“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.
“So, my parents aren’t home,” she says. “I swore I wouldn’t leave the house while they were gone.”
She’s nervous as she tells you that, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. It distracts you. Your eyes keep darting to it as the material inches up further and further. “How long will they be gone?”
“Until tomorrow,” she says. “So it’s just me, home, alone, all night long… whatever shall I do with my night?”
You meet her gaze. You smile.
You don’t have to say a word.
She pulls you into the house. She’s bold, again making the first move, kissing you as soon as you’re inside. Her lips express confidence, but her hands are shaking. You grab them, holding them, and kiss her back.
“Happy birthday,” she whispers. “I have something to show you.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
She takes you upstairs.
She takes you to her bedroom.
It’s dimly lit from a small lamp and looks like the typical room of a teenage girl—cluttered, a lot of color, flowery comforter. There’s a Breezeo Ghosted poster on the wall above her bed. There’s a candle lit on a nearby desk. It smells like vanilla.
“You sure about this?” you ask when she kisses you again, but there’s no doubt that she’s sure. “I figured you’d want to watch a movie or something first.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks, kissing along your bruised jawline. “I mean, I guess we can, if that’s what you want…”
“Fuck that,” you say as you move her to the bed. “What I want is to find out what it feels like to be inside of you.”
She blushes, and laughs, the sound morphing to moans as you kiss her neck. You waste no time pulling off her dress, leaving her in front of you in a lacy black thong with a matching bra.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful, K,” you say as your gaze scans her. “So goddamn beautiful.”
She dramatically rolls her eyes.
“I’m serious,” you say, tugging her down onto the bed. “Don’t you ever doubt that. You’re the queen, baby… I’m just a commoner.”
“Did you just…?” She stares at you as you push her onto her back and hover over her. “Oh my god, you seriously just quoted Breezeo to me.”
“Foreplay,” you say. “Besides, it’s a good line.”
She’s speechless.
You yank off your shirt and kick off your shoes. You only have one condom stashed in your wallet, not thinking you’d actually get this far, and who knows how old the thing is, but she’s on the pill, so you roll with it. No stopping now.
The rest of the clothes disappear.
You move slowly, your touch gentle, giving her time to adjust. Your fingers are inside of her, and your mouth is on her, as orgasm rips through her. You go easy, as you take her virginity, pushing in carefully and pausing. She’s trusting you, giving herself to you. You don’t want to hurt her.
You make her feel good.
Over and over.
You stay all night long.
It’s nearing dawn when you finally slip your clothes back on. She’s laying there, the blanket wrapped around her, watching as you sit down on the edge of the bed to put your shoes on.
As you tie them, she sits up, wrapping her arms around you from behind. She hugs you, her head resting against your back. She stays that way for a few minutes before she pushes away from you. “Crap, almost forgot to show you that thing for your birthday!”
“I thought that thing was you.”
“What? No.” She laughs, blanket still wrapped around her. She almost trips on it as she drags you downstairs, forcing you onto the couch in the living room. “Sit.”
She sits beside you and turns on the TV. You think maybe she’s trying to watch a movie now, but no, she goes to something that she recorded—Law & Order.
“No way,” you say when she presses play.
It’s your episode.
“It was on a few days ago,” she tells you. “Luckily, cable plays the same things over and over, and I caught it on a rerun.”
You laugh, putting your arm around her.
The two of you sit together and watch it.
Not just your parts. You watch the whole thing. When it’s over, she looks at you and says, “I don’t care what else you do in the future, even when you’re the biggest movie star in the world… the dead kid on Law & Order will always be my favorite part you’ve played.”