Madison gasps. “Mommy, it’s Maryanne!”
“I know,” Kennedy says, her voice a whisper. “I see.”
Serena turns, loosening her grip, like she’s just now realizing I’m not alone out here. She plasters a smile on her face, zeroing right in on Madison. “Oh, who might you be, cutie?”
Madison stares at her. She looks conflicted, fidgeting, tinkering with her dandelions as she says, “I’m Maddie.”
“Well, hello, Maddie,” Serena says. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”
Madison fidgets even more.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Kennedy says, grasping Madison by the shoulder to lead her into the apartment. “Let’s go inside so they can talk.”
Madison resists. She looks confused, like she doesn’t want to go, but she eventually gives in. Kennedy casts a look my way, and it only lasts a second, but it’s long enough for me to see the concern in her eyes, mingling with something else. Hurt.
The moment they’re gone, Serena’s expression changes, her smile dimming. She turns back to me, groaning, shoving against my chest. “Johnny, what the hell? I’ve been looking for you all night!”
“Why?”
She lets out an incredulous laugh. Her eyes, Jesus Christ, they’re like saucers—completely black. “Why? I haven’t seen you in over a month!”
“I know, but…” I shake my head, taking a step away from her as I run a hand down my face, trying to put a bit of space between us. “I thought you were in rehab.”
“I was,” she says. “But I couldn’t stay there. It was hell, Johnny, and those people didn’t get me. Not like you always did. And I missed you. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to—”
“Don’t do that,” I say, cutting her off. “Don’t try to make you leaving rehab about me.”
“You were hit by a car! I was worried!”
“You’re worried now? But not worried enough to check on me the night of the accident?”
“You know I hate hospitals,” she says.
“So do I,” I say. “And I know rehab feels like a glorified hospital, but sometimes a person needs help.”
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m better.”
“You’re high right now, Serena.”
She rolls her eyes. “So?”
“So how the hell are you better if you’re still using?”
“I can handle it,” she says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this town is fucking depressing. I needed something. Honestly, I don’t know how you’re even surviving. I know Cliff sent you off somewhere to recover, but here?”
I’m having a hard time looking at her. My gaze fixes on the closed apartment door, at the splotches of yellow on the doorstep. Madison’s abandoned dandelions. “I have family here.”
She scoffs. “You hate your family.”
“I hate my father. That doesn’t mean I hate my family.”
“So, whatever, family.” She uses air quotes when she says that word, waving toward the apartment. “Is that who that was?”
“That was my daughter.”
“Your daughter.”
I can feel her gaze, piercing, judging. So damn angry. I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s fuming about that.
“I told you I was a father.”
“You told me you knocked up that girl from back home, that she kept the kid.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re a father,” she says. “So, what, while I was off suffering in some hellhole, you’ve been here, playing house?”
“I’m not playing anything. I got clean so I could be a part of her life.”
Serena lets out a bitter laugh. “No, Johnny, you did it because they made you.”
“They made me go to rehab, but that’s not why I’m still clean.”
She shakes her head, running her hands through her hair—still dyed dark for the movie. “I just… I don’t know what’s going on with you, but this isn’t the you I know.”
I shake my head. Even if I tried to explain it, she wouldn’t understand. “Look, I don’t want to get into this with you. Tell me what you’re really doing here, Ser.”
“I told you—I miss you. And since we’ve had some time apart, I thought maybe you’d miss me, too. Maybe we could give things a try. Maybe—”
“It would never work.”
“It could,” she insists.
“It wouldn’t.”
She looks hurt by that. “We were good together.”
“No, we weren’t,” I say. “We’ve been over this before. It was a fucking mess. When we got high, it was fine, but the moment we came down, we couldn’t even stand to be in the same room.”
“That’s not true,” she says. “I’m here right now.”
“You’re high.”
“Oh, fuck you! So, I’m high. That doesn’t have anything to do with how I feel about you.”
“It does,” I say. “It has everything to do with it.”
She glares at me.
This conversation isn’t going anywhere.
It never does. We’ve had this same argument half a dozen times this past year, ever since I stopped using. She doesn’t understand why things had to change, why I started treating her differently.
But she and I have a history that isn’t healthy. She’s part of the cycle I had to break. I was numbing myself, killing myself, but it wasn’t just the drugs and alcohol I’d been indulging in. Thousands of dollars in psychiatry bills taught me the real problem was my behavior. Go the same places as before, with the same people as before, and you end up doing the same shit you always did.
So I cut it all off. All of it. Even the sex.
Sober and celibate, everything felt different.
“Are you fucking that woman, Johnny?” Serena asks, her voice scathing. She’s losing her high. “Did you come here and start fucking again? Fucking her?”
“That’s none of your business.”
SMACK.
Stinging rips through my cheek as she slaps me, hard, my head jarring. I take a step back, moving away from her.
“I’m not doing this with you,” I say as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Call Cliff. He’s probably worried.”
I start to walk away, to head for the apartment, when she calls out to me, her voice cracking. “Wait, Johnny. Please.”
“Take care of yourself, Serena.”
I stall in front of the apartment and look down at the discarded dandelions, ripped to pieces. Sighing, I glance behind me and find the parking lot empty, Serena gone.
I feel like an asshole.
I can’t get anything right.
Strolling over to the patch of grass, I pluck a single dandelion from the ground. I’m grateful to find the apartment unlocked. Kennedy lingers right inside and eyes me warily.
I glance around.
I don’t see Madison.
“She’s in her room,” Kennedy says.
I head that way, finding her sitting on the edge of her bed, swinging her legs as she picks off the polish on her little fingernails. I stall when I glance in the trashcan beside the desk in her room. Usually full of paper from discarded drawings, I see a familiar doll on top. Maryanne. She threw her away.
I pull the doll out, carrying it as I crouch down in front of Madison. I hold the dandelion out. “I know your flowers got messed up, so I picked you another one.”
She takes it carefully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “Do you want to tell me what made you upset?”
She shrugs.
“Did you have fun tonight?”
She nods.
“I had fun, too. You looked pretty in your dress.”
She smiles, staring at the dandelion.
She won’t look at me.
Sighing, I sit down on the floor. “I know this whole thing must be confusing. I wasn’t around, but now I am, and I’m Breezeo, but I’m also your dad. You see me kiss your mom, but Breezeo kisses Maryann
e. And then it looks like Maryanne shows up and hugs me in front of your mom. Hard to keep up with what’s real, huh?”
She nods.
“Well, like Breezeo, Maryanne’s a story. The woman outside, her name is Serena. I work with her. I’m not going to be kissing her like I kiss your mom. When I kiss your mom, it’s real.”
She meets my gaze.
“So I don’t think you should take it out on poor Maryanne.” I shake the doll at her. “Breezeo loves her, just like I love your mom.”
She takes the doll. “Does Mommy love you?”
“She did.”
“But not no more?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But it’s not her fault. I took her love for granted.”
“What’s that mean? Taking her love for granite?”
I smile at her mix up. “It means I didn’t show her how much I loved her, like I should’ve.”
“You can do it now,” Madison says. “Just pick her more flowers and tell her she’s pretty, and then she can love you.”
If only it were that simple.
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say, getting to my feet and ruffling her hair before turning to leave. I make it a few steps before she calls out to me.
“Wait, Daddy!” she says, springing to her feet and running over, grabbing my arm to tug me down to her level. I crouch down again, surprised when she presses her lips to my still-stinging cheek. “You almost forgot your kisses!”
Clifford Caldwell, it turns out, is an inconsiderate, egotistical jerk.
You show up for your appointment. You’re early, but not too early. You have everything they request—headshots, resume, and demo reel. You spent money you shouldn’t have spent buying a new outfit, and you look good.
When the time comes, the secretary leads you to Clifford’s office. It’s clean, classy, with glass walls and a view that overlooks Hollywood. Clifford sits behind a sleek metal desk, typing on his phone. The secretary hands him your folder as you sit down across from him.
He doesn’t greet you, opening the folder and glancing inside. Thirty seconds, that’s all he takes before shoving the folder back at you. “No.”
That’s it. He says no. He doesn’t even watch your demo reel. You grab your things and get up to leave. “Can I ask why?”
Clifford looks up. “Are you certain you want to hear that answer?”
He tells you there’s nothing to you. Your headshots are generic. Your resume reads like a thousand others that have crossed his desk. Sure, you can probably act, but what he’s looking for is an attention-grabber, someone he can make a star, but you? At most, you’re just an amateur.
Those words rip out a piece of your soul.
You’ve heard them before.
When you make it home, the apartment feels smaller than usual. You toss the folder in the trashcan in the kitchen and crack open the bottle of whiskey you spent your last few dollars on.
You drink. You get drunk.
You turn on the TV to discover the cable has been shut off. Neither of you paid the bill last month.
You drink some more. You get even drunker.
It’s pushing ten o’clock when she gets home from a long shift at the diner. You’ve spent the past two hours sitting alone, in the dark, thinking about how disappointed she’s going to be when she finds out.
Despite working all day, she’s happy, and smiling, but that comes to a screeching halt when she turns on the kitchen light. She catches a glimpse of the folder in the trash and whispers, “No.”
You’ve nearly drained the entire whiskey bottle. You guzzle the last of it when she looks at you. Shoving to your feet, you stagger over and drop the empty bottle in the trash, right on top of the folder. Your breathing is shaky. Your eyes are bloodshot. She looks at you with disgust. It’s because you’re drunk, because you can barely stand up, but nothing could convince you that she isn’t disgusted because you’re a failure. A waste of a life.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you caress her cheek, but she smacks your hand away. She doesn't want you to touch her. Turning away, you stagger to the bedroom, saying, “I’ll get a job tomorrow.”
She doesn’t come to bed. The next morning, when you wake up, she’s already gone. She dug your folder out of the trash and set it on the counter.
You don’t touch it.
You go job hunting. You apply everywhere. Weeks pass. Nothing. Because your pride hasn’t already taken a big enough hit, she gets a second job since you can’t seem to find anything.
She doesn’t even tell you. You find out one night when she never comes home. You thought she was dead in a ditch somewhere. She says you’re overreacting. It’s just a part-time job at a corner store. You tell her it’s dangerous, but she shrugs it off. Night shift pays more.
Three weeks later, she’s robbed.
A guy points a gun at her. He wants everything in the cash register. Because that’s not enough, he takes her purse, too. He could’ve taken her life, but after it’s over, she’s more worried about the money he stole from her.
Something happens to you in that moment.
You hit your breaking point.
You’re sitting on your couch with your head down. She’s in the bedroom, talking on your cell phone. She has to borrow yours since hers was in her purse. Her voice is hushed. She doesn’t want you to overhear her conversation.
She steps out a few minutes later, handing you the phone back. Her eyes are bloodshot, face flushed. She’s been crying.
“He’s wiring the money,” she says. “It’s in your name.”
She called her father. She asked him for help. The rent is due. So is the electric. She had all the money in her purse. She got paid that afternoon. She hasn’t asked him for a single thing in over a year. He’s barely spoken to her, except to tell her they’d be there when she realized loving you was a mistake.
You think it’s coming. Your pride is gone. Your dream is fading. You think you’re losing her, too.
It’s hard to say when you make the decision. Hard to pinpoint the moment you fall so far.
Can you remember the first lie you told? The first time you smiled in her face while deceiving her?
You tell her you found a job. You didn’t. But you’re an extraordinary actor, so you convince her. You tell her you’re valeting cars, and money starts coming in. Tips are nice, you say. Some nights, people are extra generous.
In reality, you’re stealing. Stealing money. Stealing things. It weighs heavy on your conscience, so you start drinking more.
Liquid courage.
You’re caught one night, though—caught rifling through a car by none other than Clifford Caldwell. Happenstance put you there. You don’t run. No, you start talking. You tell him he left his headlights on, and you were just turning them off before they killed the battery. You’re so convincing he thanks you. He pulls out his wallet and tips you. You turn to leave when his voice calls out.
“Have we met before?” he asks. “You seem familiar.”
You hesitate before telling him, “We met once.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“My girlfriend was your waitress. She got an appointment for me. You called me an amateur after thirty seconds.”
“Ah, the girl from the diner?” he asks. “I remember her. She spoke highly of you. I could tell she believed every word. Made me want to meet the actor she said was, and I quote, ‘way too good for even you, Mr. Caldwell’.”
You laugh. “She said that?”
“She did,” he says. “And I must say, you’re a decent actor. You’re a natural, very convincing when you speak. So convincing, in fact, you almost made me forget my headlights were automatic.”
You know you’re busted as soon as he says that.
You pull the money from your pocket—the twenty he tipped, as well as the thick stack of cash you found in a Manila envelope hidden in the car’s glove box. You hold it all out to him. He looks quite surprised, but he waves it off. "
Keep it, if you need it."
You pocket it once more.
“Monday morning. Eight-thirty. My office.”
“Excuse me?”
“We'll give it another try,” he says. “Be there.”
You go home to share the news, but the apartment is empty—she’s working tonight at the diner. So you wait until she makes it home in the middle of the night, and you tell her he’s giving you another chance. You tell her you ran into him when you were working. You pick her up and swing her around, excited. You’re happy, and you’re sober. It’s been a while since those things coincided.
You don’t know this, and it’s something she’ll never dare admit, but that woman? She already knew your news. She knew Clifford Caldwell decided to give you another chance, because he showed up at the diner for coffee afterward. He told her everything, including how he caught you stealing. And then he told her if she wanted you to be successful, if she wanted to help your chances, he knew a way to make that happen: all she had to do was take off her clothes. And that woman? She didn’t hesitate… nope, not at all… didn’t hesitate to pour hot coffee right on that pig’s crotch. Seriously, what a jerk!!!
Chapter 21
KENNEDY
“I, uh… crap.”
I pull the car in along the curb and put it in park, staring at the house down the block. Apparently when my father says ‘just a few people, nothing big,’ he really means ‘everybody I’ve ever met and whoever they want to bring.’ People surround the place, socializing.
I cut the engine and pocket the keys as Maddie flings off her seatbelt, already climbing out of the car before I can think of something more to say.
I look at Jonathan in the passenger seat. He’s been quiet today, subdued. I’m not sure he got any rest. He stayed at the apartment last night, but he didn’t try to sleep in my bed. He was still sitting on the couch when I woke up at dawn, tinkering with his phone.
The first words he spoke?
‘They know.’
By morning, it was all over the Internet... Johnny Cunning has been found! It started with just his location, Hollywood Chronicles reporting that he'd been hiding out in a sleepy little New York town, but as the day progressed, so did the speculation. It was only a matter of time now before someone figured it all out.
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