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I look past him, nearly tripping over my own feet when I see a blue Porsche parked right beside my Toyota. “Holy shit.”
Jonathan smirks, putting his arm around me as he steers me toward it. “Must be one hell of a surprise if it has you cursing.”
“It’s exactly like your old car.”
“Well, it's a bit newer, but yeah…” He shoves the keys at me, dropping them on top of the uniforms. “You do know how to drive a stick, right?”
“I, uh, what?” I grab the keys when they start to fall. “I mean, I can, but I can’t drive your car.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a freaking Porsche! What if I scratch it? Dent it? What if I wreck it? I can’t fix it!”
He laughs. Again. He’s been laughing a lot this afternoon. “I rarely drive, so you might as well use it. Otherwise, it’s just going to sit in a garage in the city. Besides, no offense, but I’m not sure how much longer your piece of junk is gonna keep running.”
I glance at my car, scowling, before I look at Jonathan. He means well, I know he does, and I’m grateful. But he’s worrying me with this. “This is too much, Jonathan. You just gave me a washer and dryer this morning. Now you’re handing me the keys to your car. I mean, what’s next?”
“A dishwasher,” he says. “It’s supposed to be delivered tomorrow morning.”
I blink at him. “You know I don’t need stuff, right?”
“I know,” he says before pushing me toward the car. “Now go, turn your uniforms in. And make sure you put the top down, you know, so you can feel the sunshine.”
He goes back inside, leaving me there.
I stare at the car for far too long before giving in. It’s not mine, but it is a new toy, and it’s a little hard to resist when I’m overcome with a sense of nostalgia. It reminds me so much of when our dreams still felt beautiful.
So I get behind the wheel and I drive to the store. Or well, I drive past the store, circling the block a few times, before gathering the nerve to park and go inside, heading for the front office.
“Kennedy.” Marcus’s voice is all business as he sits behind his desk, greeting me as soon as I walk in. “What can I do for you?”
“I stopped by to turn in my uniforms,” I say, holding the pile of clothes up to show him.
“You can put them over there,” he says, waving toward me. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” I say, setting them down on top of a box by the door. I linger there, watching him sort through paperwork, feeling guilty because I know he’s doing my job.
“Did you need something else?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he looks at me.
“No,” I say, hesitating. “Well, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
“Sorry enough to want your job back?”
“Not quite.”
He laughs, turning back to the paperwork. “Had to try.”
“Anyway,” I say. “Thanks for taking a chance on me when you did.”
I walk out of the office, not wanting things to get too sentimental. The store is pretty busy, not unusual for a Friday.
I’m heading for the exit as the delivery guy switches out the magazines by the registers. Instinctively, my eyes turn toward them, drawn to a certain one—Hollywood Chronicles. My footsteps stall as I inhale sharply. It feels like I’ve been punched.
I snatch up the top copy. The world around me is trying to tilt. My heart pounds hard. As panic floods my system, my hands start to shake.
Turning away, I walk out of the store, taking it with me as I drive straight home. The apartment is quiet. Jonathan is walking Maddie home from school, so I’m alone for the moment.
I go straight to my bedroom.
Sitting down on the bed, I stare at the front page of the tabloid.
JOHNNY CUNNING'S DOUBLE LIFE
Along the top, there’s a picture of us—me, and Jonathan, and our daughter. Our faces are plastered on the front of Hollywood Chronicles. It’s unavoidable, I know. He lives his life beneath a scorching spotlight. We’d inevitably get drawn into it.
And it’s strange, but he looks happy.
It’s one of the only times they’ve ever printed a picture of him smiling.
Beneath that, though, tells a different story.
There’s a picture of him in a bar, the caption claiming it was a few days ago. He’s standing beside Serena, and she’s holding her drink out, offering it to him.
I flip through it, finding more pictures. More of us. More of them. Close to midnight on Monday—the day of his appointment. It says they met up at a hotel in the city, when hours before, he finally broke his silence about their relationship while walking his daughter to school.
Closing the tabloid, I toss it aside.
A few minutes pass before I hear the front door, Maddie’s laughter filtering through. She runs through the apartment, into the hall, yelling, “Hi, Mommy! Bye, Mommy!’ before disappearing into her bedroom.
