Ghosted

“Yeah, chances are you’ll get recognized and then have to explain this whole thing and well, you know, I’m not sure it’s worth it for some breakfast.”

“But it might be bacon,” Maddie whines.

Jonathan hesitates, thinking it over, glancing between us before he says, “I know somewhere we can go.”

Mrs. McKleski’s place.

Landing Inn.

That’s where he takes us.

Maddie and I stand in the woman’s foyer in our pajamas, while Jonathan wears just the leather pants from the Knightmare costume. Mrs. McKleski looks at us like we’ve gone crazy, and I instantly want to be anywhere else in the world, but it’s too late, because Maddie’s been promised some bacon.

“You want breakfast,” Mrs. McKleski says. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

He nods. “Yes, ma'am.”

She stares at him. Hard. I expect a denial, because this whole idea is absurd, but after a moment, she lets out a resigned sigh.

“Fine, but go put on some clothes,” she says. “This is an inn, Mr. Cunningham, not Chippendales. I won’t have you at my breakfast table looking like a gigolo.”

He cocks an eyebrow at the woman. “Wasn’t aware you knew what a gigolo was.”

“Go,” she says pointedly, “before I change my mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, flashing her a smile before turning to me and nodding toward the stairs. “Join me?”

I stare at him, not moving.

He steps closer. “Please?”

“Fine,” I mumble, glancing at Maddie, not wanting to cause a scene. “Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you have a seat in the living room?”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. McKleski says. “She can come help me cook. Teach her some responsibility. Not sure her father ever learned any.”

Jonathan scowls before again motioning for me to follow him.

“And no hanky-panky,” Mrs. McKleski calls to us as we start upstairs.

“What’s the hanky-panky?” Maddie asks, following the woman to the kitchen.

“She means the hokey-pokey,” I yell down before Mrs. McKleski can answer, because there’s no telling how that woman would explain it.

“Oh, I like the hokey-pokey!” Maddie looks at the woman with confusion. “Why don’t you wanna play it?”

“Too messy,” Mrs. McKleski grumbles. “All that turning yourself around.”

Shaking my head, I go upstairs, stalling right inside the room as Jonathan sorts through his belongings to find some clothes.

“I didn’t mean it, you know,” he says as he strips off his pants, standing in front of me naked. Oh god. I avert my gaze, trying not to look, but I see from the corner of my eye as he tugs on a pair of black boxers. “The Serena thing… I didn’t mean it.”

I don’t say anything. What am I supposed to say? He pulls on a pair of jeans before grabbing a plain black shirt.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I was half-asleep and didn’t know what I was saying.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, trying to move away, but he stops me, one hand on my arm, the other cupping my cheek.

“It does matter,” he says, making me look at him. “Serena used to get fucked up on coke and stay awake for days and drive everyone on set crazy. And she’d do shit like that whenever we tried to rest. She played games. So it wasn’t that I thought…” He trails off. “I know who I slept with last night. I know who I woke up beside this morning. And I’m sorry I said some shit in my sleep that made you think I didn’t know.”

I’m still not sure what to say, so I just go with, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats me. “Just okay? That’s it?”

I shrug.

He lets out a laugh. “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

He kisses me—softly, sweetly, his hand roaming from my cheek down between us, cupping a breast.

I pull away. “No hanky-panky, remember?”

He grins, moving his hand. “Okay, okay… breakfast.”

We head downstairs, and as soon as we approach the kitchen I hear Maddie’s excited voice rambling about the convention. Quietly, I sit down at the table and listen as she goes on and on about how much fun she had and how great her daddy is.

The whole time, Jonathan sits beside me, beaming.

When breakfast is finished, Mrs. McKleski hands out plates, slipping one in front of me on the table before Maddie settles in on my right with her own plate piled high with bacon. Jonathan’s comes last, and I stifle a laugh as Mrs. McKleski shoves it at him, the food sloppily thrown on it, his toast burned and bacon extra-crispy.

“Uh, thanks,” Jonathan says, picking up a piece of bacon and taking a bite, cringing as it crunches.

“Don’t like it? Don’t eat,” Mrs. McKleski says. “Nobody likes a whiner, Cunningham.”

She strolls out of the kitchen, and he watches her as she leaves, mumbling, “All I said was thanks.”

“You didn’t say it with meaning,” she calls back at him. “It’s no wonder you haven’t gotten an Oscar. You’re terrible.”

I stifle another laugh as Jonathan glares at the doorway.