“I don’t know,” he says quietly, “but I'm sure they'll make it over that way eventually.”
The reporter slips out of sight, trying to go undetected.
“The food’s ready,” I say, still trying to process everything. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But still, you should eat,” I say, turning around to face Jonathan, patting his stomach playfully, trying not to dwell on the fact that our lives may be about to change. “Gotta keep your strength up, since I’m pretty sure the entertainment portion of this party is gonna be your interrogation.”
We head out back and fix ourselves plates. Jonathan barely eats, but he seems more at ease, even as the questions start.
They’re not personal. No, people don’t ask about our situation. Instead, they ask if Hollywood is glamorous. They ask if he knows their favorite celebrities.
He takes it all in stride.
He’s charming and witty.
He’s so much like that boy I fell in love with back at Fulton Edge Academy, no pretense at all.
He loves on Maddie, making her laugh as she sits on his lap, drawing pictures for neighbors to pass the time. She soaks up the love like it’s sunshine, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that not a single one of these people are going to say a bad word about him to that reporter.
“This was smart,” I say, approaching my father as he sits along the side of the patio, on the outskirts of the gathering.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.
I perch on the edge of his chair and look at him. “Yeah, you do. The whole ‘get the neighborhood on his side’ thing you orchestrated here. How’d you think of it?”
“I worked in politics,” he says. “I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve.”
“The second amendment exists for a reason,” my father says. “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. That’s what it says. There’s no ‘but’ to it, no stipulations or qualifications.”
“With all due respect, that’s bullshit,” Jonathan says. “Nobody wants a lunatic running around with an AK-47. That’s not what the Founding Fathers intended.”
“Oh? Does that mean you’ve spoken to them? Enlighten me—what did Thomas Jefferson say when you asked? Because I hate to break it to you, son, but watching Hamilton on Broadway doesn’t make you an expert on their intentions.”
“It’s common sense,” Jonathan says. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Now that’s bullshit,” my father says. “You can’t infringe on a constitutional right because you think someone might do something.”
Jonathan opens his mouth to respond, but I clear my throat loudly, interrupting, gathering their attention. I’m not sure how it even got started, but the two of them are sitting in the living room, arguing politics—my father’s favorite pastime—while Maddie sleeps on the couch.
“While this conversation is absolutely riveting,” I say, “it’s getting late, so can you just agree to disagree?”
They stare at each other.
Neither wants to be the first to concede.
I have to say, it’s kind of nice to see the two of them having a conversation that has nothing to do with me.
“Blah, blah, blah, we’re never going to agree but I respect your viewpoint even though I think you’re an idiot,” I say, waving between them. “There, I covered it for both of you. Time to go home now.”
My father grumbles, something about me ruining his fun, as I lean down to hug him. Night has fallen. It’s dark outside. We’ve spent the entire day here, and I’m tired.
I scoop Maddie up. She mumbles in her sleep, her body heavy as she rests against me, her head on my shoulder. Jonathan stands, holding his hand out toward my father. “Mr. Garfield, sir.”
My father stares at his extended hand for a moment before waving him off, saying, “Cunningham.”
That’s about as close to a truce as I think these guys will ever get. Just Jonathan walking out of here without being castrated is progress, and he takes the brush off in stride, laughing to himself.
We leave, and I head to the car, my footsteps hurried. I set Maddie in her booster seat and am buckling her in when I hear a voice call out way too close to us. “Who's the kid, Johnny?”
“Get the hell away from us,” Jonathan says, and I look up, my heart racing when I see a guy there. The reporter.
He’s holding his phone. He’s recording.
“Come on, don’t be that way,” the guy says, coming even closer. “I’m just doing my job here.”
“Back off,” Jonathan warns.
I shut the car door. The guy isn’t backing off. Instead, he starts firing off rapid questions, each one worse than the one before it. “So, who's the woman? Is that her kid? Have you been screwing around with her? Huh? How long have you been seeing her? How long have you been cheating on Serena? Wait… is that your kid? Did you get her pregnant, Johnny? Knocked her up and what, paid her off so she’d keep her mouth shut? How much did it cost you? Why’d you do it? Don’t want anyone to know about the bastard?”
That’s it.
That’s what it takes.
The second that last word is out, Jonathan snaps. I see it, his expression hardening as anger takes over. He swings, cast and all, slamming the guy in the face, stunning him. Staggering, the guy drops his phone, and Jonathan stomps on it.
“I told you to back off,” Jonathan says, getting in the reporter’s face. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Jonathan, stop!” I run over when he shoves the guy, grabbing his arm to try to drag him away, but he resists. “Please, just… get in the car.”
He takes a few steps back as the guy shouts at him, something about getting what’s coming to him, but Jonathan isn’t fazed.
“Stay the hell away from me,” he says, “and stay away from my fucking family.”
“You’ll regret that!” the guy yells. “I got it all on video!”
Jonathan pulls away from me and grabs the cell phone from the sidewalk, the screen now cracked. It’s still recording. Jonathan presses the button to stop it, and I think he’s going to delete the video, or maybe take the phone, but instead, he hurls it at the guy.
The reporter tries to catch it, but it slips from his grip and clatters to the sidewalk by his feet.
“Fuck you and your video,” Jonathan says. “Don’t let me catch you around here again.”
He gets in the car. I hurry to get behind the wheel when the reporter snatches up his phone and says, “Still the same old Johnny Cunning.”
I speed home, my eyes flickering to the rearview mirror the entire drive. Maddie stays fast asleep. She missed the whole thing. Jonathan says nothing, flexing his fingers in and out of a loose fist around the cast, cringing the entire time.
I whip into a parking spot when I reach the apartment building, cutting the engine, my eyes scanning all around us, expecting an ambush.
Something touches my leg, and I jump, yelping. Jonathan’s hand is resting on my thigh.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hand is hurt.”
“It’s been hurt.”
“But still, that guy… he was a jerk.”
“I’m used to it,” he says, hesitating before adding, “as much as a person can get used to that. But he said some shit, and I know you’re not used to it.”
“I’m okay.”
He nods, but I don’t know if he believes me.
I don’t know if I believe me.
I’m shaking. Trembling.
His hand on my thigh is steady.
“We should go inside,” he says, nodding toward the building, “in case anybody shows up here.”
He carries Maddie this time, taking her into the apartment and straight to her bedroom while I lock up. Frazzled, I head for the kitchen, peeking in cabinets and groaning before grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the tap, taking a drink before mumbling to myself, “I’d kill for some alcohol right now.”