There’s this thing about paparazzi—they’re everywhere. Airports, stores, sitting outside of houses, lurking around hotel hallways and scoping out sets. I’ve caught them climbing trees to look in windows and digging through bags of trash. For what? Who knows? But it’s a fact of life for someone like me—they’re always around, always watching, and nine times out of ten, they’re fucking mean.
I’ve been in Bennett Landing for twenty-four hours now. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve gone an entire day without being ambushed. But as I step through the door of Landing Inn after ten o’clock in the evening, I get that intuitive feeling that eyes are watching.
Glancing through the foyer, I see McKleski coming out of the kitchen. Her stern expression aims my way. “Mr. Cunningham.”
I nod in greeting, warding off a cringe when she calls me that. “Ma’am.”
“It’s late,” she says. “Have you eaten dinner?”
I shake my head.
“Well, don’t expect me to cook for you,” she says. “You want to eat, show up at a decent hour.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say quietly as she stalks off to do whatever it is she does when she’s not tending to guests, since I’m her only one. Convincing her to let me stay here had been hard enough. When she realized I was renting the entire inn, indefinitely, meaning she wouldn’t have anybody else, she nearly threw me out on my ass.
Only reason she didn’t was because I look pathetic.
“And keep the noise down,” she hollers. “I’m heading to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say again, strolling to the kitchen. I don’t flick on the light. There’s enough of a glow from a few nightlights for me to see where I’m going. I haven’t eaten much since the accident. Hell, if I’m being honest, I haven’t had an appetite in years.
Opening the fridge door, I see a small platter on the top shelf, holding a few sandwiches, covered in plastic wrap. A scrap of paper rests on top, the words ‘you’re welcome’ scribbled on it.
Grabbing a sandwich, I head upstairs, taking a bite as I go, hearing McKleski shout from her room, “You get crumbs on the carpet, you’re vacuuming!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble as I shake my head, still chewing. I’ve never been one to worry about things like karma, but I have a damn funny feeling I’m being hit with a hefty dose of it here.
It’s morning.
The sun is shining.
Bright light spills through the open blinds covering the windows, streaming through the thin white curtains, warming the room. I haven’t slept more than a few minutes here or there, short bursts that felt like mere seconds as my eyes fell closed, before reality shook me back awake—the reality of being back in this town, the reality of having seen her again.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door, but I ignore it. It’s just shy of eight a.m., too early for me to deal with whatever bullshit is on today’s agenda. Another knock, and then the door flings open. I drape my left arm over my eyes and let out a groan when McKleski barges in.
“You’ve got a visitor,” she says.
“Nobody even knows I’m here.”
“Somebody does or they wouldn’t be here to see you, huh?”
She walks out, leaving the door open. I lay in silence for a moment before moving my arm. Visitor. Only one person knows I’m in town.
Kennedy.
Shoving to my feet, I stagger from the room and make my way downstairs. She’s standing in the foyer, dressed in a work uniform, looking nervous. She glances up at me when she notices I’m here, a look on her face that makes my chest feel so fucking heavy. Distrust shines from her eyes, always guarded now, like she’s just waiting.
Waiting for me to fuck up.
Waiting for me to hurt her.
“Hey,” I say, pausing in the foyer in front of her. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“Yeah, well, you know,” she mumbles, not finishing her thought, averting her gaze and looking all around me, like she searching for some sort of out.
“Do you wanna sit down?” I offer, motioning toward the den area, pretty sure McKleski wouldn’t mind.
“No, I can’t stay. I just have something to give you.”
“Okay.”
She stands there, quiet for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek like she used to do when we were kids. Kids. I still think of us that way sometimes. Or well, me, anyway. She grew up way too fast, but me? Never quite made it past being that stupid eighteen-year-old with little morals and big dreams.
Reaching into her back pocket, she pulls out an envelope, red crayon scribbled along the outside.
My stomach drops. “Is that…?”
She nods. I don’t even have to finish the question. Carefully, she holds the envelope out, her voice soft when she says, “I told her we’d mail it, but since you’re here…”
“Thank you,” I say, staring down at it. It’s addressed to Breezeo. “Does she…?”
“No,” she says, picking up what I can’t bring myself to finish. “She doesn’t know you’re her father. She, uh… she thinks heroes are real, no matter how many times I explain they’re just people, and she looks at you like you’re one of them. She’s too young to see you any other way. Which is why…”
She trails off. I know where it’s going. Which is why it’s so hard for her to give me that chance, because if I turn out to be anything but that hero, it’s going to crush her. And I know she doesn’t mean that in a theatrical sense. Nobody expects me to wear the suit and turn fucking invisible. But I’ve got one hell of a track record when it comes to disappointing people.
“I get it,” I say. “And I know it’s a lot, asking for your trust…”
“But you’re not going away this time.”
“No.”
I figure that might piss her off, me pushing for this, but she lets out a deep breath, her posture relaxing. “Well, I should get to work. I just wanted to drop that off.”
“Oh, yeah, okay.”
After she’s gone, I open the envelope and pull out the piece of paper, looking at it. She drew me a picture. I read her words and can feel my chest tightening, my eyes burning, but goddamn it, I’m grinning like a fool. I can’t help it.
“You look like the cat that caught the canary,” McKleski says, popping up in the foyer, eavesdropping.
“Yeah, she dropped this off,” I say, waving the paper at her. “It’s from Madison.”
“Ah, little Maddie,” she says. “A bit of a handful, that kid, but what do you expect? Look at her parents.”
She gives you the comic books on a Wednesday afternoon.
It’s after school, and you’re standing out front, waiting to be picked up, when she pulls the thick stack of comics from her bag. She’s been carrying them around with her for three days, gathering the nerve to approach you.
You’re different this week. She senses it. You’re quieter, withdrawn—yet, somehow your presence feels larger than ever. There’s anger in your eyes and tension in your jaw. You’ve barely even looked at her. You barely look at anyone.
She shoves the comics at you, and you stare at them, confused. A moment passes before there’s recognition. You mumble, “Thanks.”
That’s it.
You’re gone a minute later.