Ghosted

“I am.”

He huffs. “We go through this every time you go there. Every single time.”

We do. Usually, I spiral after showing up in Bennett Landing. I’d go on a bender and binge my heart out and not stop until I was so fucking numb someone could’ve shot me and I wouldn’t have felt it. And after I pulled myself together, the lecture would come—I’m playing with fire, it’s a PR nightmare, imagine what will happen if word gets out…

Imagine if the paparazzi show up there. Imagine if they invade her life the way they do yours. Imagine them stalking your daughter at school. Imagine the stories they’ll print about the kid you abandoned. Imagine what it’ll do to you when they call you a deadbeat father.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Nobody knows I’m here.”

“You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

“Stop worrying. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“You better not,” he says. “Serena’s causing enough trouble right now.”

I sigh, lowering my head. “What now?”

“She checked into rehab.”

That isn’t what I expected him to say, but I’m not surprised. “Was it voluntary?”

“Sure,” he says, “if you consider all those times you went to be voluntary.”

Not even close.

“She was getting out of hand,” he says. “Figured it was a good time for her to get some help.”

“Good,” I say. “Hope it works out.”

“You and me both.”

“So, that’s it? Nothing else?”

“No,” he says. “Unless you have anything to share?”

I end the call without humoring that and shove the phone in my pocket, looking over at Madison. I’m not going to jinx myself. Today was a happy accident. I’m not sure what happens next.

“Let me guess,” Kennedy says. “Your wife?”

“I told you I don’t have one of those.”

“I bet you tell people you don’t have a daughter too, huh?”

I cut my eyes at her. Bitterness drips from every one of those words. “Nobody ever asks.”

“But you don’t offer the information up, either.”

“I would,” I say. “I will, if you want me to. I’ll call up a reporter right now and give them an exclusive. But just know, by tomorrow morning, they’ll be banging down your door. They’ll be hiding in the bushes, climbing trees, looking through windows, clambering to get pictures. Hollywood Chronicles will have you on the front page by next week. Is that what you want?”

She doesn’t answer.

Of course it’s not.

It’s inevitable. Someday, they’ll find out. I just hope we have time to figure things out before that happens, time for me to get to know my daughter and earn Kennedy’s trust before the vultures swoop in and try to fuck it all up.

“Maddie!” she hollers, standing up. “We need to get going, sweetheart!”

“Don’t,” I say right away. “Please don’t leave.”

“I have things to do,” she says.

“Just twenty more minutes,” I say. “Ten minutes.”

“I would, but…”

Kennedy trails off as Madison runs up to us, her hair wild now. “Do we have to leave, Mommy?”

“We have to go to Grandpa’s, remember? We told him we’d come over.”

“Can he come, too?” Madison asks her before turning to me. “Will you come?”

“To your grandfather’s house?”

“Yep! Grandpa will like you, ‘cuz he watches Breezeo, too!”

Kennedy laughs under her breath as she gathers their stuff.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Maybe another time.”

She looks disappointed, pouting. I want to take it back. I want to tell her I’ll go anywhere she wants me to go, even if that means visiting a man who once said he’d cut off my nuts if I ever stepped foot in his house again. I’ve shown up a few times since then, never brave enough to go inside, but I’d do it for her.

I’d grow big enough balls to risk him taking them. Snip, snip.

“Oh, don’t even try those puppy dog eyes on him,” Kennedy says, playfully grasping Madison’s chin, her fingers squeezing her chubby cheeks. “He’s way too smart to fall for it.”

“But he can come next time?” she asks.

“Maybe,” Kennedy says. “We’ll see.”

I open my mouth to say goodbye, but Madison lunges at me before I can. She wraps her arms around my neck, and my heart fucking aches as I hug her. It’s over quickly, way too quickly, as she pulls away. “Thank you, Breezeo!”

“Jonathan,” Kennedy corrects her.

“Jonathan,” Madison says, “but still Breezeo, too.”

“You’re welcome, Maddie,” I say. “Thank you for letting me feed the ducks.”

Kennedy grabs Madison’s hand, lingering there for a moment. I can tell she wants to say something. Her lips part, but all that comes out is a sigh before she walks off.

On Saturday evening, at a few minutes past eight o’clock, you pull your blue Porsche into the driveway of the modest two-story house.

The girl meets you out on the porch. She’s barefoot, wearing a simple gray dress, the kind that looks like a long t-shirt.

You step onto the porch in front of her. You aren’t sure what to expect. Your gaze scans her. It’s blatant you’re checking her out, your eyes lingering on her smooth, bare legs.