Ghosted

  Few things are more infuriating as a grown man than having someone tell me to let the grown ups handle things.

  “Did you fuck up?” Jack’s voice sounds incredibly hopeful. “I bet you fucked it all up, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I tell him, “but even when I suck, I’m damn good.”

  He snickers, not bothering to hold back. I realize how those words sound the moment I say them, and Jack being Jack isn’t going to let it slide. “Is that how you keep landing these roles? Blowing your way straight to stardom?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You know, now that I think about it, you do talk about people riding your ass a lot.”

  I laugh at that one, strolling through the hotel lobby, wearing an old white t-shirt and sweats, looking like I ought to be in bed. Wish I could, frankly. I tried calling Kennedy but got no answer, so instead I called Jack and well, you know how it is.

  “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” I tell him. “At least I’m doing something.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m doing something as we speak.”

  “What? Whacking it to tentacle porn?”

  “Christ, are you spying on me, man? How the hell did you know?”

  “I figured it was either that or you were trolling dating sites using my picture.”

  “Ha-ha, you’re the last person I’d use to pick up ladies,” he says. “I’m not sure how you even get them, running around looking like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sweatpants,” he says. “Pretty sure that t-shirt has holes in it. And those Nikes are filthy.”

  Brow furrowed, I glance down at myself. “Are you spying on me?”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yes.” I look around the lobby, my gaze shifting outside the front doors, spotting him standing along the curb. He waves. “That’s creepy as hell, Jack.”

  “Creepy is my middle name.”

  Hanging up, I slip my phone in the pocket of my sweats before strolling out of the hotel, meeting him on the sidewalk.

  I haven’t seen him in a while. We’ve only hung out in person a handful of times. Our lives are so different that the opportunity doesn’t happen often.

  “Am I going to have to get a restraining order?”

  “Probably,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood, knew you’d be here, so I thought maybe you’d want to do something.”

  “Well, I was on my way to the gym, but any excuse not to work out tonight is good with me,” I say. “What do you have in mind? Video games? Fast food? I’m going to have to draw the line at prostitutes.”

  He grins. “Something much more exciting.”

  “What’s more exciting than that?”

  A meeting, it turns out. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding. Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting in a dim basement, listening to another alcoholic’s sob story. They take turns sharing before the room goes quiet. An awkward silence. Those are a nightmare for an actor.

  Fuck it.

  I stand.

  “My name’s Jonathan and I’m an alcoholic.”

  They welcome me. Half of them probably recognize me, but I don’t care. As many of these as I’ve been to, this is the first time I’ve spoken, always too worried about my damn image.

  So I tell my story, not sugarcoating. I tell them how much of a fuck-up I was. My daughter went the first few years of her life without a father because I chose it all over her. The drugs. The alcohol. The movies. The red carpets and the parties and the people I didn’t even like, but I humored them because they were famous.

  The meeting ends a few minutes after I finish.

  As we’re leaving, Jack turns to me and says, “So, how about a drink?”

  I laugh, shoving him. “I don’t think I could’ve chosen a worse sponsor.”

  “Yeah, you suck at making decisions.”

  “I’m getting better, though.”

  “Are you?”

  My phone starts ringing. I glance at it. Kennedy.

  “I’m gonna prove it right now,” I say, shaking the phone at him, “by choosing my family over a drink with your dumb ass.”

  We go our separate ways as I answer the call. “Hello?”

  “Hey, you,” Kennedy says, her voice quiet. “How was your day?”

  “Long,” I say. “Yours?”

  “It was okay,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t answer when you called earlier. I wanted to, but Maddie insisted I didn’t.”

  My stomach drops. “Is she still mad?”

  “No.” She sighs. “She heard Meghan say you should always play hard to get, because it’ll make a guy want you more if he has to wait. So she said not to answer yet and then you’ll love us even more.”

  “Well, who can argue with that?”

  “Right? Which means I can’t talk long. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I appreciate it,” I say. “I’m actually heading back to the hotel to get some sleep. Just got out of a meeting.”

  “A meeting-meeting or like… a meeting?”

  “Whichever of those is for alcoholics.”

  “Ah, well, that’s good.” She pauses. “I’m gonna go before she catches me. Have a good night.”

  “Goodnight, baby.”

  I look up when I reach the hotel, pocketing the phone, my footsteps slowing when I see a handful of people lurking. They spot me, so I stop, signing some autographs and chatting, taking a few pictures before going inside.

  Instinctively, I look around, always on alert. And for the second time in a week, I see a familiar face in the lobby bar.

  This time, though, it’s Cliff.

  He’s sitting alone at a small table with what looks like a glass of scotch. Never have I known Cliff to drink alcohol. I take a few steps that direction, curious, when a guy slips into the chair across from him and picks up the glass.

  Something strikes me as familiar about him, but I’ve seen a lot of faces in my life, so it’s not always easy to place them. I watch for a moment, the two men casually chatting, before the guy downs the rest of the scotch and stands up to leave.

  He makes it halfway through the lobby before his eyes flicker my way. He looks surprised to see me, which is funny, because in that moment I remember where I saw him.

  He followed me that morning when I walked Madison to school. He works for Hollywood Chronicles.

  The guy turns away and keeps on going, which makes this whole thing even funnier, because I’ve never known any of them to pass up the chance to provoke me.

  “Hey, Daddy!”

  Madison’s grinning face takes up my whole phone screen. Guess the self-imposed ‘make him wait’ strategy has been abandoned, considering she’s FaceTiming me at seven-thirty in the morning.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” I say. “You getting ready for school?”

  She nods, shaking the phone as she does. “I already got my clothes all on, and Mommy said we had some minutes, ‘cuz I got my backpack ready early.”

  “So you decided to call?”

  “Uh-huh, to remind you so you didn’t forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Me, duh.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, but I’m glad you called. I miss you.”

  “Miss you,” she says. “Guess what! Yesterday it was Aunt Meghan’s birthday and Mommy got her cupcakes, but Aunt Meghan didn’t eat none, ‘cuz she says cake don’t like her thighs, but I dunno why. So we can have them all, and I saved one for you, but Mommy says it won’t be good in thirty days so I ate it.”

  “You ate it.”

  She nods. “For breakfast.”

  I laugh, because I have no idea what to even say to that. Her eyes narrow, like she doesn’t know what I find so funny.

  In the background, I hear Kennedy yelling, something about it being Tuesday.

  “Uh-oh,” Madison says, her face flashing with panic seconds before she drops the phone to the floor and runs off.

  I stare at a view of th
e ceiling. “Madison? Madison! Pick the phone back up!”

  There’s a knock on my trailer door behind me. It opens without invitation. Cliff steps inside, looking at me incredulously. I’m sitting here with my feet propped up, relaxing.

  “Wardrobe’s waiting,” he says. “You should be in costume.”

  “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “You know, maybe if you hired a personal assistant…”

  He finishes that sentence, saying something, but I don’t pay attention, because Madison returns. “Sorry, Daddy. I forgot it was Tuesday and I had to get some Show & Tell.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “What did you pick?”

  “Guess!”

  “Breezeo?”

  “Nope!” She whips out her Maryanne doll to show me. “Ta-da!”

  “Wow, something new, huh?”

  “Yep,” she says.

  “What made you switch?”

  “I didn’t want Mommy to be sad, ‘cuz you’re gone, so she got to have my Breezeo for now. He’s in her bed, taking a nap!”

  “Wow,” I say, trying not to laugh at the fact that she’s sleeping with a tiny doll version of me in my absence. “That was nice of you.”

  Kennedy yells again in the background, asking Madison if she’s seen her phone.

  “Uh-oh. Gotta go!”

  She hangs up.

  I shake my head, realizing Kennedy probably doesn’t even know she called me.

  Getting up to go to wardrobe, I see Cliff still lurking.

  He glances at his watch. “You’re due on set in fifteen minutes.”

  Shit. I'm going to be late.

  They’re making a Breezeo movie.

  You whisper this as you crawl into bed with the woman you love for the first time in weeks. It’s the middle of the night. You just got home from New York. You've been back and forth all summer, deep into the fall. You were due back days ago, the first of October, but you kept delaying your return.

  Your arms slide around her from behind as you pull her to you, her back against your chest. You smell like your cologne. Too often, you come home smelling like booze or perfume. She makes you shower every time it happens before you can even touch her.

  “Are you serious?” she asks. “A Breezeo movie?”

  You hum in response as you tug at her clothes, moving just enough fabric aside to make her feel good. She’s only wearing her underwear and one of your t-shirts. She moans as you slide into her from behind. Your lips are on her neck. It takes no time at all before she’s crying out in pleasure.

  You move then, laying flat on your back as you pull her on top. Sighing, you grasp her hips and slide right back inside, closing your eyes. “You feel so good, baby. I just want to lay here and feel you. I’m so fucking exhausted right now.”

  “And you think I’m not?”

  You open your eyes again when she says that. There’s a bite to those words. She’s not moving, staring down at you. It’s dark in the bedroom, but not so dark that she can’t see your clear blue eyes. You came home sober.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t think about it, either, huh?”

  There’s that bite again.

  “Come on, can we not fight right now?” you ask, and you even sound exhausted. There’s not a shred of anger in your voice. “I just got home ten minutes ago. I haven’t seen you in over a month. I… fuck, I just want to be inside of you right now. We can fight tomorrow if you want.”

  She makes a face at you but slowly starts moving. You close your eyes again, relaxing. It doesn’t go on long before you pull her down to you, holding her as you thrust. You whisper in her ear, whispering how much you’ve missed her, how you haven’t been able to sleep without her beside you.

  After you finish, she just lays there, still on top. Your hands roam beneath the t-shirt, stroking her back. It’s quiet. Used to be, the silence between you felt comfortable, but now it’s like an invisible barrier that’s difficult to get around.

  “I took some meetings for it,” you tell her. “For Breezeo. They haven’t announced it yet. I’m not even supposed to talk about it. It’s still too early.”

  “Wait, you’re doing it?” She moves, rolling over to look at you. “You?”

  “I don’t know. I’m supposed to spend tomorrow going over it with Cliff. But that’s why I didn’t come home right away.”

  “That’s… wow. You have to do it! Or you at least have to try. You’d be brilliant as Breezeo.”

  “Now you’re pushing it. If I go for the movie, there’s no way I’d ever get the lead. I can't carry a franchise.”

  “What? Of course you can! You’d be perfect, Jonathan. I’m serious! I mean, come on, nobody knows Breezeo like I do, and I’m a billion percent sure that it has to be you. So you have to try, okay? For me? Please?”

  “You just want to see me wearing the costume, don’t you?”

  “Well, I mean, I don’t not want to…”

  You laugh, kissing her. “I’ll see if I can make that happen for you.”

  “You promise?”

  You never promise things. She expects you’ll laugh, but instead, you say, “I promise. I’ll try.”

  For the first time in a while, she goes to sleep with a smile… and that’s the last smile she ever gets.

  Ugh, that’s too dramatic. It’s also not true. What I really mean is it’s the last time she smiles with you.

  Look, I’m doing this wrong again. I can’t keep distancing myself from reality… but then again, what happens after that last smile doesn't feel real.

  When I wake up in that bed a few hours later, I’m alone. For a moment, as I lay there, I think I dreamed it, but the smell of your cologne is all over. As I breathe it in, I wonder where you are. It’s not even dawn yet and you’re already gone.

  I find out that afternoon. You were spotted in the wee hours of the morning across town, sitting alone in a theater, watching a rehearsal for the stage debut of Serena Markson.

  When you finally make it home that night, well after dark, the first thing you do is kiss me. But you taste like whiskey and you smell like a whore, and my chest is caving in on me because of it, so I push you off. Both hands pressed against your chest, I shove you so hard you slam into the wall. You look at me, and I can’t tell if you’re shocked, or hurt, or even confused, because you look numb. Your eyes are a void.

  ‘You’re overreacting,’ you say when I confront you. ‘It’s nothing.’ But it’s not ‘nothing,’ I know, because that was me once. Don’t you remember? I know what it’s like to be somebody’s lone captive audience. And maybe it would’ve been okay had you told me, had you not come home drunk, covered in perfume, when I worked all goddamn day to ensure you still had a home to come to. In three years, the only thing your dream seems to have paid for is coke.

  I’m yelling, and the tears start falling, and you keep whispering, “I’m sorry,” over and over and over, and when I tell you ‘sorry’ doesn't cut it, you say, “I love you, more than anything, baby.”

  And I believe you, because you’re good, Jonathan.

  Something toxic grew between us. I thought the drugs were your Kryptonite, Superman, but I’m beginning to think it might be me. Am I destroying your dream? Are you free-falling because you’re being weighed down by me? If I weren’t here, would you be soaring?

  We scream, and I cry, and you get high, over and over as the weeks carry on, a perpetual cycle fueled by all this stress. The tiniest things start triggering me, and it’s making me sick, so sick that I can’t get out of bed some mornings. And I just want to talk to you, really talk, and not argue. I miss you. I miss us. So I ask about the Breezeo movie, trying to bring us back to common ground, back to where we both still exist, and you say, “It’s not happening now.”

  “They’re not making it?”

  “Oh, they are,” you say. “I’m just not auditioning.”

  Cliff talked you out of trying. I cry when you tell me that, and y
ou lose your temper, telling me to ‘grow up’ because it’s ‘just a shitty comic,’ not realizing I’m upset because you promised, when you never promise, which means I don’t know how much I can trust your words anymore.

  I think it was that moment that doomed us. It gets so ugly that we don’t speak for days. You sleep on the couch. The barrier of silence becomes an unclimbable mountain.

  All I do is cry… cry… cry…

  I’m at work when I realize what’s happening. I confirm it that night, but you’re already passed out on the couch. I’ll let you sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning. You’ll be sober. We’ll be all right. I stay up all night, not sure how to feel. When I hear you stirring in the morning, I hesitate. I’m scared.

  I shouldn't ever be afraid to talk to you. What happened to us?

  You’re sitting on the couch, putting on your shoes to leave. I stand in the bedroom doorway and ask, “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “I have things to do,” you say, no affection in your voice. You sound like your father at that moment, but I’d never say those words to you.

  “It’s important. I have something to tell you.”

  You stand up, and you’re stone-cold sober, your blue eyes so clear, and I think maybe it’ll be okay, but then you stare me in the eyes and say, “Tell someone who fucking cares.”

  And then you walk out.

  You walk out on me.

  And then I collapse.

  My legs won’t hold me.

  And you don’t know this, but that woman you don’t care about anymore? The one whose world you just shattered? She’s pregnant. She’s having your baby, Jonathan. And you don’t even know. You don’t even care.

  Chapter 27

  KENNEDY

  It’s raining.

  It doesn’t rain a lot here, no more than average, but it always seems to want to rain at the worst moments. It’s as if the sky has a direct line to my emotions. When things get all twisted up inside of me, the world starts cracking and the sky comes apart.