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“Yeah, I needed to get to work, and well, he was there.”
“Lucky you,” he says, “that he just happened to be there.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumble, leaving it at that. “Anyway, we should go before it gets dark.”
“Because he’s coming over to play?” he asks. “Heard about that, too.”
I cut my eyes at him but don’t respond to that, opening the front door to yell inside, “Maddie, sweetheart, time to go!”
Footsteps run through the house.
“I’m not judging you,” my father says. “I just want to make sure you’re being careful.”
Careful. Squeezing his shoulder, I joke, “Don’t worry, Mom had the ‘safe sex is great sex’ talk with me as soon as I hit puberty. Took me to the clinic, put me on the pill and everything.”
He cringes. “A lot of good that did. Should’ve taught you about abstinence.”
“Spoken like a true conservative,” I say as Maddie bursts outside with her backpack. “Besides, you know, say what you will, but it gave us that one.”
“And she's plenty enough for all of us,” he says, grinning at her when she throws herself at him to hug his neck. “Love you, kiddo. Have fun playing.”
“Love you, Grandpa! Maybe you can play too next time!”
“Maybe,” he agrees as she runs off the porch, skirting past me on her way to the car. My father waits until she’s out of earshot before he says, “Be careful, and I don’t mean, you know…”
“No glove, no love?”
Another cringe.
“That, too, but I think you already know that,” he grumbles. “I hope you learned your lesson about going down that road with that boy. No good can come from it.”
“She came from it,” I point out.
He looks at me, eyes narrowing.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m being careful.”
“You better be practicing abstinence.”
“I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen.”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s no ring on your finger.”
“I’m not really a fan of jewelry.”
“It’s not about the jewelry.”
“Not really a fan of archaic vows, either.”
He scrubs his hands down his face. “Damn liberal hippies.”
I laugh at that. He used to say that to my mother whenever she challenged him—which was all the time. “Bye, Dad.”
“I’m serious, Kennedy,” he calls out as I head for the car.
“I know you are,” I tell him. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? Yeah, right.”
I get in the car, wanting that conversation to be over before I slip up and give away just how deep I am. Sweat coats my back, my hands shaky as I grip the steering wheel and glance in the rearview mirror at Maddie, oblivious to it all as she plays with her Breezeo doll.
“Is he at home, Mommy?” she asks, glancing at me.
“Who?”
“Jonathan,” she says, “so we can play.”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I guess we’ll see, huh?”
She smiles, nodding.
He’s not there, though. He's not waiting when we get to the apartment. Disappointment radiates from her, her smile falling.
“He’ll be here,” I say, hoping I’m not lying to her.
“I know,” she says.
She does her homework, practicing her spelling, and we eat dinner.
No Jonathan.
She takes a bath, putting on her pajamas, while I call him.
Voicemail.
Another hour or so passes before I finally change out of my work uniform. I check on Maddie in the living room, finding her fast asleep, the first Breezeo movie soundlessly playing on the TV, the lights all off. I glare at the screen, at his face staring back at me, making my insides twist up in knots.
“Asshole,” I grumble, reaching for the remote to turn it off, but a soft knock from the door stops me. I give Maddie a quick look—still asleep—before I head for the door, glancing out the peephole.
The face that’s currently on the TV greets me.
Well, there are some differences, of course. The guy standing in front of my apartment looks like he’s been through hell. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and his skin is still peppered with faint scratches and bruises.
Sighing, I tug the door open. He starts to greet me, but I turn away, walking away, heading for the kitchen to clean.
Inviting himself inside, he shuts the door and follows, pausing when he glances at Maddie on the couch. “She’s asleep.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you wait so late to show up.”
“I came by earlier,” he says. “Around four o’clock.”
“I was still working. You should’ve waited or came back before now.”
“I didn’t have the chance.”
“Oh? Something more important to do?” I glance at him when he doesn’t answer. “I called you. You could’ve at least answered your phone.”
“I had it turned off.”
“What, didn’t want any interruptions? You have a date or something? Networking?”
His expression hardens. “Don’t be like that.”
“It’s just a question.”
“No, it’s more than that and you know it.”
I turn away from him and start doing the dishes, trying to shove the bitterness down that’s festering. He’s right—it is more than that. I’m still angry. So angry. I try not to let it show.
