Ghosted

“You can handle it,” he says. “You’ve had worse schedules.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have a kid to worry about then.”

The second I say that, the moment that statement leaves my fucking lips, I feel sick. Because I did. I had a kid. I’ve had her for years. Through all my television guest spots, through those ridiculous teen comedies, through the critically acclaimed but didn’t-pay-shit Indies, through the Breezeo movies… she was there. Living. Breathing. Existing.

I had a kid to worry about then, but I was too worried about myself to do anything about it.

Shaking my head, I scrub my hands down my face, hard, like I’m trying to wipe the fucking shame off. It makes my wrist sting and my head hurt, but the pain is almost a comfort.

“It’s just a month,” Cliff says, as if a month is nothing. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“I know it’s not,” I say, “but to my little girl, it might feel like it.”

Cliff pushes away from the desk. He doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he heads for the door, his voice all-business as he says, “Hire a personal assistant. And maybe call your therapist. Sort it out. Pickup is Monday morning at six, right out front of this building. Meanwhile, I need to figure out where Serena has gone, because while I was trying to find your room, she disappeared from hers. So if you happen to see her, let me know.”

He leaves, clearly not going to take me where I want to go. Snatching my phone off of the bed, I glance at the time. Midnight.

Fuck it.

I toss the keycards on the desk, leaving them there, and walk out, heading down to the lobby.

I gave him a few hours. Time to go.

Strolling through the lobby, I order a car pickup. Ten minutes away. I glance around, stalling when I look inside the lobby bar. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding.”

Serena.

She sits on a stool at the bar, all alone, eyes fixed on a glass of something in front of her. It looks a hell of a lot like one of those fruity concoctions, the kind that’s usually full of liquor.

I feel like an asshole doing it, but I text Cliff. Serena’s in the lobby bar.

He replies, Distract her. On my way.

I grumble to myself as I walk into the bar, heading for her. This is the last place I want to be. Serena sips her drink as she looks up, spotting me. “Johnny.”

“Have you lost your mind, Ser? You’re sitting here drinking?”

A smile twists her lips as she holds the glass out, pointing the straw at me. “If you wanted a sip, all you had to do was ask.”

“You know goddamn well I don’t want any.”

“Oh, relax,” she says with a laugh, waving me off as she takes another sip from the glass. “It’s non-alcoholic.”

“Seriously?”

She offers it to me again. “Try it, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, but no,” I say, “I’m not risking my sobriety for some shit with a tiny umbrella.”

“Your loss.” Serena shrugs. “But I’m telling you, it’s just as virgin as that nerdy sober buddy of yours. What’s his name? Josh?”

“Jack," I say. “And I'm pretty sure he’s not a virgin.”

“Someone slept with that guy?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Well, then… my drink is more of a virgin, which really makes me wish it had alcohol in it.”

I lean against the bar as I eye her.

She seems to be in a good mood.

“Did you use today?” I ask. “What did you take?”

Her smile dims, the good mood gone, a bitter edge to her voice as she says, “Why are you even here? Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

My eyes flicker past her, out of the bar windows lining the street, seeing a black sedan coming to a stop as my phone chimes. “Funny you ask that, because my ride just got here.”

I leave her sitting at the bar and pass by Cliff in the lobby as I head outside to climb in the car. I give the driver an address in Long Island, and I make a few calls on the way over, making sure someone is meeting me there. When we arrive, a man stands right outside the massive fence surrounding the property. He greets me, opening the gates to let me inside, before handing over a set of keys. “First garage.”

The garage is climate controlled, covered in layers of security like they're guarding the fucking Hope diamond—luxury car storage. The garage door opens and lights flick on as I stroll inside, running my hand along the glossy blue paint of the Porsche.

I bought it after rehab at Jack's insistence.

Well, I mean, Jack told me to give myself a celebratory gift to mark the milestone. It was my longest stretch of sobriety in a decade. So I bought myself a new convertible 911 Porsche, much like the one I sold when I moved to Hollywood.