“Mommy who?” she mumbles.
I laugh to myself, straightening my expression out before I open the door, saying, “The only Mommy you’ve got.”
“Just one Mommy,” she mutters, “and no Daddy now.”
Strolling over, I sit down beside her on the edge of her bed. “Is that what you really think?”
She shrugs.
“Look, I know you don’t want him to go away, because you’re going to miss him, but you know how special Breezeo is. And I know it’s not fair to you, and it really sucks, because you finally got to have him as your daddy and now he has to go, but you can write him, and call him, and draw him all the pictures you want.”
She swings her legs, eyes on her feet. “It’s not the same.”
“I know, but he promised he’d be back,” I say, standing up. “Do you want to come say bye to him? Maybe wish him luck?”
She shakes her head.
I leave her there, in her room, leaving the door open when I walk out. Jonathan lingers in the living room, holding his bag. He frowns when he sees me. I don’t take that personally.
“Is she okay?” he asks.
“She’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Don’t worry.”
He glances at his watch, sighing. “I have to get going. The car’s here to pick me up.”
“Okay,” I whisper as he leans over, kissing me. “Be safe. And smart. No drinking. No drugs. No more jumping in front of moving cars.”
“You sure know how to take the fun out of things,” he jokes. “I’ll see you when I can.”
He opens up the front door, to leave, making it barely a step over the threshold when Maddie’s voice screeches through the apartment, loud and frantic. “Wait, Daddy! Wait! Don’t go yet!”
He pauses, and she runs right by me, nearly plowing me over as she rushes toward him, clutching the notebook she draws in.
She shoves it at him, hitting him in the chest. “You forgot to have this.”
He takes it. “What is it?”
“The fan-fictions I made for you,” she says. “Remember? I fixed it. If you’re gonna be Breezeo now, you should have it, ‘cuz it’s better.”
He smiles. “Thank you.”
She nods, and hesitates, the two of them awkwardly staring at each other, before she flings herself at him, hugging him. “I love you, Daddy. More than all the Breezeo movies ever.”
“I love you, too,” he says, hugging her back. “More than everything in the world.”
Chapter 26
JONATHAN
It’s strange how much perspective can change in such a short amount of time.
I’ve wanted to be an actor for as long as I can remember, but somewhere along the way, I lost the spark. Between the cocaine binges and rocky relationships, between the stints at rehab and the paparazzi confrontations, between struggling with sobriety and facing notoriety, I forgot what it was I loved about it all.
And it’s funny that an almost six-year-old could remind me in just shy of two months.
I laugh, sitting on the steps of the Hair & Makeup trailer on set. It’s barely dawn, and everyone else is gathered in the caterer’s tent for breakfast, while I sit here, reading through Madison’s notebook. It’s funny, this story she came up with. It’s mostly pictures with just a few words and reads like a Scooby Doo crossover, a literal ghost mystery getting solved by Breezeo. Because he’s invisible, she says that means he ought to be able to hang out with ghosts. It’s common sense.
So at the end, Maryanne gets blown up in the warehouse.
BOOM.
It’s a happy ending, though, in a twisted way, because now she, too, is a ghost, and they live happily ever after, invisible together.
The logic of a child.
“Well, well, well... if it isn’t Johnny Cunning.” Jazz’s voice calls out as she approaches the trailer. “Talk about a sight for sore eyes.”
I glance at her, grinning, as I close the notebook. “Jazz.”
“Is that…?” She grabs her chest, feigning shock. “Is that a smile on your face?”
“Maybe,” I say. “What, can’t remember the last time you saw one of those?”
“Oh no, I remember,” she says. “Five years ago, your very first day on the set of Breezeo. Only time I saw you genuinely smile was the first time you put on the suit.”
I stare at her blankly. “Jesus, what did you do, write it on your calendar like an annual holiday?”
“Johnny Cunning isn’t always a dick day. We used to celebrate it with a bottle of hard liquor but now we just sleep all day and avoid being around assholes.”
“Sounds nice.”
She smiles. “So what’s got you grinning at six o’clock in the morning?”
I hold the notebook up. “Somebody wrote me a story.”
“Somebody, eh?” She shoos me away from the trailer steps so she can go inside, motioning for me to join her. “And who would that somebody be?”
“My daughter.”
“Your daughter,” she repeats, not sounding surprised. She pats a chair in front of her big mirror, wordlessly telling me to sit down. Hair, first, so Jazz leans against a vanity to watch as one of the hairstylists gets to work. “So it’s true? What Hollywood Chronicles said?”
“Doubtful,” I tell her. “Most of what they print is bullshit.”
They get to work, because well, they've got their work cut out for them this morning. I need a haircut as well as a shave, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg of how I’ve let myself go since the accident.
Haven’t been to a single acting class. Certainly haven’t gone on any auditions.
Can’t remember the last time I saw the inside of a gym, and I damn sure haven’t been sticking to the diet. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to my therapist.
“They said you met a girl at some prep school you went to,” Jazz says. “The two of you ran away together, and you were some sneaky little criminal until Mr. Caldwell discovered you.”
My brow furrows. “It said I was a criminal?”
“Well, in other words.” She laughs. “Said you were stealing to survive, which is unbelievable, since your family is loaded. But it said you got your big break and the girl, she got pregnant, but she resented your fame and left you without telling you about the baby, so you’re just now learning about your daughter.”
There’s so much wrong with what she just said that I’m not sure where to begin. My mind keeps going to the stealing—which, ironically, is the true part. But few people know that. I kept that secret tightly guarded out of fear that it proved I was the failure my father said I’d be. So who the fuck told them?
Jazz doesn’t wait for an explanation. I never give her one. So she looks damn surprised when I say, “I knew about my daughter.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And she didn’t resent the fame—she resented what fame turned me into.”
She stares at me. “So, wait, you knew you had a daughter?”
“Yes.”
“The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve been a father?”
“Yes.”
WHACK.
I flinch when she picks up a hairbrush and smacks me with it. “Jesus, Jazz, what the fuck?”
“Why in the hell were you wasting your life away with all those sleazes when you had a family you could’ve been with?”
I just blink at her.
I have no good answer.
“Unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. “So, what’s your daughter like?”
“She’s smart. Creative. Funny. Beautiful. She’s a lot like her mother, actually.”
“Her mother, huh?” Jazz grins. “Hate to break it to you, but it sounds like you might be smitten.”
“No might about it,” I say. “I love her.”
Jazz gasps. WHACK. She smacks me again. “Shut your mouth!”
I don’t have a chance to respond before someone clears their throat, stepping into the trailer. I glance over, seeing Cliff. Jazz is suddenly on high alert, completely professional.