “And chickens and the breads, too!” Madison declares, continuing to draw in her notebook.

  “You got it.”

  I call the number, ordering a large pepperoni with chicken wings and breadsticks, even adding a ham and pineapple pizza to the order for Kennedy, in case she’s hungry when she gets home—ordering way too much food for just us.

  There’s a knock on the door after about forty-five minutes and I start toward it, pulling out some cash from my wallet, but stop short. I didn’t even think about the fact that somebody might recognize me and question why I’m here. Glancing back at Madison, I consider having her pay them, but well, that goes against everything her mother’s been trying to teach her about not opening the door for strangers.

  They knock again, and I take a deep breath before opening the door. It’s a guy, mid-twenties, no older than me. He looks stoned out of his gourd, eyes blazing red, the dank woodsy odor clinging to his uniform, like the guy was smoking on his way to the door. He rambles off the price and I shove some cash at him, taking the pizza. Before I can close the door, though, his bloodshot eyes narrow, face contorting with confusion as he eyes me. “Hey, aren’t you that guy? You know… that one from that movie? The, uh…?” He snaps his fingers, like he’s trying to remember, before he points at me. “Breezeo!”

  “Nah, not me,” I say. “Get that all the time, though.”

  I shut the door before he can press it any further and watch out the peephole as he lingers. He shrugs it off, though, and strolls away, lighting something before he even reaches his car again.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I turn for the kitchen and nearly slam right into Madison standing there, just inches behind me.

  “You told a lie,” she says.

  “I did,” I admit, “but it was for the greater-good.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means sometimes it’s better we don’t tell people who I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people are nosey,” I say. “If I admitted who I was, that guy would go back and tell his friends, who would tell their friends, and next thing you know, the whole world would be in my business and want to know what I’m doing here.”

  She’s quiet, following me as I carry the pizza to the kitchen. She closes her notebook and sits there as I put some food on a plate for her, sitting down across from her with a plate of my own.

  There’s something wrong.

  Something’s bothering her. I can tell.

  Just like her mother, remember?

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, saying, “Nothing.”

  “Ah, see, now I think you just told a lie.”

  “It’s for the greatest-goods.”

  I laugh as she tries to throw my words back at me. “Come on, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She lets out the longest, most dramatic sigh, like I’m nagging her half to death here, before she says, “Do you not wanna be my daddy?”

  That question is a punch to the chest.

  “Of course I do. Why would you think that?”

  “ ‘Cuz you don’t want the people to know it,” she says. “And ‘cuz you weren’t my daddy ‘till now.”

  Man, I feel like an asshole. None of those little jabs from Kennedy hold an ounce of the pain that Madison's words contain.

  “I’ve always been your daddy,” I tell her. “I just wasn’t good at it. I’m trying to be better. And I’d like for people to know, but it’s complicated, and the pizza man really isn’t the person to start with. But we’ll tell everyone. We will.”

  She smiles, and eats, like my answer satisfied her, but I don’t feel like any less of an asshole. This isn’t fair to her—at all. I’m here, yeah, and I’m trying, but how much does it count if the entire time I’m sneaking around? Like I can only be her father behind closed doors.

  I’m treating her like she’s my dirty little secret.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, either.

  I did the same thing to her mother.

  Cliff would tell me I’m overreacting, that it’s about protection—protecting her, yeah, but protecting my image, too. My private life stays private. That’s just how it goes. Jack would tell me to man the fuck up, because living a life in secret is a danger to sobriety. He’d tell me to do what’s right, and stop being a self-centered asshole. But I don’t know what’s right.

  “So, uh, now that we have dinner sorted,” I say, “any idea what your mother said about bedtime?”

  “Eight o’clock,” Madison says. “And I gotta take a bath at seven-thirty, and then you gotta read me a book, but I get to pick which one.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, glancing at a nearby clock—only six-thirty. “We’ve got about an hour. What do you want to do?”

  She grins at me. “Draw!”

  Today marks a year.

  A year since that night you showed up drunk on the sidewalk in front of the white two-story house in Bennett Landing and asked the girl to run away with you, and she did. Your Dreamiversary, she calls it. The day you decided to follow your dreams.

  But following dreams isn’t easy, especially dreams like yours. You live in a city where thousands of people are chasing that same dream, and a lot of them have a head start.

  They tell you that you’ve gotten lucky so far, but you don’t feel it. You signed with a small agent, and your IMDb lists a few more minor roles, but ‘Heroin Dealer’ on CSI and ‘Guy #3’ on Criminal Minds isn’t who you’ve dreamed of being since you
were a child, nor does it pay the bills.

  The money ran out long ago. It didn’t even last three months. You’ve gotten a few odd jobs, but they always seem to get in the way of auditions, and every penny you manage to scrounge up disappears in a cloud of headshots and acting classes. So much has fallen onto her shoulders, but she doesn’t complain. Because every single night, you tell her you love her. She knows you care, and that was the only promise you ever made her.

  “Happy Dreamiversary,” she says, popping up in the bedroom doorway of the tiny apartment. It’s late, maybe one in the morning. Everything about her screams exhaustion, because she just got home from pulling a double-shift waitressing at the all-night diner around the corner. “I have something for you.”

  You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. You can’t sleep when she’s not here. She used to say you couldn’t sleep because the two of you only had an air mattress on the floor, but you got a real bed a month ago and nope.

  Can't sleep.

  Well, not unless you let alcohol do the work, but she doesn’t like that, so you take it easy. Not only does it upset her, finding you passed out, but it makes you an inconsiderate asshole to spend money you don’t have getting wasted.

  You sit up, gazing at the girl through the dim bedroom lighting. Though, she’s not really a girl anymore. She’s wearing the little pink button-up dress that is her work uniform, a white apron tied around her slim waist. She’s lost weight lately, but she has more curves. She’s a woman, one with an apartment and a job. One with her hands behind her back, hiding something.

  “What is it?” you ask, and she whips out a business card, waving it at you as she approaches. She climbs right onto the bed, on top of you, straddling your lap as she smiles.

  You take the card, looking it at. Caldwell Talents. Clifford Caldwell. You know who he is. You’ve been told dozens of times this past year that if you want to be someone in Hollywood, he’s the man you need. But despite your best efforts, you can’t get anywhere near him. He sees people by appointment-only, and it’s Battle Royale trying to get one of those.

  “You see the date and time written on the back?” she asks. “That’s your meeting with him.”

  You look at her with shock. “How…?”

  “He came into the diner tonight,” she says. “He was with some clients... that guy in that new dance movie? Step On In or something. And that guy from the vampire movies! And some girls, uh... oh, that model, the one that’s on all those billboards? The young blonde? Her name is like Markson or something? Selena, maybe?”

  “Kennedy, baby, focus,” you say, laughing as she rambles on and on, your hands framing her face. “I don’t give a fuck about some model. How the hell did you snag an appointment?”

  “Oh.” She blushes, grasping your wrists. “I kind of just asked.”

  “You asked.”

  “Well, I mean, I worked up to it. He wouldn’t even look at me at first, too busy on his phone, but I couldn’t let him leave without getting his attention. So I spilled his coffee.”

  “You did what?”

  “I didn’t spill it on him. Just on the table. And some of it on the model, but it wasn’t that hot, so whatever. She was mad, though. But anyway, when I was cleaning it up, Clifford put his phone down to look at me, so I went for it.”

  “That’s when you asked?”

  “What? No. That’s when I flirted my butt off.”

  “You? You flirted?”

  “Batted my eyelashes and everything. The whole damsel in distress act. Oh my god, Mr. Caldwell, sir, I’m so very sorry... I just get so frazzled sometimes around such powerful men. I can barely contain myself when it comes to an utterly brilliant mind and uh, stunning body of work.”

  You laugh. “He believed that shit?”

  “Yep.” She grins. “I swear, they stayed for like an hour after that. He kept striking up conversation, asking me questions about my life. I told him all about you, and wham-bam, appointment!”

  “Wow,” you say, looking at the card again.

  “Oh, I forgot the best part!” she says, shoving you back onto the bed, kissing you. “He left me a crazy big tip.”

  “Hmm, how big?” you ask, grabbing her hips, grinding against her. “That big?”

  “Bigger,” she says. “Much bigger.”

  “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  “Is it working?”

  She squeals as you flip her over, onto the bed, and settle right between her legs. You shove material around, and she gasps with the first thrust.

  “You changed our lives tonight, baby,” you say. “Happy Dreamiversary.”

  You don’t know this, but that woman? As you make love to her, whispering in her ear how much you love her, telling her with every thrust that things are going to be beautiful, she’s believing every single word. And she’s imagining it, how life is going to change, how so many doors are going to open for you. Your dreams are coming true. She lies there, with you on top of her, inside of her, and feels the weight on her easing for the first time in almost a year. Finally… finally… things are looking up. Finally, some good news.

  Chapter 19

  KENNEDY

  “So, bad news…”

  Sighing, I drop the small crate onto the floor of the store’s back stockroom and shove it along the wall. I shake my head, refusing to look at Marcus, who stands in the doorway, the bearer of bad news. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “That whole bad news thing,” I say, waving toward him. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “It’s just a bit of a problem.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not my problem.”

  “But it is.”

  Groaning, I run my hands down my face. “Don’t do this to me, Marcus.”

  “Bethany’s feeling sick, so I’m going to send her home.”

  “I’m begging you,” I grumble. “Don’t do it.”

  “I need you to stay and run her register.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “I opened this morning. I’ve been here since eight o’clock.”

  “You got off at three,” he points out.

  “And I was back here by five,” I say. “I’ll be back again at eight in the morning. Now you want me to stay until midnight?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if I had another choice,” he says before walking away, just like that, not waiting on a response. He didn’t even actually ask. He assumed I’d stay, because that’s who I am. It’s what I always do.

  “Look at me, woo-hoo, assistant manager of the Piggly Q,” I grumble to myself, shoving more crates around before locking up the stockroom. “Doing amazing things with my life.”

  I head to the front of the store in just enough time to see Bethany scurry out, looking quite the opposite of sick, but hey, what do I know? The little dance she does, though, as she meets her friends out in the parking lot, is a pretty good indicator that I’m being screwed over.

  Awesome.

  I’m in a bad mood. I’ve been in one all day. I’m not sure what started it, but I’m on edge. My little quiet life of monotony is feeling more and more like some prank the universe is playing. The fact that LeAnne Rimes' How Do I Live is playing on the store radio pretty much proves that point, I think.

  I run the register until the store closes, which means I stand around all night long, my feet angrily screaming from me being on them.

  It’s a quarter after midnight when I get to the apartment, slipping inside and locking up.

  The lights are off, but the TV is on, playing quietly, the glow of it illuminating the couch, where Jonathan lays with Maddie snuggled up against him. He’s fast asleep, while she’s barely dozing, eyes open but zoned out so much that she hasn’t even noticed me. She was supposed to be in bed hours ago, but I’m too exhausted to be upset about it. Colorful marker covers the white plaster on Jonathan’s wrist. He let her draw on his cast.

  Strollin
g over, I scoop her up in my arms, and she doesn’t resist, already snoring by the time I tuck her in bed.

  When I make it back to the living room, Jonathan is sitting up. He runs a hand over his face, groggy, as he asks, “What time is it?”

  “After midnight.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, looking me over as I plop down on the couch beside him and kick off my shoes. “Did you just get home?”

  “A minute ago,” I say. “Cashier was sick, left early, so I had to close. Got home in just enough time to get some sleep so I can get up tomorrow and do it all over again.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what it’s like in the real world.”

  “You don’t think I live in the real world?”

  “I think you live in your own world, Jonathan.”

  “You could quit,” he suggests.

  “And do what? Get a job somewhere else, making minimum wage again?”

  “You could stay home,” he says. “Maybe even write, whatever you want to do.”

  “That’s not going to pay the bills.”

  “But I can.”

  I glare at him when he says that.

  He stares back at me defiantly.

  He looks like he doesn’t even understand what’s wrong with what he’s suggesting.

  “I’m not going down this road with you,” I tell him. “Not again.”

  “But I should be supporting my daughter. I should be contributing.”

  “You should be doing a lot of things.”

  “Yeah, so, let me.”

  I shake my head. “What happens when I quit my job and you decide to stop contributing?”

  He laughs at that question. He laughs, like I’m being funny, the sound getting under my skin. Ugh. I go to stand up, to walk away, but he stops me, pulling me back onto the couch. “Look, I get it. I’ve let you down, but just give it some thought.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. I don’t need you. I never did.”

  As soon as those words come from my lips, I almost choke on the flood of regret that flows through me. It might be true. I might mean it. I might not need him. But there’s cruelty in every word of that, and that’s not who I am. No matter what happened to us, I never wanted to be just another person who did things to hurt him.