She smiles.
I don’t linger.
I cringe, honestly.
As if to make the moment worse for me, Cher’s Believe starts playing on the supermarket radio, and I figure that’s my cue to leave. The soundtrack to my life needs a serious update. Getting into my car, I drive to my father’s house, pulling into his driveway as the school bus arrives. My father’s sitting on the front porch in his rocking chair as he stares out at the neighborhood.
“Ah, there’s my girl!” he says, shoving to his feet, holding his arms open. Maddie runs to him for a hug, dragging her backpack along the ground.
“Guess what, Grandpa!” she says, not giving him time to guess before she continues. “I seen that Breezeo got sick in an accident, so Mommy told me I could draw him a picture!”
My father’s eyes go wide as he shoots me a look.
“I told her we’d find an address and mail it to him,” I explain. “You know, like fan mail.”
“Makes sense.”
“You wanna draw one, Grandpa?” Maddie asks. “I bet mine would be better, but you can try, too.”
He scowls at her. “What makes you think yours would be better?”
“ ‘Cuz I’m best at drawing,” she says. “You’re good, too, but Mommy can’t draw.”
“Hey,” I say defensively. “I can draw some seriously cool stars.”
Maddie dramatically rolls her eyes, making sure I see it, announcing, “That don’t count!” before making her way inside.
“You heard the girl,” my father says, grinning and nudging me when I join him on the porch. “Your stars don’t count, kiddo.”
After I get Maddie settled in, sandwiches made for her and my father as they hunker down at the kitchen table with paper and crayons, a fresh chocolate cream pie sitting on the counter (don't think I didn't notice), I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve gotta go back to work, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s starting to drizzle when I head outside. Ugh, what is it with all this rain lately? Pulling out my keys, I start off the porch when I sense movement. I turn in the direction of my car, my footsteps coming to an abrupt stop.
My heart drops right to my toes, my stomach knotting. I lose my breath in that instant, caught by surprise when I see the familiar face. Oh god. Everything in me says run… run… run… get away while you have the chance… but I can’t even move.
He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a hat on his head. A black leather jacket is draped over his shoulders, his right arm tucked into a sling. His skin is battered and bruised, but it’s him.
Jonathan Cunningham.
He’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel his gaze clawing at my skin. He doesn’t speak, looking about as tense at the moment as I feel. My insides are wound tight. My chest hurts as I inhale sharply.
“Hey,” he says after a moment of strained silence, that simple word enough to make me woozy.
“What do you want?” I ask, sparing a greeting, my tone harsher than I mean it to be.
“I just thought…” He glances past me, at the house. “I thought maybe—"
“No,” I say, that word flying from my lips.
He sighs, his chest rising and falling as he lowers his head. “Can we at least talk?”
“You want to talk.”
“Just a conversation,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just a minute of your time.”
“To talk.”
“Yes.”
So much of me wants to say no again. The bitterness that has rooted deep inside of me yearns to shut him down. But I can’t, as much as I might think I want to… I can’t say no without at least listening to him. Because this isn’t about me, regardless of how personal it all feels. It’s about that little girl inside the house, pouring her soul into a picture for a man she still thinks is a hero.
“Please?” he asks, encouraged by my silence, by the fact that I haven’t told him to leave yet. “Take pity on a banged up guy?”
“You want my pity?”
“I want anything you’re willing to offer me.”
“Look, I can’t do this right now,” I say, stepping off the porch and onto the walkway. “I’m going to be late.”
“Then afterward,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Whenever you decide. Whenever is good for you. I’ll be there.”
I’ll be there. How many times have I yearned to hear those words? I don’t even know if he means them.
I slowly approach, pausing beside my car, a mere few feet separating the two of us. “I get off work tonight at nine. If you’ve got something to say to me, you can say it then, but for now…”
He takes a step back, nodding. “You need me to leave.”
“Please.”
I slip past him, climbing into the driver’s seat of my car, watching in the rearview mirror as he hesitates before walking away. He leaves on foot, his steps slow. I don’t know where he came from. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know what he expects from me.
I don’t know why my heart’s racing.
I don't know why I feel like crying.
I drive to work after he’s gone and get there a few minutes late, but nobody says anything about it. I’m lost in my head, distracted, wondering what he’s doing and what he could be planning to say. I’m not sure words exist that can make any of this better, but there are a few that could make things worse.
“Kennedy!”
I flinch and turn toward the sound of Bethany’s voice in the doorway to the stockroom. “What?”
“I’ve been standing here talking to you for like five minutes and you weren’t even listening.” She laughs. “Anyway, I just wanted to say goodnight.”
“Leaving early tonight?”
“More like late.”
“I thought you got off at nine?”
“I did,” she says, glancing at her phone as it starts ringing. “Well, my ride is here, so I’m out!”
Confused, I glance at the clock. It's almost nine-thirty. I lost track of time. Shoving everything aside, I clock out, avoiding conversation with Marcus. I need to get back to my father’s house before Jonathan shows up.
Halfway to my car, my footsteps falter when I spot him. He’s here. Jonathan is perched on the hood of my car in the darkened parking lot, his head lowered, the hat shielding his face from view.
He hasn’t seen me yet. I approach, studying him as I do. If you want to see someone’s true colors, take a peek at who they are when they think they’re alone.
He’s fidgety, can’t seem to sit still. Nervous, I think. Anxious. Or maybe he’s just high. I’m almost right in front of him when he finally notices. He tenses as he stands up.
No sunglasses this time, but he's not meeting my gaze.
“How do you know where I work?”
His eyes lower, like he’s ogling my chest, so I glance down and roll my eyes at myself. Work uniform. Duh. I’m a walking advertisement for the Piggly Q.
“I probably shouldn’t have shown up here, but I was worried you might try to avoid me,” he admits. “That you’d blow me off.”
“So you weren’t going to give me the chance?”
He laughs awkwardly. “Guess you can say that.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not me. I told you we could talk, so here I am.”
“I appreciate it,” he says, still fidgeting, his attention on the parking lot. “I, uh… I didn’t really think I’d make it this far. I figured you’d shut me down right away, run me out of town with my tail tucked between my legs like every other time.”
“Don’t do that,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here.”
“No, you’re right, I didn’t mean…” He sighs as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. Silence festers between us for a moment. It’s so quiet I can hear crickets chirping in the distance. “Do you think we could go somewhere? Sit down for a bit somewhere more private?”