“But are superheroes real?” a little boy asks.
Madison looks at me expectantly, yielding to my expertise on that one, but I’ve got nothing. I’m not killing the imagination of a room full of kindergarteners with that reality. The paparazzi coming after me are bad enough. Moms with torches? Hell no.
“Heroes are certainly real,” the teacher’s aide says. “Mr. Cunning actually saved a young woman from being hit by a car recently.”
There goes the ohhs and ahhs, a ‘whoa’ or two tossed in for good measure.
“Wasn’t that big of a deal,” I say, looking at my wrist. “I just happened to be standing there when it happened.”
Mrs. Appleton chimes in. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to get started on today’s lesson.”
I seem to be the only one not disappointed by that. The teacher thanks me and Maddie hugs me and I’m out the door and heading down the hallway before the teacher’s aide can cry this morning.
Stepping outside, I see the damn guy still lurking that followed us here. Lowering my head, I walk past him as he asks, “Johnny, what does your wife think about this whole thing?”
“I have no wife.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
I walk away, but he doesn’t follow.
Guess his job isn’t as fun without an audience, either.
The police car is no longer in front of the apartment when I get there, but a black sedan is. Cliff stands beside it, leaning back against it, busy on his Blackberry.
He doesn’t even look up when I approach.
“Did you forget about your appointment today,” he asks, “or did you decide you don’t care?”
“Appointment?”
“For your wrist,” he says. “You do at least remember it’s broken, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” he says. “I was wondering—what, with you running around, punching people. Figured you forgot it was supposed to be healing so you could get back to work.”
He’s in one hell of a mood. He’s even typing aggressively, his fingers slamming against the screen with so much force it wouldn’t surprise me if it cracked.
“I called your doctor and told them you’d be late,” he says. “Which is something your assistant should be doing.”
“Haven't bothered getting another one of those.”
“I'm aware,” he says. “That’s why I’ve been stuck doing it.”
“Nobody said you had to do it,” I point out. “My personal life is my own problem.”
“And I’ve told you many times, Johnny, there’s no separating the two. You getting back to work hinges upon medical clearance, and if you can’t be bothered to keep a damn doctor’s appointment, well, the entire fucking movie is screwed.”
I stare at him. In all the years I’ve know this man, I’ve never heard him say ‘damn’ before now, much less that ‘fucking’ he threw in afterward.
“Look, it slipped my mind,” I say. “I walked my daughter to school. Wasn’t trying to piss you off.”
“It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not that big of a deal. I was frustrated before I got here.”
“What’s got you so upset?”
“Your girlfriend.”
“What?”
“Or your ex-girlfriend, I should say.” He puts the Blackberry away before looking at me. “Serena, not Miss Garfield. If she’s an ex—I’m still out of the loop as to what’s going on.”
“We’re, uh… I don’t know. But what did Serena do?”
“She overdosed.”
My stomach feels like it drops to my toes when he says that word. Overdosed. “Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” he says. “You know how she gets. Her assistant found her, called me… I handled it.”
I know there has to be more to it, there always is, but Cliff isn’t going to tell me.
“We should be going,” he says, “before we have to delay your appointment again.”
I climb in the passenger seat.
Cliff drives in silence.
“I’m surprised you didn’t call me,” I say, “remind me you were coming.”
“I tried,” he says. “Your phone is off.”
Brow furrowing, I reach in my pocket and pull out my phone, pressing a button. Nothing. When I try to turn it on, the battery symbol flashes on the screen. Dead. With all the bullshit that went on last night, between the confidentiality agreement and me walking out, calling Jack and taking my ass to a meeting before going home and talking to Kennedy, I didn't even think about my battery. “You don’t happen to have an iPhone charger, do you?”
He cuts his eyes at me.
Blackberry, remember?
“Should’ve charged it last night,” he says.
“Should’ve,” I agree. “Forgot.”
“Been forgetting a lot lately.”
“Must’ve been all those drugs I did.”
He doesn’t think that’s funny.
He shoots me an annoyed look.
When we reach the medical building, Cliff valets the car, and we’re ushered inside the building just like last time, bypassing the waiting rooms as we head up to orthopedics.
The doctor is waiting for me in his office.
“Johnny Cunning,” he says, grinning, as he stands up and offers me his hand—again, like last time. “Good to see you.”
People like him know my real name. It’s written all over the paperwork. Jonathan Elliot Cunningham. I never legally changed it. But I’m always Johnny Cunning to them.
I shake his hand this time and we get down to business.
X-Rays. Examinations.
I mourn a bit when they cut the cast from my wrist, the saw slicing right through the spot where Kennedy signed it, annihilating her words.
“How does your wrist feel?” the doctor asks.
“Like shit,” I admit as I bend it. Looks like shit, too. “It's stiff. Feels weak, like it might snap in half.”
“I assure you that won’t happen. It will ache for awhile, but I can prescribe—”
“No.”
“Okay.” The doctor laughs awkwardly. “Otherwise, it’s healed nicely. No new damage. Must not have been a strong punch you threw.”
Cliff, sitting in the corner of the office, shakes his head. “Just strong enough to make my life a nightmare.”
The doctor finds that hilarious.
“So that’s it?” I ask, flexing my fingers.
“I’m going to give you a brace. Wear it for a few weeks, until you get some strength back. But it can be removed as needed, so there’s no reason you can’t get back to things. Just no stunts.”
“No punching, either,” Cliff chimes in.
“No punching,” the doctor agrees. “Take it easy until your strength comes back.”
The doctor slips a black brace on my wrist, tightening it so it fits snug, and then we’re gone.
“The studio will be happy,” Cliff says as we pull away from the medical center in the car. “I’m going to make some calls, get things rolling tonight so you can get back to filming.”
“What about Serena?”
“We’ll give her a few days,” he says. “Let her recuperate before pulling her onto set.”
“She needs longer than a few days,” I say. “She’s a mess.”
“I’m well-aware,” he says. “I just had her sent to rehab. I’ll send her again as soon as production wraps.”
He says that so matter-of-fact.
Like that’s just that.
“Do you even care?” I ask.
He cuts his eyes at me.