Ghosted

by J. M. Darhower

  “Look at me,” I say, ignoring his question, because he hasn’t made eye contact with me yet. “I need you to look at me, Jonathan.”

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, he sits back down on the hood of my car, mumbling, “Jonathan. It’s been a long time since anybody has called me that.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, unlocking the driver’s side door, because I don’t have it in me to stand here and play games with him. “Johnny Cunning. Almost forgot that’s who you are now.”

  “I’m still the same person,” he says quietly.

  “And who exactly is that?” I ask. “Are we talking about Speaker Cunningham’s son? The dreamer, the believer, the one who never let anything hold him back? Or maybe we’re talking about the alcoholic. You know, the cokehead.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it’s the truth.” His left hand slips into his pocket to pull something out. It reflects the parking lot lights as he holds it up—a shiny bronze coin, not much bigger than a quarter.

  A sobriety chip.

  I don’t know what to say. Everything gets quiet again. My fingertips brush against his when I take it from him. It’s solid metal, a triangle etched in the face of it, the Roman numeral I in the center with ‘recovery’ written along the bottom.

  One year sober.

  “People saw you coming out of a bar last week.”

  “That doesn’t mean I drank. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I won’t.” He pauses, his voice quieter when he says, “I can’t.”

  I want to believe him.

  I wish I could.

  Once upon a time, I believed everything that flowed from this man’s lips, but it’s hard to give his words any weight after what we went through.

  “Then why won’t you look at me?” I ask. “You say that, you want me to believe it, yet you won’t even look me in the eyes.”

  “Because I've fucked things up with you,” he says. “Do you know how hard it is to face you right now? I know nothing can erase what I've done, but I need you to know how sorry I am.”

  Sorry.

  It isn’t the first time he’s apologized. He does it every single time. But he was messed up then, always, and I’m not sure if he is right now, because the sobriety chip weighs heavy in my hand but his eyes still won’t meet mine.

  “I’m sorry for the way I hurt you,” he says. “Sorry for everything I did that led us to this point. And I get it, you know, if you hate me. Wouldn’t blame you at all. But I just need to tell you… I need you to know… that even when I was completely fucked up, I never once stopped loving you.”

  Those words, they rip the air from my lungs. I clench my hands into fists, the bronze coin digging into my palm.

  “I don’t expect you’ll believe that.” He shoves up from my car, his eyes finally meeting mine, and they’re bright blue and so clear, but it only lasts a few seconds before his gaze returns to the ground. “But that’s not the point. Point is, I’m not perfect, but I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know shit about being a father, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to try. Tomorrow… the next day… someday… whenever it is, I’ll be there.”

  He starts to walk away with that, like he’s said all he can and he has nothing more to offer.

  “Jonathan,” I call out. “Your chip.”

  “Keep it.”

  “What?”

  “I know how I’m doing. I don’t need a token to tell me, but maybe you do, so keep it.”

  I stare down at the coin in the glow of the streetlight. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where he’s going or how long he really plans to stay.

  At the moment, I don’t know much of anything, except that he’s here, in front of me, telling me everything I’ve yearned to hear for a long, long time, and I’m letting him walk away like it all means nothing.

  “Jonathan,” I call out again.

  He pauses and glances over his shoulder at me.

  “I, uh… I’m glad you’re okay,” I say. "I saw about the accident, about what you did, helping that girl, and I just… I'm glad you're okay."

  He smiles slightly, a familiar smile, one that’s filled with so much sadness. “I’m going to stick around for a while, lay low in town. I’m staying over at the Landing Inn.”

  “Mrs. McKleski’s place?” I ask. “She rented to you?”

  A light laugh escapes him. “She wasn’t thrilled about it, but I needed somewhere private. Took some convincing and one hell of a security deposit to get her to go along with it.”

  “I bet,” I say, imagining how the woman must’ve looked when he showed up, seeking out sanctuary.

  “So, that’s where I’ll be,” he says. “If you’re looking for me.”

  He doesn’t wait around for a response, limping away. It’s a little over a mile from where I work to where he’s going. Memories of my mother’s voice nag at me, the angel on my shoulder, telling me I should’ve offered him a ride, but instead, I listen to the devil, sounding a hell of a lot like my father when he says, ‘Never get in a car with a stranger.’

  I'm still not sure who he is right now.

  Maddie’s asleep when I get to my father’s house, sprawled out on her back on the couch. My father is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee—decaf. He looks up when I walk in, eyes following me until I drop down in a chair across from him.

  Crayons and papers are scattered along the tabletop, an envelope dead center of it all, addressed to ‘Breezeo’ in bright red. The return address says Maddie at Grandpa’s. It’s not sealed, but I can tell she tried, a stamp crookedly slapped in the corner, upside down.

  I pick the envelope up and pull out the sloppily folded paper, gazing at it. It’s a ‘get well’ card, the words written in capitals up top, a frowny-face drawing of Breezeo below it. She drew herself beside him, smiling, handing him what looks like a bunch of yellow flowers, a short message written below that.

  I saw you got sick in a accident. You should get better! And you should come back cuz Mommy says nobody always is gone. It will make you happy and me too. Love, Maddie

  Sighing, I fold the paper back up, shoving it away, setting the envelope down on the table. My father’s watching me, still sipping his coffee. Waiting me out, I can tell. He probably spent all evening helping her make that, telling her how to spell all the words.

  “Jonathan showed up tonight,” I say. “Wanted to talk.”

  “And did you?”

  I reach into my pocket for the coin he gave me, sliding it across the table to my father. He picks it up, letting out a low whistle, a peculiar look flickering across his face as he stands up. Pride. That probably shouldn’t surprise me. I shouldn’t be surprised about any of this, but I am.

  Strolling across the kitchen, he sets his coffee cup in the sink before leaning back against the counter, staring at the coin. Not far from where he stands, a set of keys hang on a hook, a similar coin affixed to them, converted into a keychain. Twenty years sober.

  My father spent the first few years of my life struggling with alcohol. I only have vague memories of that time. He got clean before it was too late to be a dad, he always said, and I know that’s what he’s thinking about right now.

  “You’re looking lost again, kiddo,” he says as I start cleaning up the mess on the table, shoving the crayons back into the box.

  “I’m feeling it,” I admit.

  He doesn’t offer me any advice. I’ve never been good at listening to it. Had I taken his advice years ago, I would’ve never ended up in this situation. But I have no regrets, despite everything, and he knows that. Regardless of what happened, Maddie came out of it, and she’s worth every moment of heartache.

  “We all do what we have to,” my father says, setting the coin down on the table in front of me. “I’m heading to bed.”

  “Thank you,” I say, “for watching Maddie.”

  “Anytime,�
�� he says. “My girls are my everything. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Chapter 6

  JONATHAN

  There’s this thing about paparazzi—they’re everywhere. Airports, stores, sitting outside of houses, lurking around hotel hallways and scoping out sets. I’ve caught them climbing trees to look in windows and digging through bags of trash. For what? Who knows? But it’s a fact of life for someone like me—they’re always around, always watching, and nine times out of ten, they’re fucking mean.

  I’ve been in Bennett Landing for twenty-four hours now. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve gone an entire day without being ambushed. But as I step through the door of Landing Inn after ten o’clock in the evening, I get that intuitive feeling that eyes are watching.

  Glancing through the foyer, I see McKleski coming out of the kitchen. Her stern expression aims my way. “Mr. Cunningham.”

  I nod in greeting, warding off a cringe when she calls me that. “Ma’am.”

  “It’s late,” she says. “Have you eaten dinner?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, don’t expect me to cook for you,” she says. “You want to eat, show up at a decent hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say quietly as she stalks off to do whatever it is she does when she’s not tending to guests, since I’m her only one. Convincing her to let me stay here had been hard enough. When she realized I was renting the entire inn, indefinitely, meaning she wouldn’t have anybody else, she nearly threw me out on my ass.

  Only reason she didn’t was because I look pathetic.

  “And keep the noise down,” she hollers. “I’m heading to bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say again, strolling to the kitchen. I don’t flick on the light. There’s enough of a glow from a few nightlights for me to see where I’m going. I haven’t eaten much since the accident. Hell, if I’m being honest, I haven’t had an appetite in years.

  Opening the fridge door, I see a small platter on the top shelf, holding a few sandwiches, covered in plastic wrap. A scrap of paper rests on top, the words ‘you’re welcome’ scribbled on it.

  Grabbing a sandwich, I head upstairs, taking a bite as I go, hearing McKleski shout from her room, “You get crumbs on the carpet, you’re vacuuming!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumble as I shake my head, still chewing. I’ve never been one to worry about things like karma, but I have a damn funny feeling I’m being hit with a hefty dose of it here.

  It’s morning.

  The sun is shining.

  Bright light spills through the open blinds covering the windows, streaming through the thin white curtains, warming the room. I haven’t slept more than a few minutes here or there, short bursts that felt like mere seconds as my eyes fell closed, before reality shook me back awake—the reality of being back in this town, the reality of having seen her again.

  There’s a knock on the bedroom door, but I ignore it. It’s just shy of eight a.m., too early for me to deal with whatever bullshit is on today’s agenda. Another knock, and then the door flings open. I drape my left arm over my eyes and let out a groan when McKleski barges in.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” she says.

  “Nobody even knows I’m here.”

  “Somebody does or they wouldn’t be here to see you, huh?”

  She walks out, leaving the door open. I lay in silence for a moment before moving my arm. Visitor. Only one person knows I’m in town.

  Kennedy.

  Shoving to my feet, I stagger from the room and make my way downstairs. She’s standing in the foyer, dressed in a work uniform, looking nervous. She glances up at me when she notices I’m here, a look on her face that makes my chest feel so fucking heavy. Distrust shines from her eyes, always guarded now, like she’s just waiting.

  Waiting for me to fuck up.

  Waiting for me to hurt her.

  “Hey,” I say, pausing in the foyer in front of her. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  “Yeah, well, you know,” she mumbles, not finishing her thought, averting her gaze and looking all around me, like she searching for some sort of out.

  “Do you wanna sit down?” I offer, motioning toward the den area, pretty sure McKleski wouldn’t mind.

  “No, I can’t stay. I just have something to give you.”

  “Okay.”

  She stands there, quiet for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek like she used to do when we were kids. Kids. I still think of us that way sometimes. Or well, me, anyway. She grew up way too fast, but me? Never quite made it past being that stupid eighteen-year-old with little morals and big dreams.

  Reaching into her back pocket, she pulls out an envelope, red crayon scribbled along the outside.

  My stomach drops. “Is that…?”

  She nods. I don’t even have to finish the question. Carefully, she holds the envelope out, her voice soft when she says, “I told her we’d mail it, but since you’re here…”

  “Thank you,” I say, staring down at it. It’s addressed to Breezeo. “Does she…?”

  “No,” she says, picking up what I can’t bring myself to finish. “She doesn’t know you’re her father. She, uh… she thinks heroes are real, no matter how many times I explain they’re just people, and she looks at you like you’re one of them. She’s too young to see you any other way. Which is why…”

  She trails off. I know where it’s going. Which is why it’s so hard for her to give me that chance, because if I turn out to be anything but that hero, it’s going to crush her. And I know she doesn’t mean that in a theatrical sense. Nobody expects me to wear the suit and turn fucking invisible. But I’ve got one hell of a track record when it comes to disappointing people.

  “I get it,” I say. “And I know it’s a lot, asking for your trust…”

  “But you’re not going away this time.”

  “No.”

  I figure that might piss her off, me pushing for this, but she lets out a deep breath, her posture relaxing. “Well, I should get to work. I just wanted to drop that off.”

  “Oh, yeah, okay.”

  After she’s gone, I open the envelope and pull out the piece of paper, looking at it. She drew me a picture. I read her words and can feel my chest tightening, my eyes burning, but goddamn it, I’m grinning like a fool. I can’t help it.

  “You look like the cat that caught the canary,” McKleski says, popping up in the foyer, eavesdropping.

  “Yeah, she dropped this off,” I say, waving the paper at her. “It’s from Madison.”

  “Ah, little Maddie,” she says. “A bit of a handful, that kid, but what do you expect? Look at her parents.”

  She gives you the comic books on a Wednesday afternoon.

  It’s after school, and you’re standing out front, waiting to be picked up, when she pulls the thick stack of comics from her bag. She’s been carrying them around with her for three days, gathering the nerve to approach you.

  You’re different this week. She senses it. You’re quieter, withdrawn—yet, somehow your presence feels larger than ever. There’s anger in your eyes and tension in your jaw. You’ve barely even looked at her. You barely look at anyone.

  She shoves the comics at you, and you stare at them, confused. A moment passes before there’s recognition. You mumble, “Thanks.”

  That’s it.

  You’re gone a minute later.

  You don’t come to school the next day.

  Friday afternoon, you show up at lunchtime. You walk right through the front door of the school, not bothering to check-in at the office. You stroll through the halls, bypassing the cafeteria, instead heading for the library, where she is. She always spends her lunch hour among the tall stacks of books, never eating or being with other people.

  She’s sitting alone at a long wooden table, nose buried in her notebook. You approach her, asking, “What are you writing?”

  Right away, she slams the notebook closed, dropping her pen on top of it. She
stares at you, not answering that question.

  You drop the stack of comic books on the table. Her attention turns to them as she asks, “Did you even read any of them?”

  “Read all of them,” you say, pulling the chair out beside her, but you don’t sit down in it. No, instead you slide up onto the table, sitting there with your sneaker-clad feet planted on the chair. You’re not wearing the black shoes that go with your uniform. “They were better than I expected. Kind of pissed I have to wait to see how it ends.”

  “Now you know how I feel,” she says, fiddling with the comics, putting them in order. “I’m surprised you read them.”

  “I told you I wanted to.”

  “I thought you were just humoring me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because that’s what everyone does,” she says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t fit in around here. People aren’t mean, but they aren’t nice, either. They just tolerate my presence.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you counter, “but I’m not their favorite person, either. Some of them hate me. Most ignore me. Used to be they humored me, but now? Hell, look at me. I could sit here like this all day and nobody would say a word, like I’m invisible.”

  “Like Breezeo,” she says. “You’ve disappeared.”

  You nod. “That’s how it feels.”

  She smiles. “I don’t know if it makes a difference, but I see you.”

  Silence falls between the two of you. It isn’t awkward. It almost feels comfortable. She starts tinkering with the pen on top of her notebook. You stare at it for a moment. “Are you not going to tell me what you were writing?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You write in that notebook all the time.”

  It isn’t a question, but she answers, anyway. “Almost every day.”