“I’m glad I could do that for you,” I say.
“I appreciate it more than you know,” he says. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”
I hesitate, staring at the bottle. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “Try again.”
“You know, you’re supposed to be supportive and follow my lead.”
“Again, bullshit. If you wanted to be coddled, you would’ve picked someone else as your sponsor. That’s not me. I’m not babying a grown ass man when he’s whining for a bottle.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you.”
“Spill it, Cunning,” he says with a laugh. “Tell me how the big bad world hurt you.”
I’m not in the mood to talk, but I know he’s not going to drop the subject, so fuck it—I ramble, telling him all about the shitty day I’ve had.
He listens quietly, waiting until I’m done before he says, “Well, that sucks.”
I laugh bitterly, because yeah, it does. It sucks.
“Your own fault, though,” he adds.
“I know,” I mutter.
“Do you? Because I’m guessing, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re probably sitting alone somewhere, moping, about to drown your sorrows like you’re the victim.”
I glance around the park. It’s like he’s watching me. “Seriously, are you psychic?”
“Nah, I just know you,” he says. “You’re a self-sabotaging piece of shit some days.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he says. “But you know, most days, you’re pretty okay.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Too bad your movies suck.”
That makes me laugh. “Yeah, too bad.”
“But anyway, if you’re done bitching about the poor pitiful life of a Hollywood heartthrob, I’m gonna get back to my glamorous existence of trolling online and talking shit about your kind in the comments section.”
“You do that,” I say. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Anytime, Cunning. Just call me next time. Sensing the force doesn’t always work. I’m going to be pissed if you get drunk and I don’t have the chance to yell at you about it first.”
“I’ll call,” I tell him. “Next time.”
Noise startles me awake, drawing me from a restless sleep, the sound of footsteps stomping up the creaky wooden stairs. I stare at the ceiling, trying to blink the grogginess away, as the sound grows louder, closer, shadows shifting outside the bedroom door.
No hesitation, the door flings open so hard it slams into the wall. Light streams into the room from the hallway, disrupting the darkness. I wince, sitting straight up, trying to get my wits about me as I shield my eyes. “What the hell?”
“You’ve got some nerve,” a voice says, a sharp edge of anger to those words—so angry, in fact, that it takes a second for me to recognize it.
“Kennedy?” Caught off guard, I blink at her as she steps into the bedroom. Shadows mask her features, but it’s her, all right… she’s here, a few feet from the bed. I rub my eyes, trying to wake up. “Jesus, am I dreaming or something?”
“I can’t believe you,” she says, stepping closer. “That’s what you said to me. I can’t believe you. But I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing.”
I blink at her, trying to make sense of that. “What?”
“What? Seriously? What?” She throws her hands up, coming even closer. “You act like I’m this horrible person, like I’ve done some horrible thing that you can’t understand, but I didn’t. I’m not. This isn’t my fault! You left me, Jonathan.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did!”
She’s standing right in front of me, so close that I can see her hands shaking as she clenches them into fists, tears swimming in her eyes. I glance around, trying to get some sense of the time, but I’m not sure where my phone is and there’s not a clock nearby. It’s dark, though—pitch black—so I’m guessing it’s past midnight.
“You left me, Kennedy,” I say, looking back at her, “not the other way around.”
“You’re wrong,” she says. “I walked away. There’s a difference. You left me long before that. I was pregnant, and you left me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did!”
I stall a moment when she cuts me off before saying, “I didn’t know.”
“That doesn’t make it any better!”
I want to argue, wanting to defend myself, but there’s no defending this shit. “Look, I was wrong, and I’m sorry for that.”
“So you keep saying, but sorry doesn’t change anything, Jonathan, not when you keeping acting like, ugh… that.”
She waves toward me, and I glance down at myself. “What are you talking about?”
“You show up here, and have the nerve to try to weasel your way into my life, into my mind, like you have any right to be there after all this time. You have the nerve to judge me for who I hang around… you have the nerve to question my parenting, like I don’t know what’s best for my daughter!”
Something clicks with me when she says that, some of the fog lifting. “Jesus… is this about him? Hastings?”
“No, this is about you.” She points at me. “You and your innocent act… and your money, and your things. The words you say—the jokes, the laughs, the smiles you give her that she eats right up, and ugh, your face.”
“My face?”
“Your stupid fucking face,” she says, running her hands through her hair as she groans, those words startling me. Kennedy doesn’t curse. “Your face is everywhere. I’m sick of it!”
“You’re sick of my face.”
“Yes!”
“There’s not much I can do about that.”
“You can get out of my head,” she says. “Stop being there all the time!”
I laugh at that, because it’s so damn absurd, but that’s the wrong thing to do. Her eyes narrow as she stares me down, looking like she wants to hit me right now.
“I hate you,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate you, Jonathan.”
Those words, they wake me right up. I’m no longer laughing. There’s nothing funny about it. I got under her skin, and with the two of us already on shaky ground, I know that’s dangerous.
She turns to leave, like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her arm to stop her. “Come on, don’t be like that…”
“Don’t touch me,” she says, ripping from my grasp.
I let go as I stand up, stepping toward her. “Just… wait a minute… talk to me.”
“There’s nothing left to say.”
“I’ll be goddamned.” I grab her arm again before she can walk out. “You can’t tell me you hate me and then leave. That’s bullshit. You bust up in here while I’m asleep to yell at me…”
“You deserve it!”
“Maybe so, but still…”
“Still nothing,” she says, turning to me again, getting right in my face. “I hate you. That’s it. There’s nothing else to say. I hate everything about you. Your voice, your face… I hate it. Why aren’t you going away?”
“Because I can’t,” I tell her, “and I’m pretty sure you don’t really want me to.”
She scoffs.
“You’re upset,” I say, “but you’re lying to yourself if you think you want me gone.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Leave.”
“No.”
“Go away.”
“I’m not.”
As soon as that last word leaves my lips, she’s on me, slamming into me, her lips pressing against mine. She’s kissing me, and I’m so fucking stunned that it takes me a moment to react, a moment to consider kissing her back. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me damn near aggressively as she kicks the door closed.