Jonathan Cunningham.
Johnny Cunning.
Six books. That’s how many Maddie picks up at the library to bring home. But yet as soon as we walk in the door, before we even settle in, she pops up in front of me clutching the comic book wrapped in plastic that she swiped from my bedroom.
“Can we read Breezeo now, Mommy? Please?”
“Sure,” I say, taking it from her, “but it’s not the whole story, sweetheart. It’s just the very end.”
The last issue in the Ghosted storyline.
“That’s okay,” she says, climbing up into my lap on the couch. “I like the ends the best.”
Sighing, I pull the comic from its protective sleeve and open it. I start to read, filling in the blanks, narrating the pictures. It picks up with the big warehouse explosion, as Breezeo saves his lover, Maryanne, from death.
‘Who are you?’ she asks afterward, standing in the street as the warehouse burns, unable to see him, but she can feel him. She doesn’t know who Breezeo is. She doesn’t know it’s the man she gave her heart to so long ago—Elliot Embers. She thinks he died in Shadow Dancer from the illness that has been turning him into nothing, so he’s spent Ghosted in isolation. ‘Please, show yourself. Tell me. I need to know.’
He considers it, standing right in front of her. It would be so easy. He could use what energy he had left to show himself, but doing so would change everything. It would change her perception of reality. Would change her memories of him. It would alter their story in irreparable ways, and knowing the truth might put her life in further danger. He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t destroy the life that she’d built for a single moment of acknowledgment only to have to disappear again.
It would be too cruel, appearing only to leave her once more, when she’d finally had the courage to say goodbye.
So he leans closer, softly kissing her mouth. It’s barely a breath against her lips. She feels a tingle, followed by a breeze that rustles her dark hair, and then nothing.
He leaves.
He leaves and never looks back, giving her a life of freedom, a life where she can live a quiet existence and be happy without him. He’s destined to do bigger things, and staying would be selfish, so as much as he wishes he could be with her forever, he has to let her go, because that’s what love means.
It’s loving someone enough to set them free.
Tears sting my eyes. Ugh, this freaking story. Maddie glares at the comic. I think she expected a happy ending.
“Does he come back, Mommy?” she asks.
“Well, I guess it’s possible,” I say. “There’s really no such thing as ‘the end’ in comics. People come back all the time.”
“Okay, then,” she says, accepting it just like that as she hops off of my lap to snatch up one of the library books. “This one now!”
Chapter 4
JONATHAN
“Let’s take a break!” the first AD—assistant director—yells, his voice edged with annoyance. “Everyone back in twenty minutes. Markson, please, pull yourself together!”
“I’m trying,” Serena mutters, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching the sides of her head. “I’m just a little under the weather.”
Under the weather, my ass.
She got maybe two hours of sleep, rolling into the hotel close to four o’clock in the morning. I know, because she insisted on waking me up by trying to crawl into bed with me, but I wasn't interested. She’s probably still somewhat drunk, probably having one hell of a comedown off of coke. I used to show up on set like that every morning and barely survived filming. I was killing myself. The moment Shadow Dancer wrapped, Cliff sent me straight to rehab, putting me in a program.
It wasn’t my first stint in rehab, not by a long shot, but it was the first time I stayed the full ninety days. Every other time, I walked out within a month and relapsed before Cliff even realized I'd given up. But sobriety gripped ahold of me last year and I worked the program as reality sunk in.
And reality, it turns out, is a bitch to an addict.
“Here, drink some water,” I tell Serena, handing her a bottle. “It’ll help you feel better.”
“What will help is a pick me up,” she mutters, chugging some water before looking at me. “You don’t have anything, do you?”
“You know I don’t.”
She scowls, chugging more water before stomping away. The crowd around set seems bigger now. If people didn’t know we were out here yesterday, they do today.
“The missus seems a little testy,” Jazz says, strolling over to blot the sweat from my forehead. “Honeymoon over, superstar?”
I stare at her. She thinks she’s slick, but it couldn’t be more obvious what she's doing. “If you’re referring to Serena, she’s just not feeling well.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, not convinced, as I take a sip from a bottle of water, not wanting to get into Serena’s business. “She’s not knocked up, is she? You’d make a good daddy.”
I choke. I seriously choke. The water pours down my windpipe and I start fucking heaving, losing my breath, turning colors. People rush to intervene, smacking my back and forcing my hands up, trying to get air in my lungs as I violently cough.
Inhaling sharply, my chest on fire, I wave everyone away and glare at Jazz. “Don’t even fucking say that.”
“What?” she asks, acting innocent as she presses her hands to her chest. “It was just a question.”
“She isn’t pregnant,” I say. “It’s not possible.”
Jazz brushes it off with a laugh, but now she’s got me frazzled. You’d make a good daddy. My chest is tight, burning from the inside, the knot barely loosening by the time we’re due back on set. Serena returns a lot more chipper, her pupils like fucking saucers. It’s obvious she’s high, but nobody says a word. I notice Cliff is watching her, though.
Serena’s on point now, wide-awake and feeling beautiful, while I keep fucking up, take after take after take. It’s a mess. The movie's going to be a goddamn disaster if we can’t get our shit together.
“Cunning, your timing is off,” the AD says. “What did you two do, switch places?”
“I’m getting it together,” I say, stretching. “I just need to clear my head.”
Serena steps closer, whispering, “I got more if you want it.”
Do I want it? Fucking right I do. I want it all day, every day. But I don’t need it, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have it, so I shake my head. “I can’t do that anymore, Ser. You know that. And you shouldn’t be doing it, either.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re not the boss of me, you know.”
“I know, but I am—”
“Quiet on set!” a voice shouts, cutting off our conversation. “Let’s try this again! Give us a good one this time!”
We do. We give them a good one. Hell, we give them a few. But after nightfall shit starts deteriorating again. Serena runs out of coke while I run out of patience for her attitude.
“Ugh, this sucks,” she growls, messing up her hair as she clutches her head. “I feel like shit.”
“You’re more cocaine than woman at this point,” I say, frustrated that we’re not through yet. “I’m surprised you can feel anything anymore.”
“You’re such a prick,” she snaps, shoving me.
“Oh, whoa, whoa!” Cliff gets between us as she clenches a fist like she’s about to swing at me. “This is not happening. You’re frustrated? Fine. Get a room and screw each other's brains out. But this? Oh, no, no, no… not going down.”
“What needs to go down is some detox,” I say. “Some counseling.”
“Shove your judgment up your ass, Johnny,” Serena says. “Just because you went full-blown junkie doesn’t mean the rest of us will, too. I’m fine. So why don’t you worry about how much of a fuck-up you are and leave me alone!”
She storms off set, crying, and the shoot is postponed—officially, because Serena Markson is under the weather.