“I had nothing to do with that.”
“It’s in your apartment.”
“Yeah, well…”
I have no defense.
“Unbelievable,” Meghan says, shaking her head. “A sleepover? Are you… wow, you're really doing this with him again?”
“No, we’re not. I mean, we’re just… I don’t know.” I sigh, running my hands down my face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Clearly,” she says, looking back at the cutout bearing her brother’s face.
“I need to shower,” I say, “I’ll be back.”
“Yeah, go do that. See if you can scrub him off of you.”
Too late for that, I think, but I don’t dare say it. He’s all up inside of me right now—literally, figuratively.
I shower, and dress, and once I feel human again, I gather some clothes to take them across the street to the Laundromat, since my washer is still broken. Meghan comes by sometimes on Sundays and spends time with Maddie to give me a reprieve, a few hours so I can catch up on housework without interruption.
After the laundry is finished, I head to the grocery store and stock up on food, making sure to buy Lucky Charms for breakfast in the mornings. Afterward, I’m straightening up my bedroom and putting clothes away when my attention drifts to the ripped cardboard box hastily shoved back in the closet weeks ago. I pull it out again, shifting through the dusty mementos, and grab the old five-subject notebook. The cheap black cover is faded after all these years. I can only faintly make out my scratchy doodling.
I flip through it. Two hundred pages, college-ruled, most of them full of my messy scribble. The notebook feels heavier than one ever should, but I know it’s not the paper weighing it down, but the memory of all those words. The notebook holds a piece of my heart, a piece of my soul, the piece I gave to him long ago.
“You’re being an idiot,” Meghan says, popping up in the doorway behind me.
I laugh to myself. “I know.”
Chapter 18
JONATHAN
“You should buy a potted plant.”
I laugh at that as I sit on the wooden picnic table at the park in the dark, listening to Jack ramble through the speakerphone beside me. “A plant.”
“Seriously, hear me out—you get a plant. You nurture it, keep it alive, and wham-bam, that’s how you know you’re ready for this whole thing.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a real thing. I saw it in that movie 28 Days.”
“The zombie one?”
“Nah, man, the Sandra Bullock one. You’re thinking about 28 Days Later.”
“You steal your advice from Sandra Bullock movies?”
“Oh, don’t you fucking judge me. It’s a hell of a lot better than that shit you keep making. And besides, it’s good advice.”
“Buy a plant.”
“Yes.”
“Did you buy one?”
“What?”
“A plant,” I say. “Did you buy yourself a plant to prove you’re ready for a relationship?”
“No,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need a plant to tell me what I already know,” he says. “I’m wearing a pair of emoji boxers and eating hot Cheetos in my basement apartment. Pretty sure the signs are all there.”
“Emoji boxers?” I laugh. “Talk about a stereotypical internet troll.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says. “This isn’t about me, though. We’re talking about you.”
“I’m tired of talking about me.”
“Holy shit, seriously? Didn’t think that was possible!”
“Funny.”
“Remember that interview you did on The Late Show two years ago?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You were stoned out of your mind, kept referring to yourself in third person.”
“Fuck off.”
“Pretty sure that guy would never be tired of talking about himself.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He laughs. “True.”
“You get on my nerves.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Thank you.”
“Now go buy yourself a plant,” he says. “I was in the middle of a game of Call of Duty when you called, so I’m going to get back to it.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Oh, and Cunning? I’m glad you haven’t drowned yourself in a bottle of whiskey.”
“Why? Would you miss me?”
“More like your fangirls might murder me if I let you destroy yourself,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re crazy. Have you seen some of their fan art? It’s insane.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” I say, pressing the button on my phone to end the call. I slip it in my pocket when a throat clears behind me, catching me off guard. I turn, wide-eyed, seeing blonde hair shining in the moonlight. “Meghan?”
“Your friend sounds like a real winner,” she says. “Jack, is it? What is he, the eight-hundred pound, acne-riddled, misogynistic president of the Johnny Cunning fan club?”
I laugh dryly. “Not quite.”
Meghan strolls closer, her expression hard, shoulders squared. She’s on guard, rigid, like there’s ice in her veins.
My sister and I weren’t always so cold with each other.
“You can say it, whatever it is,” I tell her. “Whatever you came to say.”
She sits down on the picnic table beside me, staring out at the darkened water.
“This is where Kennedy had Maddie’s first birthday party,” she says. “If you could call it a party. It was just her, me, Kennedy’s parents. No other kids, just family. Dad stopped by and it was… well, it was a disaster.”
I tense. “I didn’t think he had anything to do with Madison.”
“He doesn’t,” she says. “Kennedy’s father told him to leave, said he wasn’t welcome, so Dad dropped off his gift and left, never tried again.”
“What was it?”
“What?”
“The gift.”
I’m not sure why it matters, why I feel the need to know, but I wonder what he gave my daughter on her birthday.
“A sterling silver rattle,” she says, rolling her eyes, “because that’s what a one year old wants. Kennedy threw it, plunked it right in that water over there.”
“Good.”
“Meanwhile, I bought her those little board books,” she says. “And diapers and wipes, because that was what she needed. Well, actually, what she needed was a father, but she got her Aunt Meghan instead. I think I’m a good substitute, but I’m not you.”
“I should’ve been here.”
“You should’ve.”
“I fucked up.”
“You did.”
“I’m trying to do better.”
“That’s what Kennedy says, but if you hurt her, I swear, I’ll hurt you.”
“I’m not going to hurt Madison.”
“I’m not talking about Maddie. If you hurt her, you’ll have a whole host of people ready to tear you apart. I’m talking about her mother. I’ve watched Kennedy try make a life for her and Maddie, and if you waltz your ass on in here and destroy that, if you knock her back down and then walk away, I’ll string you up by the nuts.”
Ouch.
I scrub a hand over my face. “You always were a ball-buster.”
“I’m a woman in politics. I have to be.”
The apartment door yanks open before I can knock on it, Madison standing there, clutching a piece of paper and a stubby pencil.
“I need a T,” she says right away, glancing at her paper. “I gots a turtle, and a triangle, and a truck, but I need more.”
“A taco?” I suggest.
Her eyes light up, and she yells, “Tacos!” as she skips away to the kitchen. I hesitate before following, shutting the door.