“Many reasons.”
He starts boiling the macaroni and ignores my question for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer it. Eventually, though, he says, “Been one of those days.”
“You want a drink.”
He cuts his eyes at me. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’m not okay. It’s just…”
“You want a drink.”
“Yeah.” His eyes go back to the stove, like he doesn’t want to look at me. “Disappointed?”
“Depends,” I say. “Did you get drunk while I was working?”
“Of course not,” he says.
“Then I have no reason to be disappointed.”
“It doesn’t bother you that I’m weak?” he asks. “Everything to lose, and still, I’d give my left nut for just a sip.”
“That’s not being weak, Jonathan. I’ve seen you weak. I’ve seen you so drunk you couldn’t stand, so high I doubted you’d ever come down, but here you are.”
He looks at me again.
“The only way you’re going to disappoint me is if you show up here drunk,” I say. “Or, you know, if you don’t show up at all.”
“You don't have to worry about that,” he says, switching the subject. “So, how was your day?”
My day? “Honestly, I’d give both your nuts for a drink after the afternoon I had.”
He cringes. “That bad?”
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the paper I’ve been carrying around all day. It’s folded into a small square now, wrinkled and torn. I’ve smoothed it out and crumpled it up multiple times, reading the words over and over to the point that I have passages memorized. I’ve agonized over whether I’m doing the right thing and I’m still not sure.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I hand the paper to him.
Brow furrowing, he unfolds it, his eyes scanning over the unsigned confidentiality agreement.
“I’ll sign it,” I tell him, “if that’s what you need.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I hope you know I’d never sell you out,” I say. “I’d never sell your story. I’d never even tell your story. It’s not mine to tell.”
He shoots me an incredulous look, one that stings, before he says, “It’s just as much your story, Kennedy. You have every right to tell it.”
“But I wouldn't do that to you.”
The incredulous look gives way to something else. Suspicion. “Is that why you stopped writing? I know Cliff had you sign one of these a long time ago.” He shakes the crumpled paper at me. “Is this what made you stop telling our story?”
I hesitate. I want to say no, because it isn’t—not in the way he’s thinking. But yet, it is. It’s one of many things that veered our story the direction it went, making it end the way it ended. But I don’t know how to explain that.
His expression changes again, my silence upsetting him. There’s anger in his eyes and tension in his jaw, almost like someone hit him—someone he trusted, someone that’s supposed to care for him, someone that’s never supposed to cause him harm. My chest gets tighter as my eyes start to burn, my vision blurring. I’m trying not to cry, but his expression is breaking me.
He tears the paper up, ripping it to tiny pieces before throwing it in the trashcan. “I don’t need you to sign it.”
I reach for him, worried, because I’ve seen him do this before. I saw it so many times when we were younger, him withdrawing. I touch his arm but he pulls away, putting space between us.
“Jonathan…”
Before I can say anything else, before he can react, Maddie runs into the kitchen, announcing she’s hungry. Jonathan’s expression changes again, the shift so abrupt it nearly takes my breath away. He smiles, not letting her see he’s upset, the actor kicking in. He gets her a hot dog, finishing making the Mac & Cheese, settling her in at the table and kissing the top of her head before turning to me, the shift happening again. Anger.
He walks past me, out of the kitchen, saying, “I need to take a walk,” as he heads straight for the front door.
I follow him.
“Wait,” I say quietly, not wanting Maddie to overhear. “Please, don’t walk out when you’re like this.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I just need some air.”
He’s gone then, and I stand there, staring at the front door, until Maddie finishes her hot dog and walks out of the kitchen, asking, “Where’d Daddy go?”
“He had to do some grown-up stuff. He’ll be back later.”
Later. Much later.
I’m putting Maddie to bed, reading to her, and she’s looking a bit worried that her father hasn’t returned, when the apartment door opens. Maddie shoves right out of bed, abandoning me mid-book to run to him. I hear his laughter echo through the apartment and see his smile as he carries her back into her bedroom. I watch as he tucks her in, not saying a word to me.
I suddenly feel invisible.
I hand the book to Jonathan, mumbling, “You can finish,” before leaving the room.
I’m changing out of my uniform when Jonathan comes into the bedroom, sighing as he sits down on my bed. I can feel his eyes watching me as I put on pajamas. I'm no longer invisible. No, I feel startlingly naked at the moment, even covered by clothes.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I say, needing to say something, because the tension is gnawing at me. “You were having a rough day. I only made it worse.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “I told you not to tiptoe around me.”
“You’re upset.”
“But not at you,” he says. “I’m just… I’m pissed off at the situation. I’m mad because of what my bullshit has done to you. Whenever I try to make things better, you end up suffering.”
“I’m not suffering.”
He ignores that and keeps talking. “They say to make amends—it’s the only way to be a better person, to have a better life, but not if fixing myself means hurting someone else. Make amends, unless it causes further harm. I spent the past year telling myself not to come here, not to do this, because I’d end up fucking up what you've built, but I thought maybe it would be okay. I thought, hey, maybe it’ll work out, but here we are—you can’t even go outside without being harassed, and my manager's throwing confidentiality agreements at you because god forbid you be free to exist in your own goddamn story.”
“I’m not suffering,” I say again. “You’re not hurting me by being here. You’re not hurting us by being a father. All you’re hurting, Jonathan, is your image.”
“I don’t give a shit about my image.”
But he does. He's been that person for a long time now.
“Johnny Cunning doesn’t have a family, just like he didn’t have a girlfriend,” I say. “Johnny Cunning has a famous model-slash-actress that may or may not be his wife. Johnny Cunning doesn’t hang out in small towns or go to school plays to see some little girl pretend to be a snowflake. The only white powdery stuff Johnny Cunning ever gave a crap about was cocaine.”