Ghosted

by J. M. Darhower

  “I have no wife.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  I walk away, but he doesn’t follow.

  Guess his job isn’t as fun without an audience, either.

  The police car is no longer in front of the apartment when I get there, but a black sedan is. Cliff stands beside it, leaning back against it, busy on his Blackberry.

  He doesn’t even look up when I approach.

  “Did you forget about your appointment today,” he asks, “or did you decide you don’t care?”

  “Appointment?”

  “For your wrist,” he says. “You do at least remember it’s broken, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” he says. “I was wondering—what, with you running around, punching people. Figured you forgot it was supposed to be healing so you could get back to work.”

  He’s in one hell of a mood. He’s even typing aggressively, his fingers slamming against the screen with so much force it wouldn’t surprise me if it cracked.

  “I called your doctor and told them you’d be late,” he says. “Which is something your assistant should be doing.”

  “Haven't bothered getting another one of those.”

  “I'm aware,” he says. “That’s why I’ve been stuck doing it.”

  “Nobody said you had to do it,” I point out. “My personal life is my own problem.”

  “And I’ve told you many times, Johnny, there’s no separating the two. You getting back to work hinges upon medical clearance, and if you can’t be bothered to keep a damn doctor’s appointment, well, the entire fucking movie is screwed.”

  I stare at him. In all the years I’ve know this man, I’ve never heard him say ‘damn’ before now, much less that ‘fucking’ he threw in afterward.

  “Look, it slipped my mind,” I say. “I walked my daughter to school. Wasn’t trying to piss you off.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not that big of a deal. I was frustrated before I got here.”

  “What’s got you so upset?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  “What?”

  “Or your ex-girlfriend, I should say.” He puts the Blackberry away before looking at me. “Serena, not Miss Garfield. If she’s an ex—I’m still out of the loop as to what’s going on.”

  “We’re, uh… I don’t know. But what did Serena do?”

  “She overdosed.”

  My stomach feels like it drops to my toes when he says that word. Overdosed. “Is she okay?”

  “She’ll be fine,” he says. “You know how she gets. Her assistant found her, called me… I handled it.”

  I know there has to be more to it, there always is, but Cliff isn’t going to tell me.

  “We should be going,” he says, “before we have to delay your appointment again.”

  I climb in the passenger seat.

  Cliff drives in silence.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call me,” I say, “remind me you were coming.”

  “I tried,” he says. “Your phone is off.”

  Brow furrowing, I reach in my pocket and pull out my phone, pressing a button. Nothing. When I try to turn it on, the battery symbol flashes on the screen. Dead. With all the bullshit that went on last night, between the confidentiality agreement and me walking out, calling Jack and taking my ass to a meeting before going home and talking to Kennedy, I didn't even think about my battery. “You don’t happen to have an iPhone charger, do you?”

  He cuts his eyes at me.

  Blackberry, remember?

  “Should’ve charged it last night,” he says.

  “Should’ve,” I agree. “Forgot.”

  “Been forgetting a lot lately.”

  “Must’ve been all those drugs I did.”

  He doesn’t think that’s funny.

  He shoots me an annoyed look.

  When we reach the medical building, Cliff valets the car, and we’re ushered inside the building just like last time, bypassing the waiting rooms as we head up to orthopedics.

  The doctor is waiting for me in his office.

  “Johnny Cunning,” he says, grinning, as he stands up and offers me his hand—again, like last time. “Good to see you.”

  People like him know my real name. It’s written all over the paperwork. Jonathan Elliot Cunningham. I never legally changed it. But I’m always Johnny Cunning to them.

  I shake his hand this time and we get down to business.

  X-Rays. Examinations.

  I mourn a bit when they cut the cast from my wrist, the saw slicing right through the spot where Kennedy signed it, annihilating her words.

  “How does your wrist feel?” the doctor asks.

  “Like shit,” I admit as I bend it. Looks like shit, too. “It's stiff. Feels weak, like it might snap in half.”

  “I assure you that won’t happen. It will ache for awhile, but I can prescribe—”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” The doctor laughs awkwardly. “Otherwise, it’s healed nicely. No new damage. Must not have been a strong punch you threw.”

  Cliff, sitting in the corner of the office, shakes his head. “Just strong enough to make my life a nightmare.”

  The doctor finds that hilarious.

  “So that’s it?” I ask, flexing my fingers.

  “I’m going to give you a brace. Wear it for a few weeks, until you get some strength back. But it can be removed as needed, so there’s no reason you can’t get back to things. Just no stunts.”

  “No punching, either,” Cliff chimes in.

  “No punching,” the doctor agrees. “Take it easy until your strength comes back.”

  The doctor slips a black brace on my wrist, tightening it so it fits snug, and then we’re gone.

  “The studio will be happy,” Cliff says as we pull away from the medical center in the car. “I’m going to make some calls, get things rolling tonight so you can get back to filming.”

  “What about Serena?”

  “We’ll give her a few days,” he says. “Let her recuperate before pulling her onto set.”

  “She needs longer than a few days,” I say. “She’s a mess.”

  “I’m well-aware,” he says. “I just had her sent to rehab. I’ll send her again as soon as production wraps.”

  He says that so matter-of-fact.

  Like that’s just that.

  “Do you even care?” I ask.

  He cuts his eyes at me.

  I touched a nerve with that.

  “You’re the last person that ought to be talking,” he says. “You were living with your little runaway girlfriend and stealing from people when I signed you, and look at you now. So, do I care? Of course. But careers don't just happen. I have a job to do.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, wanting to refute it, but I can’t. So I sit in silence as he drives, realizing something is off after a few minutes in traffic.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” I say. “You’re heading into Midtown.”

  “I’m dropping you off at a hotel. I need to take care of things.”

  “Well, I need to get back home.”

  He swings the car up to the St. Regis hotel before looking at me. “Home? Where’s that? LA? That’s where your house is, isn’t it?”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “That apartment will still be there whenever you make it back,” he says. “So will the people who live in it. But this movie has been delayed for weeks because of you, so I need a few hours, okay? Just a few hours of your time so I can get your career moving along. Is that too much to ask for?”

  “Fine, okay,” I say, getting out of the car. “Do whatever you need to do.”

  He drives away before I even make it into the building.

  I check in, not bothering to use an alias. It’s already late afternoon, working its way into early evening. I don’t go upstairs. I don’t have any luggage to drop off, so I pocket the keyc
ard and walk out.

  It’s New York City. You can get anything here. But yet I can never seem to find what I’m looking for, lost in the chaos. It takes almost an hour to find a phone charger. I grab some takeout afterward, since I haven’t eaten, and make it to the room at a quarter past five.

  I plug my phone in and eat half a sandwich before the screen lights up. At once, notifications flood in, ping after ping after ping.

  The first thing I see is a string of messages from Kennedy.

  I’ve only been at work for ten minutes and this day is already a disaster.

  How much of an a-hole would it make a person if they quit two days into a two-week notice?

  Can you pick Maddie up from school? I have to work a double.

  Ugh, are you napping?

  Never mind.

  Fuck this.

  That last one came two-and-a-half hours ago. A ‘fuck’ from Kennedy is never good.

  Tossing down the other half of my sandwich, my appetite gone, I send a reply, because she probably thinks I’m ignoring her.

  Sorry, something came up. Phone was dead. Just got all your texts. Everything okay?

  The reply bubble pops up right away, but it disappears again, over and over for damn near five minutes before a message comes through.

  Define ‘okay’.

  She’s using my words. That tells me all I need to know, but I answer anyway, giving her back her own definition. Nobody got punched and nobody cried.

  Everything’s fine.

  It’s clearly not, though, so I hit the button to send her a request to FaceTime, because the texting shit isn’t cutting it. I want to look at her.

  She doesn’t accept right away. It feels like it rings forever before she picks up, her face popping up on the screen—surrounded by sheets, and blankets, and pillows.

  “You’re in bed?” I ask, confused. “I thought you were working a double.”

  “I quit.”

  “Oh wow.”

  “Yeah,” she mumbles, staring at me from the screen. Even through the phone, the look she gives is piercing. “Seems I’m not the only one currently in a bedroom.”

  “Hotel room, technically.”

  “Looks like a fancy one. What’s the occasion?”

  “Had a doctor’s appointment.” I hold my wrist up so she can see it. “I graduated to a brace.”

  “Well, good for you,” she says, pausing before adding, “I know that sounded sarcastic, but I mean it. Good for you.”

  “Thanks.” I lower my arm. “So, everything’s okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t seem that way.”

  It feels awkward right now, like something is being wedged between us, slowly pushing her away from me when I’ve been desperate to find a way to bring her closer.

  “Just having one of those days,” she says.

  “The kind where you want a drink?”

  “More like the kind where I question everything.”

  “Let me guess—you quit your job only to come home to me gone, which freaked you out, because you don’t like the idea of depending on anyone, much less someone so goddamn unreliable?”

  “That’s a pretty good guess.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “I just think maybe we should’ve started smaller. Give you a cactus to take care of first.”

  I laugh. “Jack would’ve appreciated that. He told me to buy a plant.”

  “Jack’s your sponsor, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you meet him in a meeting?”

  “No, I met him back in rehab. We had these group sessions, and he’d always call me out on some bullshit and get yelled at for disrupting the environment. I was struggling after I got out, and I looked him up. He reminded me of you.”

  She looks surprised. “Me?”

  “Yeah, he didn’t hold back with me like everyone else. I still sometimes feel like I’m stuck back in Fulton Edge, surrounded by all these fake smiles, all these perfect people in this perfect fucking world. But Jack doesn’t pretend. You never did, either.”

  “I’m liking the sound of this guy. Is he handsome?”

  “He’s not your type.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He looks nothing like me.”

  She makes a face. “Who says I like you?”

  “I say you do,” I tell her. “Also, your pussy seems to be quite fond of me lately, too.”

  Her eyes roll so hard that I laugh.

  “Speaking of which, have we ever had phone sex before?”

  She’s trying not to smile, but I can see the amusement in her eyes. “I’m gonna go now.”

  “Ah, come on. Touch yourself for me.”

  The screen goes black.

  I toss the phone down on the bed. Barely a minute passes before it rings, and I smile to myself.

  Maybe she changed her mind.

  Maybe she just didn’t want me to see.

  I scoop the phone back up to answer it, but freeze when I spot the name that greets me. Serena.

  I almost answered without looking.

  Hesitating, I hit the button to decline.

  I run my fingers along the edge of my phone, something nagging at me, but I try to push it back. I haven’t heard from Cliff yet. It’s going to be a long night.

  Opening my texts, I send one to Kennedy. Tell Madison I love her, and that I said goodnight. I’m not going to make it back before she goes to bed.

  A response comes a minute or two later.

  She says she loves you, too.

  I smile as another text pops up beneath it.

  My bad, she says she loves you more than she loves that creepy cardboard version of you in her bedroom. (She made me specify)

  And another after that.

  She says it’s NOT creepy and wants you to know that I called it creepy, not her. She loves the thing.

  And another.

  But not as much as she loves you.

  Laughing, I reply. Good to know.

  So you’re coming back here tonight?

  It’ll be late, but I’ll be there.

  She replies with a simple smilie-face. :)

  I hesitate before I type: I love you, K. I hope you believe that.

  Nothing for a few minutes. I stare at our back and forth in silence. Just when I’m about to give up, a response comes through. I do.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  Startled, I sit straight up in bed as pounding echoes in my ears, pulling me from sleep. My blurry eyes scan the moonlit room. It takes a moment for me to remember where I am, for me to realize someone’s knocking on my room door.

  Shoving to my feet, I stagger that way, nearly knocking over a fucking lamp when I try to turn it on. I give up, navigating through the darkness. The knocking doesn’t stop until I reach the door.

  I glance out the peephole.

  Cliff.

  I pull it open, brow furrowing as I regard him. “How’d you know what room I was in?”

  “I asked the front desk.”

  “And they told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter as he strolls in.

  “What’s unbelievable is you used your real name to check in,” he says, turning on that lamp I couldn’t quite figure out. “Took me half a dozen tries to figure it out. Tried every alias you’ve ever used, but no, Jonathan Cunningham it was.”

  “Yeah, well, didn’t think I’d be sticking around long enough for it to matter.”

  “Right,” he says, drawing out that word as he leans against the desk along the side of the room. “You were going home tonight.”

  “I am.”

  “I would’ve been back sooner, but I got busy dealing with Serena,” Cliff says, pulling out his Blackberry, doing something on it. A moment later, my phone charging across the room chimes. “I sent you a tentative filming schedule. It covers next week.”

  Next week. “As in, just a few days from now?”


  “That, indeed, would be next week,” he says. “They’re still working on the full schedule, but it’s looking like it’ll be a month of long hours and not much sleep for you, so get some rest while you can. You’ll need it.”

  I stare at him as those words sink in. “A month.”

  “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.