Dim church basements aren’t my favorite places, nor are they my idea of a good time. I tend to think of them as necessary evils, although Jack would flip out if he heard me say that. They’re where we go to spill our souls, confessionals for the alcoholics of the world.

Meetings. I fucking hate them.

They’re supposed to be safe, anonymous, but that isn’t always the case. People tend to recognize my face, and well… next thing you know, pictures leak and it turns into a clusterfuck.

Metal folding chairs fill the basement of Hatfield Episcopal. I slip into a seat in the back, grateful that they’re not arranged in a circle so I can keep to myself. New place, new faces, which means they’ll want to hear my story, but I’m not planning to talk. I just need a reminder tonight.

People filter in, about a dozen of them, men and women, nobody I recognize until him.

Son of a bitch.

Michael Garfield.

He heads straight for the front. I avert my gaze, keeping my head down, my hat on, but it’s pointless. He pauses in front of everyone, eyes landing on me as he calls the meeting to order.

Shit.

“Welcome,. My name’s Michael and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hello, Michael.”

The chorus of voices echoes through the room, but I don’t say a word, sitting in silence and staring down at my lap as he continues.

“I’ve been sober now for over twenty years,” he says before going into the usual spiel. I’ve been through so many of these meetings and they always start the same way—a rambling introduction before the floor is opened up to sharing. Nobody seems to be feeling chatty so he suggests, “Why don’t we talk about forgiveness?”

I laugh under my breath. I can feel his gaze.

They talk. I listen.

The meeting lasts ninety minutes.

It feels longer than those ninety days I spent in rehab.

After it’s over, I linger in my seat, letting everyone else filter out of the basement. Michael strolls toward the exit, his footsteps stalling beside my chair. He stares at me for a moment, his expression hard, before he walks away without saying anything.

He’s gone when I make it out of the church. They’re all gone, the parking lot empty. I’m alone.

Pulling out my phone to call Jack, to let him know I made it to that goddamn meeting like he asked, I notice I have a voicemail. Kennedy. She called an hour ago.

I press the button to listen to it as I head through the parking lot, my footsteps faltering when the voice clicks on. No, not Kennedy. Madison.

“Mommy said I could call you ‘cuz when I woke up you were gone. She said you ate spaghettis, but then you had to go. And I’m gonna eat some now ‘cuz it’s my favorite other than cheese pizza with just cheese. Maybe we can have some tomorrow when I’m not at school! We can play again if my mommy says it’s okay, but you should ask and not me, ‘cuz it’s a school night but she might say yes if you ask.”

Kennedy laughs in the background, saying, “I can hear you.”

“Uh-oh,” Madison whispers. “I gotta go now.”

Smiling to myself after she hangs up, I open my texts and send one to Kennedy. Sorry I missed it, but thanks for letting her call.

Her response comes right away. Of course.

I consider it a moment before typing: Any chance we can do it again tomorrow? I’ll supply the pizza if you'll supply the kid.

As soon as I hit send, I type another. Completely my idea, of course.

There isn’t a response—not right away, at least. I slip my phone in my pocket and make the trek to the inn, the neighborhood quiet.

Reaching the place, I step up on the porch as my phone vibrates with a message. I look at it, my stomach dropping.

I don’t think so.

Before I can put the phone away, I see she’s typing again. It goes on and on and on as I stand here, waiting, trying to not get my hopes up.

It feels like a fucking century before the message comes through.

I’m going to be busy at work, but Tuesday is better. Is that okay with you?

Sounds good.

I slip my phone away as the front door of the inn yanks open, McKleski appearing in the doorway. “You planning on coming in or are you going to spend the night out here?”

There’s a bite to her words, but it doesn’t get under my skin. I step past her. “Not sure which would be more comfortable.”

“Porch, probably. I might even toss you a pillow.”

“They always did say you were hospitable.”

“And they always said you were a bit of a rascal.”

“A rascal,” I mumble.

“Indeed,” she says, “but if you ask me, I’d say that’s putting it mildly.”

“Well, good thing we’re not asking you, huh?”

She laughs at that, patting me on the back. “Certainly is, because if we were asking me, there’s quite a bit I’d have to say.”

“Like?”

I regret it the moment I ask that. This woman wouldn’t hesitate to drag me to hell and back with venom of her words.

“Oh, no, I’m not playing that game.”

“What game?”

“The one where I give you more reason to mope around here with that ‘poor me’ attitude.”

“I’m not moping.”

“He says in a mopey voice.”

I laugh as she mocks me. “I’ll have you know I’ve actually had a good day.”

“Well, good for you,” she says. “If you’re hungry, there’s food in the kitchen, but I’m going to bed, so keep all the ruckus down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

Monday came and went.

I almost spent the entire day in bed, but McKleski wasn’t having that shit. I woke up to pounding on the bedroom door sometime in the afternoon, a list of chores tossed at me.

Things to do.

“Since you’re staying here,” she said, “you might as well do something.”

I did it all—or at least, what I could. Cleaning, hanging pictures, fixing a creaky door. It wasn’t easy with my wrist fucked up, and I’m not used to manual labor, but I made it work, keeping busy, waiting for Tuesday.

Tuesday.

When five o’clock Tuesday evening comes, I approach the apartment, carrying two large pizzas—a cheese pizza with only cheese, like Madison requested, the other a monstrosity made with ham and pineapple.

Hesitantly, I knock, hearing a flurry of footsteps inside before the door yanks open, the little ball of energy in front of me, grinning.

“Madison Jacqueline!” Kennedy shouts, popping up in my line of sight. “What did I say about answering the door like that?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen, and before I can say a word, she swings the door shut, slamming it in my face. I stand here for a moment before the door cracks open again, her head peeking out as she whispers, “You gots to knock.”

As soon as it shuts again, I tap on the door.

“Who’s there?” she yells.

“Jonathan.”

“Jonathan who?”

I laugh, shifting the pizzas around when they start slipping from my grip. Before I can answer, the door opens once more, Kennedy standing there.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, motioning for me to come in as she grasps Madison by the shoulders, steering her along. “We’re working on this stranger danger thing. She’s way too trusting.”

“But I know it was him,” Madison protests.

“You can never be too sure,” Kennedy says. “It’s always best to double-check.”

I open my mouth to offer an opinion but stop myself, not sure if I’m at that place where my advice is welcome. I’m not trying to get kicked out before even eating any pizza.

“So, uh, where should I…?” I told up the pizza boxes as I trail off.

“Oh, right. Kitchen table’s fine.”

“I’ll show you!” Madison announces, as if I don’t know where it is, but I let her lead me there anyway. Kennedy shuts the door and follows behind us. I set the boxes on the table, and Madison doesn’t hesitate, popping the top one open. She makes a face, looking horrified. “Gross!”

“What in the world are you—?” Kennedy laughs as she glances at the pizza. “Ham and pineapple.”

“Why is that fruit on the pizza?” Madison asks.

“Because it’s good,” Kennedy says, snatching the top box away before opening the other one. “There, that one’s for you.”

Madison shrugs it off, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza, eating straight from the box. I’m gathering this is normal, since Kennedy sits down beside her to do the same.

“You remembered,” she says plucking a piece of pineapple off a slice of pizza and popping it in her mouth.

“Of course,” I say, grabbing a slice of cheese from the box Madison is hoarding. “Pretty sure I’m scarred for life because of it. Not something I can forget.”

She laughs, the sound soft, as she gives me one of the most genuine smiles I’ve seen in a while. It fades as she averts her gaze, but goddamn it, it happened.

“You shoulda gots the breads,” Madison says, standing on her chair as she leans closer, vying for my attention like she’s afraid I might not see her. “And the chickens!”

“Ah, didn’t know you liked those,” I tell her, “or I would’ve gotten them.”

“Next time,” she says, just like that, no question about it.

“Next time,” I say.

“And soda, too,” she says.

“No soda,” Kennedy chimes in.

Madison glances at her mother before leaning even closer, damn near right up on me, whisper-shouting, “Soda.”

“I’m not so sure your mom will like that,” I say.

“It’s okay,” Madison says. “She tells Grandpa no soda, too, but he lets me have it.”

“That’s because you emotionally blackmail him,” Kennedy says.

“Nuh-uh!” Madison says, looking at her mother. “I don’t blackmail him!”

Kennedy scoffs. “How do you know? You don’t even know what that means.”

“So?” Madison says. “I don’t mail him nothing!”

I’m trying not to laugh, I am, but Jesus Christ, it’s almost like she’s arguing with herself. Kennedy was always stubborn as hell, but I've never been any better. It’s why, when the two of us fought, things got ugly.

“You give him those sad puppy-dog eyes,” Kennedy says, grabbing Madison by the chin, squeezing her chubby cheeks. “And you tell him you’ll love him ‘the mostest’ if he gives you some Coca-Cola to drink.”

“ ‘Cuz I will,” Madison says.

“That’s emotional blackmail.”

“Oh.” Madison makes a face, turning to me when her mother lets go of her. “How ‘bout root beer?”

“I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “Sorry.”

Madison scowls, hopping down from the table to grab a juice box from the refrigerator.

Silence surrounds the table, but it only lasts a moment before Madison decides on something else she wants to talk about. The kid can ease even the most awkward situations, I’m realizing, as she chatters away, telling some story about something somebody at school did for Show & Tell today.

“Go wash up,” Kennedy tells her when she’s done eating, pizza sauce all over her hands and face. “Finish your homework and then you can play.”

Madison jumps down from the table to run off. I hear water running in the distance as Kennedy puts the leftovers away.

“Homework in kindergarten,” I say.

“It’s just drawing stuff,” she says, sitting back down across from me. “Draw three things that start with the letter ‘S’. Not hard, but she loves art, so she never stops at three. It always ends up like an entire picture book.”

Sounds like someone else I know—her mother, who drums her fingers along the table, looking anxious. She always was fidgety, but she used to channel that energy into creating.

“Do you still write?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs.

I want her to look at me. I know that’s hypocritical. It's selfish. I want a lot. I’m asking for a lot, more than I deserve after everything that happened. I hurt her, and I wish I could take it back, be the man she thought I was.

I reach across the table, my fingertips barely grazing hers before she pulls her hands away. They disappear beneath the table—clenched into fists, probably. Wouldn’t doubt it. It does the trick, though, her gaze meeting mine.

“What can I do?” I ask. “I’ll do it.”

I’m sounding fucking desperate, I know, but I am. My therapist would tell me it’s unhealthy, that I’m being co-dependent. Jack would probably tell me to stop being a pathetic son of a bitch. Cliff, he’d likely remind me that I have the whole world at my fingertips, but that doesn’t seem to matter, not when the first person to ever truly believe in me looks at me like I’m the worst of the worst.

She hesitates a moment, but before she can say anything, Madison waltzes in, slapping her paper down on the table between us.

“I need more that’s an S,” she says, her paper filled with a dozen of them. Overachiever.

“Snowflake,” Kennedy says, scanning the paper, her hands back on the table as she points to something. “You spelled ‘scissors’ wrong. There’s a C after the first S.”

Madison scowls, grabbing the paper to run out.

As soon as she’s gone, I try again, reaching across the table for Kennedy’s hands. She doesn’t pull away this time when I touch her, my hands covering hers.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her voice quiet. “It’s been six years, Jonathan. Six years.”

“I know, but I just…”

“You just what? Assume I still love you?”

“Do you?”

She shakes her head, but it’s not a denial. It’s more exasperation that I have the nerve to ask her that question.

Madison runs back in, and I pull my hands away, dropping it.

“How did you spell scissors?” she asks, erasing the word on her paper. Kennedy spells it out, and she writes it before tossing her pencil down. “Done!”

“Good job,” Kennedy says. “You can play now.”

Madison turns to me. “Do you wanna play?”

“Of course,” I say, following her to her bedroom, figuring it best to give her mother some space, lest I push her too far and she punch me in the face.

I’m secure in my manhood. I have no qualms playing with dolls. So when Madison shoves a Barbie at me, I don’t even balk. I’ll give her the best goddamn Barbie performance she ever saw, if that’s what she wants.

I stare at the Barbie, though, as Madison digs through a toy box. It looks different than the ones my sister played with growing up. This Barbie looks more like a scientist than a stripper, fully clothed, her hair still intact.

“Found it!” Madison says, holding up another doll. I freeze when I look at it, seeing the familiar white and blue suit and the head of blond hair. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

They made me into a doll. Or him, rather. Breezeo. Not an action figure, no—a straight up collector’s edition Barbie doll.

“I’ll be Breezeo and Barbie can be Maryanne for you,” she says, sitting down on the floor and patting the wood beside her.

“Wait, shouldn’t I be Breezeo?”

“You’re him all the time, so it’s my turn now.”

Well, can’t argue with that logic.

“Barbie’s got the wrong color hair,” I say. “Don’t you have a Maryanne doll?”

“No, ‘cuz it costs too many dollars, but you can pretend, right?”

“Right,” I say, although she suddenly looks skeptical, like she doubts my abilities. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

She starts things off. I don’t know what’s happening, and she doesn’t give me any direction, so I’m improvising. She switches things up on me, throwing in plot twists. We’re on the run from some bad guys before suddenly we’re in school. I graduate, we both become veterinarians to her stuffed animals, and next thing I know, I’m running for president of the world.

It’s funny. She’s funny. The girl is quick on her feet. She gets distracted eventually, though, and puts down the doll to draw again. She’s intense about it, in a trance, and I excuse myself, but I don’t know if she notices. Picking up the Breezeo doll, I stroll down the hallway, seeing movement in another room.

Kennedy’s bedroom.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, changed out of her work uniform, wearing sweats and a tank top, busy pulling her hair up. I stall when I reach the doorway, still lurking in the hall, not wanting to invade her space. She eyes me warily, her attention shifting to the doll I’m holding.

She laughs.

Yeah, she fucking laughs.

“Did she make you perform for her?” she asks, nodding to the doll.

“No, she actually made me be Barbie,” I say. “I don’t think she was that impressed with my skills, because she gave up and went back to drawing.”

Another laugh.

I could listen to that sound forever.

“Don’t take it personal,” she says, brushing past me out of the bedroom. “I’m sure you did a better job than I do. I usually get demoted to an audience member.”

Kennedy heads to the living room. I follow her, curious, as she settles in on the couch, turning on the television. She curls up, flipping through channels in silence, the room dim. The sun is setting outside, which means they’ll soon be going to bed.

“Do you work every day?” I ask.

“Weekdays.”

“So you have weekends off?”

“Usually,” she says. “I work while Maddie’s in school.”

“And when you’re not working? What do you do?”

She cuts her eyes at me like I’m stupid.

I’m guessing this is it.

“I should probably get going,” I say, strolling back to Madison’s bedroom, finding her still drawing. “Hey, Maddie.”

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna go now.”

She stops what she’s doing. “Why?”

“Because it’s getting late.”

“But why can’t you stay?”

Because I fucked up years ago and I don’t know if I can ever make things right again.

“I just can’t,” I say. “But I’ll come back.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Uh, not tomorrow, but soon.”

“When soon?”

“First chance I get, I’ll be here.”

“Okay,” she says, turning back to her drawing. "Bye!"

“Bye, Maddie.”

Kennedy eyes me warily when I walk back into the living room.

“I have to head back to the city in the morning,” I say, hesitating near the front door.

“You’re leaving already,” she says, a sharpness to her words. It’s almost accusatory. “Should’ve known.”

“I’m coming back.”

“I’m sure you are.”

I don’t think she believes me.

As much as I want to stay and convince her, I know she won’t believe me until I prove myself, so I leave the apartment, closing the door, and stand there until I hear her locking up.

* * *

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite client…”

I stall in the doorway of McKleski’s kitchen the moment those words strike me. Cliff. Morning sunshine streams through the downstairs of the inn, already warming the place to uncomfortable levels, because the old broad doesn’t believe in air conditioning. Cliff sits at the kitchen table, eating what looks like an omelet, eyes glued to the Blackberry beside his plate.

McKleski is busy doing dishes across the room, scrubbing a pan she obviously used to cook for him this morning. What the hell?

“Are you talking to me?” I ask, not entirely sure at this point.

“Who else would I be talking to?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble, sitting down across from him. “Could be anybody.”

He looks at me, eyes carefully scanning my face. I know what he’s looking for. The signs. I’m pretty sure I look like hell. I haven’t even bothered to shave. But he’s not going to see them today, not going to see the signs. I want to say fuck him for thinking he might, but I can’t really blame him for the suspicion, can I?

I’ve fucked up plenty of times.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Sober,” I mumble.

“I can see that,” he says. “Otherwise?”

“Kind of tired.” I glance at his plate. “Kind of hungry.”

“I’m sure your lovely hostess would be happy to whip you up some breakfast.”

“No,” McKleski chimes in. “I wouldn’t.”

“Or not,” Cliff says, taking the last bite of his omelet, not even fazed.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t need anybody to take care of me. I can fend for myself.”

Cliff drops his fork. “If that was true, I’d be out of a job.”

“Whatever. What are you even doing here? How’d you figure out where I was staying?”

“It’s a small town,” he says. “There weren’t many options. And I’m here because you haven’t been answering your phone, so I wasn’t sure if you remembered you had an appointment. Figured I'd tag along so you didn't have to go alone.”

“I remembered,” I say. “And thanks.”

“But for the record, if you’d finally hire a new assistant, I wouldn’t have to concern myself with your schedule. It’s been over a year since you’ve had anyone helping you. I still don’t understand why you fired the last guy.”

“He was a crackhead.”

“And you were a cokehead.”

“He stole from me.”

“What did he steal? Your drugs?”

I’m not going to dignify that with a response.

It’s true, but still… fuck that assumption.

“Can we go?” I ask. “I want to get this day over with.”

“Huh, thought you were less of a moody prick these days.”

“I am. I’m just… I don’t know.”

“Sounds like you.” Cliff grabs his Blackberry and shoves his chair back as McKleski takes his empty plate. “Breakfast was wonderful. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” McKleski says, smiling. “I enjoy cooking for those that appreciate things.”

I let that one slide.

Cliff stands, motioning for me to follow him, waiting until we’re outside before he says, “Man, does that woman give you a hard time or what?”

“Always has,” I say. “First time I ever got arrested, she was the one who called the police.”

Cliff laughs as we approach a sleek black sedan.

“Nice car,” I say.

“I rented it,” he says. “Didn’t want to call for a car service and give away your location.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just doing my job,” he says. “Come on, I'll drive.”

I climb in the passenger seat.

I have a car. It's parked in a private garage in the city. I had it hauled in when filming started, in case I needed it, but I'm not supposed to drive until the doctor clears me. Stick shift.

It takes over two hours to get to the city. Another hour in traffic. Cliff valets the car when we reach the medical center. Weill Cornell. Orthopedics. I lower my head as we pass dozens of people, making our way to the seventh floor, going straight to the orthopedic surgeon’s office, where they’re awaiting my arrival.

Look, I get it—it’s bullshit. Not just anybody can walk in and be seen right away, bypassing the waiting rooms. It’s a privilege I’m grateful for—especially today. I’m nervous enough, being here, dealing with this. Anticipation and paranoia would make it insufferable.

“Mr. Cunning, how are you?” the doctor asks, standing up and holding his hand out, expecting me to shake it even wearing the sling.

“Okay,” I say, ignoring his extended hand. “Ready to get this over with.”

“A man on a mission,” he says. “I like that.”

He doesn’t waste any more time, sending me straight for X-rays. It hurts like a son of a bitch when they examine my wrist, burning pain shooting up my arm and down to the tips of my fingers.

“Well, the good news is the bones haven’t shifted, so doesn’t appear you’ll need surgery,” the doctor says. “Bad news, of course, is you’ll be in a cast for the next few weeks.”

“Awesome,” I mutter, flexing my fingers.

“How many weeks?” Cliff asks, standing in the corner of the office on his Blackberry.

“Hard to say for sure… four, I’d estimate.”

“So another month?” Cliff asks.

“Yes,” the doctor says. “He’ll likely need some occupational therapy afterward.”

“But he’ll be out of the cast?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know,” Cliff says. “Is there any way to speed up the healing process?”

“Well, there’s no miracle treatment, but some things might help. Vitamins. Calcium. Exercises.”

“So get a stress ball and drink milk?”

“Pretty much,” the doctor says. “Leafy greens are good.”

They talk back and forth about me like I’m not even here. I stare down at my swollen wrist in annoyance as I wiggle my fingers.

“Anyway, let’s get you wrapped up,” the doctor says, “so you can be on your way.”

A white fiberglass cast. He doesn’t bother with the frilly colored bullshit, keeping it simple before sending me on my way.

I climb into the passenger seat of Cliff’s rental, and he immediately starts rambling. “If you’re out of the cast in the next few weeks, you can probably film again sooner than expected.”

“You think so?” I ask, watching him as he goes through his Blackberry, checking his calendar.

“You’ve got a stunt-double to handle the action, so all they need is your voice…” He cuts his eyes at me. “And that pretty face of yours, of course.”

“Of course,” I mutter, trying like hell not to let that bruise my ego, but damn. Acting is more than just reciting lines. “What about Serena?”

“What about her?”

“She’s in rehab.”

“So?”

“So how are we going to start filming again next month if she’s gone for ninety days?”

He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind. “You really think she’ll last that long?”

“You don’t?”

“You never lasted,” he says. “Not until you hit bottom.”

“And you don’t think she has?”

“Not even close. The only reason she’s there right now is because the studio demanded it,” he says. “But don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of her. You worry about getting better.”