It’s silent for a moment as we stare at each other.
“You’ve got mail again,” he says. “It’s on the kitchen table.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
I head inside, passing by Maddie as she runs back out. I grab my stack of mail, sorting through it. Mostly junk, as usual, that I toss right in the trash, but I pause as I reach the last envelope.
Cunningham c/o Caldwell Talents
I stare at it for a moment before folding it, shoving it in my back pocket and heading outside, where Maddie sits with my father, rambling on and on about the fun she’s been having with her daddy.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?” I ask. “We need to get home.”
“Okay, Mommy,” she says, snatching up her backpack to lug it off the porch.
“Thinking of having a cookout this weekend,” my father says. “Nothing big, but I hope you can come. Haven’t seen much of my girls lately.”
“Sure,” I say, hugging him. “We’ll be here, Dad.”
“Can my daddy come, too?” Maddie asks, swinging her backpack as she spins in circles.
“I don’t—” I start, because I don’t know about all that, but my father cuts me off.
“Of course,” he says. “If he’s up for a visit.”
Oh, boy.
We head home, and as soon as we reach the apartment, Maddie bursts inside, screeching, Daddy! You’re here!”
Jonathan is in the kitchen, wearing only a pair of pants. Food is cooking on the stove. I can hear it. I can smell it. He’s frying something, and it’s not currently burning, whatever it is. That’s a step up from what dinner is like when I make it.
“I am,” he says, waving the spatula toward Maddie when she heads right for him. “Figured you might be hungry.”
“What is it?” she asks, trying to look.
“Fried chicken,” he says. “Tater-tots. Mac & Cheese.”
I shut the front door, locking up, before strolling to the kitchen. The latter came from a box, but still, it’s impressive. Huh.
“Get started on your homework,” I say, steering Maddie away from the stove. “We’ll let you know when the food is ready.”
She leaves the kitchen, dragging her backpack along.
“So dinner, huh?” I look over his shoulder as he pokes at the chicken. “Have you ever fried chicken before?”
“Nope,” he says, “but I found a recipe and thought, what the hell? How hard could it be?”
Pretty hard, I think, but I let it go, pulling myself up onto the counter to sit on it.
I take out the envelope I got from my father’s house and fiddle with it, running my fingertips along the edges before tracing the writing on the return address.
“What’s that?” Jonathan asks, waving the spatula toward it.
I laugh dryly and hold it up for him to see.
It takes him a moment to recognize what it is. He plucks it right from my hand and tosses the spatula onto the counter, so he can open the envelope. Peeking inside, he lets out a low whistle, shoving his way between my legs and tapping the envelope against my chest as he says, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s more than enough to justify quitting.”
It is. I know it. I don’t even have to look.
“Well, if I didn’t know any better,” I say, “I’d say you were gloating about how much money you’re making now.”
“Who, me?” he says, feigning innocence.
“Nobody likes a braggart, Cunningham. It’s unattractive.”
“Is it?” He leans closer, tilting his head. “Does it turn you off, Garfield, hearing about my success?”
I dramatically roll my eyes as I shove his face away. “Ugh.”
Laughing, he grabs my hand and pulls it down, yanking me to him, snatching me right off of the counter, but his body pins me there, flush up against him. He kisses me, teasingly, again and again, whispering against my lips, “I think you’re in denial.”
“Am not,” I say, pulling my arm from his grasp.
“I think you like it. I think you’re proud.”
“And I think you’re full of yourself,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck, kissing him back. Deep. Rough. Passionate. It doesn’t last long, though, just a few seconds, before a loud gasp rocks through the kitchen. Jonathan breaks the kiss, pushing away, leaving me breathless.
Maddie stands in the doorway, staring at us, her eyes wide and jaw slack. “Did you kiss my mommy?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I did.”
“Are you gonna take her on dates now?” she asks.
“Sure, if she wants,” he says, cutting his eyes at me before turning back to her and saying, “I mean, if that’s okay?”
Maddie’s face splits with a wide grin. “Okay, but only if you see when she gets all pretty, ‘cuz sometimes people don’t see.”
“She’s always pretty,” he says.
“But you gotta tell her, and maybe pick her some flowers, too, ‘cuz it makes her happy when I do that,” she says, strutting over to him and grabbing his hand, trying to pull him with her out of the kitchen.
“Where are we going?” he asks, brow furrowing.
“To get ready, duh. You can’t date with no shirt.”
I laugh, hopping off the counter. “We’re not going tonight, sweetheart. Daddy’s a little busy right now. He’s cooking dinner.”
“Oh shit,” he says, pulling his hand from Maddie’s as he bolts for the stove, turning off burners and shifting pans around, groaning. “I hope you like your chicken extra crispy.”
“I do!” Maddie says. “That’s how Mommy makes it.”
Chapter 20
JONATHAN
It’s strange how easy it is to fall into a routine, how simple it is to find a sense of normalcy. It’s almost instinct.
Kennedy goes to work. Madison goes to school. I sit around, and well… I wait for them to get home. The apartment is small, but it isn’t as cramped as that first one we lived in together. I get restless, yeah, but it’s not unbearable. I distract myself by cooking, and I call Jack whenever I’m feeling antsy. I’m starting to think I might be cut out for small-town domestic life.
Okay, okay, so it’s only been three days, but they’re some of the best days I’ve had in years.
There’s a knock on the apartment door. Three o’clock on Friday. Kennedy and Madison won’t be home for another hour.
Quietly stepping over to the door, I look out the peephole, to see who’s knocking, when I spot the familiar, crotchety lady. Son of a bitch. Opening it, I come face-to-face with McKleski, standing on the doorstep, holding a duffel bag.
My duffel bag.
Before I can greet her, she drops it at my feet.
I stare down at it. “You evicting me?”
“Thought you might want your things,” she says, emphasizing that word, like whatever is in the bag might be scandalous, but it’s just clothes. “You haven’t been to your room in days. Days! I’m all alone out there!”
“Yeah, uh, sorry about that.”
She scoffs. “You’re not sorry.”
She’s right. I’m not. “So, you’ve missed me?”
“Like an alcoholic misses Happy Hour.”
That might’ve been meant to offend, but it makes me laugh. “Will it make it better if I promise to visit?”
She makes a face at that.