“You should buy a potted plant.”

I laugh at that as I sit on the wooden picnic table at the park in the dark, listening to Jack ramble through the speakerphone beside me. “A plant.”

“Seriously, hear me out—you get a plant. You nurture it, keep it alive, and wham-bam, that’s how you know you’re ready for this whole thing.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a real thing. I saw it in that movie 28 Days.”

“The zombie one?”

“Nah, man, the Sandra Bullock one. You’re thinking about 28 Days Later.”

“You steal your advice from Sandra Bullock movies?”

“Oh, don’t you fucking judge me. It’s a hell of a lot better than that shit you keep making. And besides, it’s good advice.”

“Buy a plant.”

“Yes.”

“Did you buy one?”

“What?”

“A plant,” I say. “Did you buy yourself a plant to prove you’re ready for a relationship?”

“No,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t need a plant to tell me what I already know,” he says. “I’m wearing a pair of emoji boxers and eating hot Cheetos in my basement apartment. Pretty sure the signs are all there.”

“Emoji boxers?” I laugh. “Talk about a stereotypical internet troll.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says. “This isn’t about me, though. We’re talking about you.”

“I’m tired of talking about me.”

“Holy shit, seriously? Didn’t think that was possible!”

“Funny.”

“Remember that interview you did on The Late Show two years ago?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You were stoned out of your mind, kept referring to yourself in third person.”

“Fuck off.”

“Pretty sure that guy would never be tired of talking about himself.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He laughs. “True.”

“You get on my nerves.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sighing, I shake my head. “Thank you.”

“Now go buy yourself a plant,” he says. “I was in the middle of a game of Call of Duty when you called, so I’m going to get back to it.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Oh, and Cunning? I’m glad you haven’t drowned yourself in a bottle of whiskey.”

“Why? Would you miss me?”

“More like your fangirls might murder me if I let you destroy yourself,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re crazy. Have you seen some of their fan art? It’s insane.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” I say, pressing the button on my phone to end the call. I slip it in my pocket when a throat clears behind me, catching me off guard. I turn, wide-eyed, seeing blonde hair shining in the moonlight. “Meghan?”

“Your friend sounds like a real winner,” she says. “Jack, is it? What is he, the eight-hundred pound, acne-riddled, misogynistic president of the Johnny Cunning fan club?”

I laugh dryly. “Not quite.”

Meghan strolls closer, her expression hard, shoulders squared. She’s on guard, rigid, like there’s ice in her veins.

My sister and I weren’t always so cold with each other.

“You can say it, whatever it is,” I tell her. “Whatever you came to say.”

She sits down on the picnic table beside me, staring out at the darkened water.

“This is where Kennedy had Maddie’s first birthday party,” she says. “If you could call it a party. It was just her, me, Kennedy’s parents. No other kids, just family. Dad stopped by and it was… well, it was a disaster.”

I tense. “I didn’t think he had anything to do with Madison.”

“He doesn’t,” she says. “Kennedy’s father told him to leave, said he wasn’t welcome, so Dad dropped off his gift and left, never tried again.”

“What was it?”

“What?”

“The gift.”

I’m not sure why it matters, why I feel the need to know, but I wonder what he gave my daughter on her birthday.

“A sterling silver rattle,” she says, rolling her eyes, “because that’s what a one year old wants. Kennedy threw it, plunked it right in that water over there.”

“Good.”

“Meanwhile, I bought her those little board books,” she says. “And diapers and wipes, because that was what she needed. Well, actually, what she needed was a father, but she got her Aunt Meghan instead. I think I’m a good substitute, but I’m not you.”

“I should’ve been here.”

“You should’ve.”

“I fucked up.”

“You did.”

“I’m trying to do better.”

“That’s what Kennedy says, but if you hurt her, I swear, I’ll hurt you.”

“I’m not going to hurt Madison.”

“I’m not talking about Maddie. If you hurt her, you’ll have a whole host of people ready to tear you apart. I’m talking about her mother. I’ve watched Kennedy try make a life for her and Maddie, and if you waltz your ass on in here and destroy that, if you knock her back down and then walk away, I’ll string you up by the nuts.”

Ouch.

I scrub a hand over my face. “You always were a ball-buster.”

“I’m a woman in politics. I have to be.”

* * *

The apartment door yanks open before I can knock on it, Madison standing there, clutching a piece of paper and a stubby pencil.

“I need a T,” she says right away, glancing at her paper. “I gots a turtle, and a triangle, and a truck, but I need more.”

“A taco?” I suggest.

Her eyes light up, and she yells, “Tacos!” as she skips away to the kitchen. I hesitate before following, shutting the door.

Madison settles in at the table and starts drawing a taco.

“Table,” I tell her. “That’s another one.”

“Table,” she repeats.

“And tiger and teardrop and—”

“And I’m pretty sure I told a certain little girl that she could manage her homework by herself tonight and didn’t need anyone giving her the answers.”

My attention shifts to Kennedy when she walks into the kitchen, cutting me off mid-answer, giving Madison a pointed look. Right away, by looking at her, I know something’s off. Something has her in a bad mood.

Madison scowls and keeps drawing.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” she mutters. “Look, I know you were hoping to spend time with her tonight, but things have been crazy today, work’s a mess—people are out sick and there’s inventory to do, so I have to go back in for a few hours, which means she’s going to have to go to my dad’s.”

My stomach drops.

“He can come,” Madison says.

“I don’t think so,” Kennedy says. “Your grandpa doesn’t like visitors.”

“But he likes us,” she says.

“We’re family,” Kennedy tells her.

“And he’s my daddy,” Madison says, “so that’s our family, too, right?”

Kennedy hesitates. “Right.”

She’s stuck between a rock and a hard place here.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I get it.”

“I’m sorry, really,” Kennedy says, pulling out her phone and dialing a number, sighing dramatically as she mutters to herself, “Answer the freaking phone, Dad…”

He doesn’t answer.

She tries again.

He doesn’t answer that time, either.

Groaning, she hangs up before dialing for the third time.

“I could watch her,” I suggest when she hangs up yet again, getting no answer.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” I say. “Besides, she’s my daughter. I’m equally responsible for her.”

“Never made a difference before,” she mutters as her phone starts ringing. Ouch. Sighing, she glances at it, answering, “Hey, Dad.”

She walks off to talk to him, while I sit down at the kitchen table across from Madison, resigned. She’s busy drawing a table, her taco finished, the word written above it misspelled.

“It’s a C, not a K,” I say, pointing. “T-a-c-o, not t-a-k-o.”

“Thank you,” she says, erasing the whole damn word just to rewrite it properly.

“Anytime, kiddo.”

Kennedy walks back in a minute later, shoving her phone in the back pocket of her work khakis. She doesn’t even look at me as she starts rambling something about homework and dinner and bedtime, reciting rules that Madison soundlessly mimics the same time her mother says them. Clearly, she’s heard this all before…

“Wait, you mean I’m watching her?” I ask, surprised.

Kennedy turns my way. “You wanted to, didn’t you? If not, I can call my dad back.”

“No, no, I did… I do. I’m just surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be. Like you said—she’s your daughter.”

She kisses the top of Madison’s head and says something about being back as soon as she can, and then she’s gone, out the door, heading to work, leaving me sitting here, having not absorbed any of her instructions.

Yeah, I’m going to fuck this up.

Madison finishes drawing her table and adds a tiger and a teardrop into the mix before declaring herself done with homework. She shoves the paper in her backpack before pulling out a beat up notebook and a pencil pouch jammed full of markers. She spreads them out along the table and opens the notebook, flipping through page after page of scribbles.

“What do you have there?” I ask, leaning over, trying to look at the pages, when she inhales sharply and throws herself on top of it, blocking me from seeing anything.

“No, don’t look!” she says, shoving my face away. “It’s not ready!”

“Okay, okay,” I say with a laugh. “I won’t look.”

“Better not, ‘cuz it’s not ready yet for you to look.”

“I won’t look until you tell me I can.”

Only after I say that does she settle back into her chair, satisfied her work is safe. There’s so much of Kennedy in that girl that it’s almost like déjà vu watching her.

Shaking my head, I stand up and look around the kitchen. “Any idea what we’re supposed to do about dinner? I know your mother said something about it.”

“She said no junk food, gotta have real food.”

I glance in the cabinets. “Define real food.”

“Pizza,” she says.

“Ah, pizza I can do,” I say, seeing a flyer on the refrigerator door for delivery.

“And chickens and the breads, too!” Madison declares, continuing to draw in her notebook.

“You got it.”

I call the number, ordering a large pepperoni with chicken wings and breadsticks, even adding a ham and pineapple pizza to the order for Kennedy, in case she’s hungry when she gets home—ordering way too much food for just us.

There’s a knock on the door after about forty-five minutes and I start toward it, pulling out some cash from my wallet, but stop short. I didn’t even think about the fact that somebody might recognize me and question why I’m here. Glancing back at Madison, I consider having her pay them, but well, that goes against everything her mother’s been trying to teach her about not opening the door for strangers.

They knock again, and I take a deep breath before opening the door. It’s a guy, mid-twenties, no older than me. He looks stoned out of his gourd, eyes blazing red, the dank woodsy odor clinging to his uniform, like the guy was smoking on his way to the door. He rambles off the price and I shove some cash at him, taking the pizza. Before I can close the door, though, his bloodshot eyes narrow, face contorting with confusion as he eyes me. “Hey, aren’t you that guy? You know… that one from that movie? The, uh…?” He snaps his fingers, like he’s trying to remember, before he points at me. “Breezeo!”

“Nah, not me,” I say. “Get that all the time, though.”

I shut the door before he can press it any further and watch out the peephole as he lingers. He shrugs it off, though, and strolls away, lighting something before he even reaches his car again.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I turn for the kitchen and nearly slam right into Madison standing there, just inches behind me.

“You told a lie,” she says.

“I did,” I admit, “but it was for the greater-good.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means sometimes it’s better we don’t tell people who I am.”

“Why?”

“Because people are nosey,” I say. “If I admitted who I was, that guy would go back and tell his friends, who would tell their friends, and next thing you know, the whole world would be in my business and want to know what I’m doing here.”

She’s quiet, following me as I carry the pizza to the kitchen. She closes her notebook and sits there as I put some food on a plate for her, sitting down across from her with a plate of my own.

There’s something wrong.

Something’s bothering her. I can tell.

Just like her mother, remember?

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

She shakes her head, saying, “Nothing.”

“Ah, see, now I think you just told a lie.”

“It’s for the greatest-goods.”

I laugh as she tries to throw my words back at me. “Come on, tell me what’s bothering you.”

She lets out the longest, most dramatic sigh, like I’m nagging her half to death here, before she says, “Do you not wanna be my daddy?”

That question is a punch to the chest.

“Of course I do. Why would you think that?”

“ ‘Cuz you don’t want the people to know it,” she says. “And ‘cuz you weren’t my daddy ‘till now.”

Man, I feel like an asshole. None of those little jabs from Kennedy hold an ounce of the pain that Madison's words contain.

“I’ve always been your daddy,” I tell her. “I just wasn’t good at it. I’m trying to be better. And I’d like for people to know, but it’s complicated, and the pizza man really isn’t the person to start with. But we’ll tell everyone. We will.”

She smiles, and eats, like my answer satisfied her, but I don’t feel like any less of an asshole. This isn’t fair to her—at all. I’m here, yeah, and I’m trying, but how much does it count if the entire time I’m sneaking around? Like I can only be her father behind closed doors.

I’m treating her like she’s my dirty little secret.

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, either.

I did the same thing to her mother.

Cliff would tell me I’m overreacting, that it’s about protection—protecting her, yeah, but protecting my image, too. My private life stays private. That’s just how it goes. Jack would tell me to man the fuck up, because living a life in secret is a danger to sobriety. He’d tell me to do what’s right, and stop being a self-centered asshole. But I don’t know what’s right.

“So, uh, now that we have dinner sorted,” I say, “any idea what your mother said about bedtime?”

“Eight o’clock,” Madison says. “And I gotta take a bath at seven-thirty, and then you gotta read me a book, but I get to pick which one.”

“Fair enough,” I say, glancing at a nearby clock—only six-thirty. “We’ve got about an hour. What do you want to do?”

She grins at me. “Draw!”