Ghosted

“I told you to back off,” Jonathan says, getting in the reporter’s face. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Jonathan, stop!” I run over when he shoves the guy, grabbing his arm to try to drag him away, but he resists. “Please, just… get in the car.”

He takes a few steps back as the guy shouts at him, something about getting what’s coming to him, but Jonathan isn’t fazed.

“Stay the hell away from me,” he says, “and stay away from my fucking family.”

“You’ll regret that!” the guy yells. “I got it all on video!”

Jonathan pulls away from me and grabs the cell phone from the sidewalk, the screen now cracked. It’s still recording. Jonathan presses the button to stop it, and I think he’s going to delete the video, or maybe take the phone, but instead, he hurls it at the guy.

The reporter tries to catch it, but it slips from his grip and clatters to the sidewalk by his feet.

“Fuck you and your video,” Jonathan says. “Don’t let me catch you around here again.”

He gets in the car. I hurry to get behind the wheel when the reporter snatches up his phone and says, “Still the same old Johnny Cunning.”

I speed home, my eyes flickering to the rearview mirror the entire drive. Maddie stays fast asleep. She missed the whole thing. Jonathan says nothing, flexing his fingers in and out of a loose fist around the cast, cringing the entire time.

I whip into a parking spot when I reach the apartment building, cutting the engine, my eyes scanning all around us, expecting an ambush.

Something touches my leg, and I jump, yelping. Jonathan’s hand is resting on my thigh.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I think I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your hand is hurt.”

“It’s been hurt.”

“But still, that guy… he was a jerk.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, hesitating before adding, “as much as a person can get used to that. But he said some shit, and I know you’re not used to it.”

“I’m okay.”

He nods, but I don’t know if he believes me.

I don’t know if I believe me.

I’m shaking. Trembling.

His hand on my thigh is steady.

“We should go inside,” he says, nodding toward the building, “in case anybody shows up here.”

He carries Maddie this time, taking her into the apartment and straight to her bedroom while I lock up. Frazzled, I head for the kitchen, peeking in cabinets and groaning before grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the tap, taking a drink before mumbling to myself, “I’d kill for some alcohol right now.”

Why'd I have to pour that perfectly good whiskey out?

A light laugh echoes behind me. “I know the feeling.”

Jonathan stands in the doorway.

I give him a sheepish smile. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

“You don’t have to watch your words. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He pauses, shaking his head as he slowly approaches me. “Usually. Spent a lot of rehab working on that. Bad words don’t need to lead to bad deeds. Guess I’m still a work in progress.”

“We all are.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, eyeing me. “You seem pretty well put together.”

“Who, me? Assistant Manager at the Piggly Q?”

“You aren’t your job.”

“Good thing, because I don’t know if I’ll be working much longer. If they found my father, they probably found my job.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. I would've quit eventually. Just planned to be stubborn for a bit longer.”

He laughs at that, leaning against the counter beside me. “You always were the most hardheaded person I knew.”

“Yeah, well, you gave me a run for my money on that one. I met my match with you.”

“Match made in heaven.”

“Or hell. Depends on who you ask.”

“You,” he says. “I’m asking you.”

“I’d say a bit of both, then. We were fire and gasoline. We burned hot for a long time.”

“Past tense.”

“What?”

“You said that in the past tense.”

“Guess I’m used to talking about us that way.”

It gets quiet.

My hands are still shaking.

I’m tinkering with the glass, sipping on the water, trying to wrap my mind around what’s happening.

“I can go,” he says quietly. “I’ll understand if you’d rather me not be here.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you here?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really know where your head is, Kennedy. Sometimes I think I do, but other times…”

Setting the glass down, I grab his hand. “How about I show you?”

"Show me?"

I nod.

I pull him into the bedroom.

I push him down on the bed.

The clothes disappear, scattered along the floor, as our bodies tangle up in the sheets together. I’m on top of him, and he’s inside of me, my hands pressing flat against his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin.

The fire? It still burns.

Something tells me it always will, no matter who tries to put it out.

Footsteps pad around the apartment when I wake up. It’s early. I try to slip out of bed, but Jonathan grumbles and clings to me.