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“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.”
