“How are you?” he asks.
“Sober,” I mumble.
“I can see that,” he says. “Otherwise?”
“Kind of tired.” I glance at his plate. “Kind of hungry.”
“I’m sure your lovely hostess would be happy to whip you up some breakfast.”
“No,” McKleski chimes in. “I wouldn’t.”
“Or not,” Cliff says, taking the last bite of his omelet, not even fazed.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t need anybody to take care of me. I can fend for myself.”
Cliff drops his fork. “If that was true, I’d be out of a job.”
“Whatever. What are you even doing here? How’d you figure out where I was staying?”
“It’s a small town,” he says. “There weren’t many options. And I’m here because you haven’t been answering your phone, so I wasn’t sure if you remembered you had an appointment. Figured I'd tag along so you didn't have to go alone.”
“I remembered,” I say. “And thanks.”
“But for the record, if you’d finally hire a new assistant, I wouldn’t have to concern myself with your schedule. It’s been over a year since you’ve had anyone helping you. I still don’t understand why you fired the last guy.”
“He was a crackhead.”
“And you were a cokehead.”
“He stole from me.”
“What did he steal? Your drugs?”
I’m not going to dignify that with a response.
It’s true, but still… fuck that assumption.
“Can we go?” I ask. “I want to get this day over with.”
“Huh, thought you were less of a moody prick these days.”
“I am. I’m just… I don’t know.”
“Sounds like you.” Cliff grabs his Blackberry and shoves his chair back as McKleski takes his empty plate. “Breakfast was wonderful. Thank you.”
“Anytime,” McKleski says, smiling. “I enjoy cooking for those that appreciate things.”
I let that one slide.
Cliff stands, motioning for me to follow him, waiting until we’re outside before he says, “Man, does that woman give you a hard time or what?”
“Always has,” I say. “First time I ever got arrested, she was the one who called the police.”
Cliff laughs as we approach a sleek black sedan.
“Nice car,” I say.
“I rented it,” he says. “Didn’t want to call for a car service and give away your location.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Just doing my job,” he says. “Come on, I'll drive.”
I climb in the passenger seat.
I have a car. It's parked in a private garage in the city. I had it hauled in when filming started, in case I needed it, but I'm not supposed to drive until the doctor clears me. Stick shift.
It takes over two hours to get to the city. Another hour in traffic. Cliff valets the car when we reach the medical center. Weill Cornell. Orthopedics. I lower my head as we pass dozens of people, making our way to the seventh floor, going straight to the orthopedic surgeon’s office, where they’re awaiting my arrival.
Look, I get it—it’s bullshit. Not just anybody can walk in and be seen right away, bypassing the waiting rooms. It’s a privilege I’m grateful for—especially today. I’m nervous enough, being here, dealing with this. Anticipation and paranoia would make it insufferable.
“Mr. Cunning, how are you?” the doctor asks, standing up and holding his hand out, expecting me to shake it even wearing the sling.
“Okay,” I say, ignoring his extended hand. “Ready to get this over with.”
“A man on a mission,” he says. “I like that.”
He doesn’t waste any more time, sending me straight for X-rays. It hurts like a son of a bitch when they examine my wrist, burning pain shooting up my arm and down to the tips of my fingers.
“Well, the good news is the bones haven’t shifted, so doesn’t appear you’ll need surgery,” the doctor says. “Bad news, of course, is you’ll be in a cast for the next few weeks.”
“Awesome,” I mutter, flexing my fingers.
“How many weeks?” Cliff asks, standing in the corner of the office on his Blackberry.
“Hard to say for sure… four, I’d estimate.”
“So another month?” Cliff asks.
“Yes,” the doctor says. “He’ll likely need some occupational therapy afterward.”
“But he’ll be out of the cast?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know,” Cliff says. “Is there any way to speed up the healing process?”
“Well, there’s no miracle treatment, but some things might help. Vitamins. Calcium. Exercises.”
“So get a stress ball and drink milk?”
“Pretty much,” the doctor says. “Leafy greens are good.”
They talk back and forth about me like I’m not even here. I stare down at my swollen wrist in annoyance as I wiggle my fingers.
“Anyway, let’s get you wrapped up,” the doctor says, “so you can be on your way.”
A white fiberglass cast. He doesn’t bother with the frilly colored bullshit, keeping it simple before sending me on my way.
I climb into the passenger seat of Cliff’s rental, and he immediately starts rambling. “If you’re out of the cast in the next few weeks, you can probably film again sooner than expected.”
“You think so?” I ask, watching him as he goes through his Blackberry, checking his calendar.
“You’ve got a stunt-double to handle the action, so all they need is your voice…” He cuts his eyes at me. “And that pretty face of yours, of course.”
“Of course,” I mutter, trying like hell not to let that bruise my ego, but damn. Acting is more than just reciting lines. “What about Serena?”
“What about her?”
“She’s in rehab.”
“So?”
“So how are we going to start filming again next month if she’s gone for ninety days?”
He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind. “You really think she’ll last that long?”
“You don’t?”
“You never lasted,” he says. “Not until you hit bottom.”
“And you don’t think she has?”
“Not even close. The only reason she’s there right now is because the studio demanded it,” he says. “But don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of her. You worry about getting better.”
During the Revolutionary War, Aaron Burr had an illicit affair with the wife of a British officer.
You tell the girl that story.
You think it’ll make her feel better.
She asks you who Aaron Burr is.
You laugh, because you can’t understand how she’s surviving at Fulton Edge when she doesn’t even know the name of the man who killed Alexander Hamilton, but she is. She’s surviving, maybe even thriving. She works hard and she’s passing. Meanwhile, you barely pay attention and still ace every test.
But you show up to class now. Every single day.
Maybe you do it because you don’t want to be expelled. You’ve made it this far. Might as well see it through. Or maybe you show up to be with her.
Both of you are on track to graduate in a month. The entire school year almost gone in a blink. You spent most of it sneaking around, whispered conversations and secret rendezvous, meeting under the cloak of darkness without her dad knowing. He forbid her from seeing you. He told her you would cause nothing but trouble.
Thing is, she already knew that.
That wasn’t enough to stop her.
“So, Vassar, huh?” you ask, sitting beside her on the picnic table at the park near her house. It’s dark, pushing midnight, and you just got done with a full rehearsal for Julius Caesar. The Drama Club is putting it on in three weeks as part of graduation festivities. “Liberal Arts. Bet your dad loves that.”
“Yeah, he looked at me about the same way he did when he re
alized we were sleeping together.”
Man, he hadn’t taken that well at all. Full-blown rage to the point of taking his grievances to his boss. Your father shrugged it off, though, saying you’ve done worse things than bedding a girl. Needless to say, her dad isn't enjoying his job much anymore.
She’s committed to attending Vassar College next year. Meanwhile, you haven’t decided anything. You’re not even sure you want to go to college. You have dreams but they don’t include studying law at Princeton. You got accepted somehow. You didn't even apply. The whole thing reeks of your father.
“Congratulations,” you say. “It’s a great school.”
The future isn’t something you and her have talked much about. You’ve never even given this thing you have a title. No promises.
You don’t promise things. Ever.
But the future is coming up fast. It’s about to be the present. And whatever this is between you is going to be affected.
She nudges you with her shoulder. “Will you come see me?”
“I’m sure I’ll pop up from time to time.”
“You better,” she says. “I’m going to miss you.”
She’s getting emotional, her voice cracking around those words.
“We’ve still got a few weeks,” you say, shoving up from the picnic table as you grab her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s not waste tonight worrying about it.”
You take a walk together, holding hands. There’s an inn nearby, beyond the edge of the park. A cranky middle-aged woman runs it, one of the only people you’ve ever encountered your nights when you meet up here. The inn is dark tonight. Sheets hang out on a clothesline, left overnight.
You snatch one off.
Along the water, you lay it down on the grass. You lay her down on top of it. You know you’ll have some privacy tucked back here, away from the picnic area. You don’t want to waste any more of tonight. Every stitch of clothing is removed, and you take your time teasing her, and tasting her, before you make love to her.
You’re going to miss her, too.
You don’t tell her that, not with words, but she knows. She feels it in every kiss. In every thrust of your hips. You make her laugh as you’re deep inside of her. You tell her she’s beautiful as she moans beneath you.
You lay there after you finish, still on top of her, catching your breath as you kiss her neck. You’re careful not to leave marks anymore.
There’s a rustling nearby, along the water, shadows moving in the darkness. You only have the moonlight to see. Whatever it is comes closer… closer… closer. It’s coming right for you.
The girl notices. She screams, the piercing sound shattering the silence of the night, when the thing in the shadows makes a noise beside her. QUACK.
She shoves you off of her. You’re laughing too hard to calm her down. She scrambles away, shrieking, yanking the sheet out from under you to wrap up in it, scattering your clothes.
“It’s just a duck,” you tell her, sitting naked in the grass. You’re still laughing as the duck veers toward her, quacking like crazy in reaction to the noise she’s making.
“A duck?” she says. “What does it want? Oh my god, it’s following me. Why is it following me?”
“It’s probably hungry,” you say.
“Do I look like duck food?” she asks, trying to shoo it away. “Go home, Daffy.”
You get to your feet and gather up the clothes, tossing hers at her. The duck waddles off, heading for the water. It’s too late, though. She made too much of a ruckus.
There’s movement again. More ducks are coming.
She runs away, toward the inn, carrying her clothes. You start to follow when a blast of light shatters the night. A flashlight. You freeze, alarmed. Someone is there. The girl hides in the backyard of the inn, but you hesitate too long. The flashlight finds you as a voice calls out, “Police! Let me see your hands!”
Your clothes drop. You stand there, in all your naked glory, and hold your hands up in front of you as a police officer approaches. He orders you to get dressed before putting you in handcuffs.
The girl starts to step out from the shadows. The police don’t know she’s there. But you do, and you shake your head, warning her not to do it.
The woman who runs the inn heard noises outside and called the police. Trespassers. She stands on her back porch, watching you get arrested.
Indecent exposure.
And you don’t know this, but that girl? She runs the whole way home wrapped up in nothing but that stolen sheet, her clothes abandoned. Her mother is awake when she gets there and hears her come in. You see, the woman has known her daughter sneaks out at night for months, but she’s never said a word about it. A mother knows. She knows what it’s like to love the boy the world tries to keep you from. Her mother would lay awake at night, listening, to make sure she made it back home, but this morning is different. The woman senses it. The girl confesses. She tells her you were arrested. ‘Don’t worry,’ her mother says. ‘I’ll help him.’
Chapter 13
KENNEDY
I absently tap my fingers against the screen as I stare at the text message on my phone. Are you interested in going out tonight? I’m debating how to answer that. Yes? No? Yes? No? Ugh. I type out some long-winded excuse before erasing it with a groan, typing some more utter crap before erasing that also. I type out ‘no,’ straight to the point, but ugh, I feel guilty, so I instead type ‘sure’ and press send like an idiot.
The second that it says ‘Delivered’ beneath the text bubble, I want to slap myself. So many regrets already.
“Ugh, what is wrong with you?” I ask myself, making a face as I start to type an excuse to get me out of it.
A throat clears behind me. “Wouldn’t know where to start.”
That voice, it catches me off guard, so close I can feel his warm breath fanning across my skin. A chill shoots through me, my hands shaking as I spin around, losing grip of my phone. It drops, landing facedown on the hard epoxy tile of the aisle. I cringe when it hits, but I don’t reach for it because of him.
Jonathan.
He’s right there, standing here in the grocery store, a foot of space between us, so close I have to look up to meet his eyes. My heart stalls a beat, being a traitorous nitwit, before it hammers in my chest, aggressively battering my ribcage like my insides are declaring war on my sanity.
Jonathan picks up my phone as it makes a noise. Before I can stop him, he glances at the screen and freezes. Something flashes in his eyes. He looks horrified. Oh god.
“It’s broken, isn’t it?”
He blinks at me. “Huh?”
“My phone.”
“Oh, uh... no.” Shaking it off, he hands the phone to me, screen still intact. “Whoever Andrew is wants a time.”
What time should I pick you up?
The text is prominently displayed. My stomach bottoms out. My hands are still shaking, and I shove the phone in my back pocket without answering that question.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you left town.”
“I did,” he says. “I told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know you meant that quick. I wouldn’t have noticed you left. Why’d you even tell me?”
“Figured you should know.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, like maybe he doesn’t understand it, either. Before either of us can make sense of things, a feminine voice rings out in the aisle beside us, calling my name. Bethany. Panic flows through me. I don’t give it much thought, acting in the moment, a knee-jerk reaction to her approach.
I grab ahold of him, gripping tight to his arm and take off in a hurry. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t put up a fight as I drag him down the aisle, away from the sound of her voice, and shove him into a small back stockroom. I dart inside and shut the door, casting us in near total darkness. I can’t see Jonathan anymore, but I can feel him, right behind me, pressing up against me, his hand coming
to rest on my hip. His touch heightens my panic. I shove away from him, putting space between us.
“Why are you here?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “You can’t be here.”
“I, uh…”
“Kennedy?” Bethany calls out from the other side of the door. “Are you back here?”
“Don’t talk,” I hiss at Jonathan. “Don’t even breathe.”
I open the door again and slip out, leaving it cracked behind me as I come face-to-face with Bethany. Her brow furrows as she looks into the pitch-black room behind me. “What are you doing?”
“Inventory.”
“In the dark?”
“Yeah, I, uh… yep.” I glance behind me before turning back to her. “Did you need something?”
“Marcus told me to find you.” Her face twists into a fake pout. Oh god. “I asked for the Saturday off in two weeks, and he said the only way I can have it is if I find someone to cover.”
“And you want me to do it?”
“Please?” She pokes her bottom lip out. “I wouldn’t ask, but it’s important!”
“Okay.”
“Breeze-Con is that weekend, and they’re having this big thing for the tenth anniversary of Ghosted.”
“Okay.”
“And I know it probably sounds silly to you but—”
“I said okay. Go. Have fun.”
“You mean it?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
She lets out a squeal and hugs me. “Thank you, Kennedy! Oh my god, you’re the best!”
“You’re welcome,” I say, prying her off. “I’m gonna get back to, you know, stuff.”
I nod toward the stockroom.
Her eyes narrow. “What are you really doing?”
“Bye, Bethany.”
I slip back in the room, slamming the door and leaning up against it.
Humor tinges every syllable of Jonathan’s words as he says, “She sounds like you back in high school. How scary could she be?”
Rolling my eyes, I feel along the wall beside me, flicking up the light switch. It doesn’t make it very bright, but I can see him propped up against a crate, a smirk on his lips.
“She writes fanfic,” I tell him. “The self-insert kind.”
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