I send a string of frowny-faces, already wrecked with guilt, because hanging out with him is easy and he's been so nice, but I know it'll just cause problems, and the fact that my feelings for him haven't evolved past acquaintances is a sign that added complication isn't worth the trouble. I shove my phone into my pocket so I can get back to work, hoping the next few hours go faster, but no such luck. Every second seems to drag and drag and drag. By the time three o’clock comes, I feel like I’ve been at this place for days.
On my way out of the store, I run into Bethany, lingering by the register, face buried in the latest edition of Hollywood Chronicles. There’s nothing about Jonathan on the cover. “Anything interesting?”
She scowls, closing the tabloid. “Nothing.”
“I told him you said hey, by the way. He said hey back.”
She laughs. “Yeah, right.”
I give her a smile. Poor girl. She’s going to kick herself. “Anyway, heard you got your weekend off. Big plans?”
“Just the usual,” she says, shrugging.
“The usual, as in, knocking on apartment doors at one a.m. looking for Johnny Cunning?”
“Pretty much.” She’s blushing again. “Josh is such an idiot.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I say, leaving before I take pity on the girl and start spilling my secrets.
I get to my father’s house the same time as Maddie’s bus, meeting her in the front yard as my father rocks in his chair on the porch.
“Grandpa!” Maddie says, running right for him, digging through her backpack to pull out a drawing. “I made you a picture!”
“Well, look at that!” he says, grinning. “A dinosaur!”
She laughs. “No, it’s not, silly! It’s a alligator!”
“Ah, and it’s by far the greatest alligator I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Absolutely perfect!”
She runs inside to hang it up somewhere, like usual. I linger outside, waiting for her to resurface, as my father stares me down.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I repeat.
“So how’s it going?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he repeats.
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.”