It was storming when I woke up this morning, but now, early evening, barely a trickle falls. The rain has slowed enough for Maddie to splash around in the mud puddles in my father’s front yard, while I sit in a chair on the porch. My father is beside me, steadily rocking.
“You look lost again,” he says. “Like you don’t know whether you’re coming or going.”
I glance his way. “I’m getting a déjà vu vibe here, Dad.”
“You and me both, kiddo,” he says. “Seems like every few months we go through this. He shows up, and then he leaves, and you’re left behind to grieve.”
“It’s different this time.”
“Is it?”
“He’s coming back.”
“Didn’t he always?”
“Yeah, but…”
“But it’s different,” he says. “Yet, it’s not.”
I sigh, exasperated, which only serves to make him laugh.
“He wanted us to go with him."
My father looks surprised. “So why are you sitting here?”
I blink at him. “Are you not the same man who went ballistic last time I left with him?”
“And are you not the same girl who didn’t care what anybody thought, you were going?”
“I was only seventeen. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Which is why I went ballistic.”
I turn away, looking at Maddie. She’s covered in mud and smiling. She doesn’t look lost at all. She looks like she knows exactly where she belongs.
I wish I had her resilience.
I wish Jonathan’s words alone were enough to calm my fears.
He’s been gone for two weeks.
We’re halfway through the month already. Two more weeks and he’s supposed to be done. They’re in Europe now, and the time difference makes it difficult. The calls are sporadic, thirty-second voicemails telling Maddie goodnight or saying ‘I love you’. I wake up to texts, and by the time I answer, he’s too busy to read them.
“I can’t live my life on his terms,” I say.
“And he can’t live his life on yours,” my father says. “That’s why there’s such a thing as compromise. Your mother and I, we rarely agreed on anything. It was a matter of give and take. You win some, you lose some, and you keep on playing.”
Maddie runs over to us, shoving her hair from her face. She jumps up onto the porch, trailing mud behind her, and instantly, without a single second thought, she flings herself at me. I gasp. She’s drenched, the hug getting me muddy.
Giggling, she runs off again, yelling, “Got you!”
“You little…” I jump up, and she squeals as I chase her back off of the porch. She expects me to stop there, but I run out into the yard. The ground's slick, and I slip, and… “Ah!”
My feet come out from under me, and I go down, but not before I get my hands on Maddie, taking her along. We both land flat in the grass, stunned, covered in mud.
My father laughs from the porch.
“Got you,” I say, sitting up, poking Maddie in the side when she gets to her feet. She jumps on me, trying to tackle me, as my pocket vibrates. I’m confused until I hear the muffled ringing. “Oh, hold on, truce!”
I hold a hand up to stop Maddie as I grab my phone. She gives me barely five seconds to look at the screen before she tries to take me down, just enough time to see his name on FaceTime. Jonathan.
“Wait! It’s your daddy!” I say, but I’m too late, because the girl slams into me so hard the phone goes flying, landing on the wet grass.
Maddie grabs the phone as it goes silent. Eyes wide, she shoves it at me. “Fix it, Mommy.”
“Is it broken?” I ask, pressing buttons, grateful it still works. Opening FaceTime, I call him back. It rings and rings and rings and my heart sings when he picks up.
He’s in a bed in a dim room, looking like he’s half-asleep. His brow furrows. “What are you doing? Mud wrestling?”
“I, uh… yep.”
He laughs, a sleepy kind of laugh.
The sound does things to my insides.
“Hey, Daddy!” Maddie says, jumping on my back, choking me as she wraps her arms around my neck. “Are you napping?”
“Something like that,” he says. “Kind of sad I’m missing all the fun.”
“Is Breezeo not being fun?” Maddie asks, snatching the phone from my hand to take over.
“It’s a lot of work,” he says. “Not nearly as much fun as you seem to be having.”
“Don’t worry, we can have fun when you come home,” Maddie says. “We can play in the rain, and you and Mommy can wrestle!”
“Promise?”
“Yep.”
“Good,” he says. “Can you put your mom back on? I can’t talk long.”
“Okay,” she says, handing the phone to me, yelling, “Bye!”
She’s off, running up onto the porch, as I look at Jonathan.
“I’d ask how you’re doing,” he says, “but I think the sight of you right now probably sums it up.”
“What, I’m a mess?”
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 lik
e 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.”
“Wow, you came this whole way for him? Did he pay for your gas, at least?”
“Better than that—he hired me.”
“Really?”
“Said he needed someone to lighten his load and keep people off of his ass. I told him I wasn’t blowing anyone for him, but if he pays me enough, I’ve got no problem being his errand boy and yelling at him when he’s supposed to be somewhere,” he says. “And who am I kidding, for the obscene amount he offered me? I’d probably blow somebody.”
A personal assistant. Wow. I have no idea how the two of them are going to work together, but I can tell already it’s going to be interesting. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”
He mock salutes me. “Sure thing. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” I say, closing the door as he leaves. I lock up again before opening the box to find a spiral notebook inside. It’s simple, college-ruled, with a blue cover, a glittery blue gel pen on top of it. Couldn’t have cost him more than a dollar. When I take it out of the box, a note slips from the front of the notebook, falling to the floor by my feet. I pick it up to read.
Ten years ago, you ran away with me so I could follow my dream. It’s time you follow yours. Wherever it takes you, I’ll be there.
Happy Dreamiversary.
Jonathan
My eyes sting. Ugh, I’m crying. My vision blurs, and I blink away tears as I sit back down on the couch. I open the fresh notebook, staring at the blank lines for a moment before I start writing, glittery blue ink flowing across the page:
Rain fell from the overcast sky in sporadic bursts, quick manic showers followed by moments of nothingness. The weatherman on channel six had predicted a calm day, but the woman knew better. A tumultuous storm was rolling in. There was no way to avoid it.
Chapter 28
JONATHAN
“Love abroad.”
I pull my arm from across my tired eyes to glance at the door of my trailer, where Jazz stands, holding what I guarantee is the latest edition of Hollywood Chronicles, reading from it.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I mutter, covering my eyes again, trying to block out the world and steal a bit of peace, but that’s asking for a miracle. I’ve got a two-hour lull in the middle of filming, our first day back on American soil, and I’ve got the worst case of jet lag. I feel hung-over, that groggy ‘day after a coke binge’ sensation where I hate the fucking world and everyone in it—myself included.
“There’s nothing like the City of Love to rekindle a fire between former lovers,” Jazz says, ignoring me as she continues to read. “Sources on the Paris set of Breezeo: Ghosted tell us things are heating up again between Johnny Cunning and Serena Markson.”
If by ‘heating up’ they mean she makes me so fucking angry I could spit fire, they’d be right about that. Being around her has been intolerable.
“The pair have been spotted together a few times recently,” Jazz says. “Rumor has it Serena has chosen to forgive Johnny for his indiscretions after he begged her for another chance.”
Laughing dryly, I sit up. I’m not even going to entertain that bullshit with a response. “Jazz, no hard feelings, but can you just… fuck off?”
“Whatever you say, grouchy pants.” She skims the article as she says, “I wonder who their source on set could be.”
“You know they make shit up, right?” I shove to my feet, staggering over to the small fridge to find something with caffeine in it. “Or someone else makes shit up and feeds it to them.”
“Yeah, but somebody takes the pictures,” she says. “They sure aren’t made up.”
Bottled water. Vitamin Water. Some kind of fancy juice. No caffeine. Sighing, I grab some antioxidant pomegranate something before turning to Jazz. “There are pictures?”
“Of course,” she says, holding it up to show me—a full spread of set photos. “So much for a closed set. The call is coming from inside the house.”
She laughs at her own joke, but I don’t find any of it funny… probably since it’s my life they’re trying to destroy. It could be any number of people, but those who work in production tend to value their jobs too much to risk them.
Besides, there’s plenty of legitimate dirt they could sell me out with, not this manufactured relationship bullshit.
Opening the juice, I take a sip and gag, spitting it back out. “That’s disgusting. Where’s all the fucking caffeine?”
“Mr. Caldwell had it removed,” she says, closing the tabloid. “Something about you getting your life together.”
I sigh, tossing the juice in the trash before running my hands down my face. “I need a new manager.”
Jazz laughs, but she’s cut off when the trailer door pops open and Cliff walks in. Jazz excuses herself, making a speedy exit.
Cliff watches her run out the door and asks, “Something going on between the two of you?”
I drop down on the couch. “I have a girlfriend.”
“Do you? Did you make it official?”
“Haven’t talked about it. Not sure it matters. Love doesn’t know titles.”
He blinks at me. “Did you just quote Breezeo?”
I shrug.
“Anyway,” he says, whipping out a piece of paper. “I need to go through a few things with you since you have the time. Production wraps in two days, and we’ll want to keep momentum going.”
I scan the paper when he hands it to me. A tentative schedule he coordinated with my agent. Meetings. Auditions. Offers. Not to mention entire weeks blocked off by PR for promotion. I glance back at the top and shake my head when I see the date. “Can’t do it.”
June 2 @ 4pm
“Excuse me?” Cliff says.
“I can’t do the first meetin
g.”
“Why not?”
“My daughter’s in a play.”
“A play.”
“Yes,” I say. “I promised her I’d be there, so I’m leaving the second we wrap.”
Cliff stares at me. “Any other conflicts we should know about? Maybe some PTO meetings we need to work around? Chaperoning field trips? Disney on Ice, maybe?”
His voice sounds so condescending that I want to throw him out of my fucking trailer, but seeing as I have a trailer thanks to his hard work, that’s probably not a good idea.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I say, setting the paper down.
“I’d appreciate it,” he says before walking out, shutting the door harder than usual.
Sighing, I drop my head down low and close my eyes, exhausted. Exasperated. I barely get a minute of peace before Jazz peeks her head in. “All clear?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “He’s gone.”
She steps into the trailer, holding out a can of Red Bull. “Brought you a present.”
“I could kiss you for that,” I say, grabbing it, popping the top and taking a drink.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says. “I’ve read all about the places those lips have been.”
Despite filming across the border, in Jersey City, we still stay at the usual hotel in Midtown. I meet up with Jack once I get to the city, the car service dropping me off at his basement apartment.
“Nice place,” I say when I step inside, glancing around. It’s tiny, and dim, and reminds me of a cave. Posters wallpaper the place, and my eyes go straight to a Breezeo one. It’s not me. Not even the movie. It’s a poster of the Ghosted cover—same poster Kennedy had on the wall as a teenager. “Thought you weren’t a Breezeo fan.”
“Never said that,” Jack says. “I said the movies were shit and you didn’t deserve to be in them. There’s a difference.”
Shaking my head, I hand him the paper from Cliff. “Got a schedule for you.”
He takes it as he plops down in a computer chair. “Do they leave you any time to sleep?”
“Occasionally,” I say. “My manager's a bit of a hardass.”
Ghosted Page 36
