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He laughs. “No comment.”
“Yeah, well, you look…”
“Like shit? I feel it. Long days and we’re still falling behind. I’m going to be cutting it close on making it back in time.”
In time.
My gaze flickers to Maddie before I go back to Jonathan, who looks incredibly nervous. “How close?”
“Depends,” he says. “When’s the play exactly?”
“Three o’clock on the second of June.”
He hesitates. “We wrap that morning in New Jersey.”
My heart drops the whole way to my toes.
“I’ll be there,” he says. “Don’t worry.”
“Kind of hard not to worry.”
“I’ll make it. I promised her I would. I just wanted you to know, in case…”
“In case you didn’t make it?”
“In case I had to break a few laws.”
I laugh at that. “I’ll forgive you.”
He gazes at me, like he wants to say more but he isn’t sure of the words.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seem off.”
“I’m just tired,” he says. “Days feel like months without you.”
Those words, they resonate with a deep part of me, a part that feels so much older and so much colder than it ought to be. “I know the feeling.”
“I’m in Paris right now,” he says. “Three days ago, I was in Amsterdam. I’ve been all over the world, but the only place I really want to be is Bennett Landing.”
“You hate Bennett Landing.”
“It’s where you are. Where Madison is.”
“We’ll be here,” I say. “And we’ll see you at three o’clock on the second of June.”
“You will.” He smiles. “I need to try to get some sleep. I’m due on set in a few hours.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sleep well.”
“I love you,” he says, pressing the button to end the call, the screen going black as the words sit on the tip of my tongue in response. I love you.
Today makes ten years since the night we ran away. Our tenth Dreamiversary. He didn’t mention it. I don’t know if he remembers, but I’ll never forget. By choosing him, I changed my entire world, and looking at my mud-covered little girl, I know I’ll never regret a single moment.
There are only a few blank pages left in the back of my old tattered notebook. After Maddie came to be, the narrative changed. It was no longer a story about a brazen boy with stars in his eyes and a lovesick girl with her heart on her sleeve, no more ‘you’ and ‘her’ to speak of. The plotline fractured. That boy and girl still existed in the world, and occasionally their stories intersected, but their worlds were just too different.
It became the story of a wandering man, one whose dream was killing him.
It became the story of a heartbroken woman, one who found her purpose.
Both stories continued to be documented, just not like before. One played out on the cover of tabloids, while the other was scribbled in baby books.
I always thought the first story was finished, the original one, and maybe it is. Maybe this is just an epilogue, or maybe it’s a sequel.
I run my hand along the tattered notebook cover. Maddie’s asleep, lying beside me on the couch. Breezeo is quietly playing on the TV screen, still on that endless loop.
There’s a knock on the apartment door. I set aside the notebook. It’s late, pushing ten o’clock at night. Glancing out the peephole, I see someone standing there—a guy, about my age, with shaggy blond hair, wearing jeans and a black Call of Duty t-shirt. He’s holding something, looking nervous, mumbling to himself.
He knocks again, so I open the door a crack, just enough to greet him. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Kennedy?”
“That’s me.”
His brow furrows. He looks me over. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” I say. “And you are…?”
I’m about two seconds from slamming the door in his face, because he looks at me like there’s no way I can be who he’s looking for. I’m wearing pajamas, my hair in a messy bun, still damp from the long hot shower I took to wash off the mud.
He shakes his head. “I know your boyfriend—or, uh, whatever you wanna call the dude. My name’s Jack.”
“Jack,” I say, and I know my expression must mirror his. “Seriously?”
“I’m guessing you’ve heard of me.”
“He’s mentioned you,” I say. “The way he talked, I guess I didn’t expect you to look so normal.”
“He calls me a troll, doesn’t he? That fucking undeserving jackass…”
I laugh, opening the door further. “So, what can I do for you, Jack?”
He holds something up—a gift box. “Just doing a favor for the asshole and dropping this off.”
I take it from him, surprised. “This is from Jonathan?”
“Jonathan,” he says with a laugh. “Never heard anyone call him that. But yeah, Jonathan asked me to get it to you, said it was important it be today. He would’ve mailed it, but he’s busy making another shitty sequel… my words there, not his… and he didn’t trust anyone else, so here I am.”
