It’s raining.

It doesn’t rain a lot here, no more than average, but it always seems to want to rain at the worst moments. It’s as if the sky has a direct line to my emotions. When things get all twisted up inside of me, the world starts cracking and the sky comes apart.

It was storming when I woke up this morning, but now, early evening, barely a trickle falls. The rain has slowed enough for Maddie to splash around in the mud puddles in my father’s front yard, while I sit in a chair on the porch. My father is beside me, steadily rocking.

“You look lost again,” he says. “Like you don’t know whether you’re coming or going.”

I glance his way. “I’m getting a déjà vu vibe here, Dad.”

“You and me both, kiddo,” he says. “Seems like every few months we go through this. He shows up, and then he leaves, and you’re left behind to grieve.”

“It’s different this time.”

“Is it?”

“He’s coming back.”

“Didn’t he always?”

“Yeah, but…”

“But it’s different,” he says. “Yet, it’s not.”

I sigh, exasperated, which only serves to make him laugh.

“He wanted us to go with him."

My father looks surprised. “So why are you sitting here?”

I blink at him. “Are you not the same man who went ballistic last time I left with him?”

“And are you not the same girl who didn’t care what anybody thought, you were going?”

“I was only seventeen. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Which is why I went ballistic.”

I turn away, looking at Maddie. She’s covered in mud and smiling. She doesn’t look lost at all. She looks like she knows exactly where she belongs.

I wish I had her resilience.

I wish Jonathan’s words alone were enough to calm my fears.

He’s been gone for two weeks.

We’re halfway through the month already. Two more weeks and he’s supposed to be done. They’re in Europe now, and the time difference makes it difficult. The calls are sporadic, thirty-second voicemails telling Maddie goodnight or saying ‘I love you’. I wake up to texts, and by the time I answer, he’s too busy to read them.

“I can’t live my life on his terms,” I say.

“And he can’t live his life on yours,” my father says. “That’s why there’s such a thing as compromise. Your mother and I, we rarely agreed on anything. It was a matter of give and take. You win some, you lose some, and you keep on playing.”

Maddie runs over to us, shoving her hair from her face. She jumps up onto the porch, trailing mud behind her, and instantly, without a single second thought, she flings herself at me. I gasp. She’s drenched, the hug getting me muddy.

Giggling, she runs off again, yelling, “Got you!”

“You little…” I jump up, and she squeals as I chase her back off of the porch. She expects me to stop there, but I run out into the yard. The ground's slick, and I slip, and… “Ah!”

My feet come out from under me, and I go down, but not before I get my hands on Maddie, taking her along. We both land flat in the grass, stunned, covered in mud.

My father laughs from the porch.

“Got you,” I say, sitting up, poking Maddie in the side when she gets to her feet. She jumps on me, trying to tackle me, as my pocket vibrates. I’m confused until I hear the muffled ringing. “Oh, hold on, truce!”

I hold a hand up to stop Maddie as I grab my phone. She gives me barely five seconds to look at the screen before she tries to take me down, just enough time to see his name on FaceTime. Jonathan.

“Wait! It’s your daddy!” I say, but I’m too late, because the girl slams into me so hard the phone goes flying, landing on the wet grass.

Maddie grabs the phone as it goes silent. Eyes wide, she shoves it at me. “Fix it, Mommy.”

“Is it broken?” I ask, pressing buttons, grateful it still works. Opening FaceTime, I call him back. It rings and rings and rings and my heart sings when he picks up.

He’s in a bed in a dim room, looking like he’s half-asleep. His brow furrows. “What are you doing? Mud wrestling?”

“I, uh… yep.”

He laughs, a sleepy kind of laugh.

The sound does things to my insides.

“Hey, Daddy!” Maddie says, jumping on my back, choking me as she wraps her arms around my neck. “Are you napping?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Kind of sad I’m missing all the fun.”

“Is Breezeo not being fun?” Maddie asks, snatching the phone from my hand to take over.

“It’s a lot of work,” he says. “Not nearly as much fun as you seem to be having.”

“Don’t worry, we can have fun when you come home,” Maddie says. “We can play in the rain, and you and Mommy can wrestle!”

“Promise?”

“Yep.”

“Good,” he says. “Can you put your mom back on? I can’t talk long.”

“Okay,” she says, handing the phone to me, yelling, “Bye!”

She’s off, running up onto the porch, as I look at Jonathan.

“I’d ask how you’re doing,” he says, “but I think the sight of you right now probably sums it up.”

“What, I’m a mess?”

He laughs. “No comment.”

“Yeah, well, you look…”

“Like shit? I feel it. Long days and we’re still falling behind. I’m going to be cutting it close on making it back in time.”

In time.

My gaze flickers to Maddie before I go back to Jonathan, who looks incredibly nervous. “How close?”

“Depends,” he says. “When’s the play exactly?”

“Three o’clock on the second of June.”

He hesitates. “We wrap that morning in New Jersey.”

My heart drops the whole way to my toes.

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

“Kind of hard not to worry.”

“I’ll make it. I promised her I would. I just wanted you to know, in case…”

“In case you didn’t make it?”

“In case I had to break a few laws.”

I laugh at that. “I’ll forgive you.”

He gazes at me, like he wants to say more but he isn’t sure of the words.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seem off.”

“I’m just tired,” he says. “Days feel like months without you.”

Those words, they resonate with a deep part of me, a part that feels so much older and so much colder than it ought to be. “I know the feeling.”

“I’m in Paris right now,” he says. “Three days ago, I was in Amsterdam. I’ve been all over the world, but the only place I really want to be is Bennett Landing.”

“You hate Bennett Landing.”

“It’s where you are. Where Madison is.”

“We’ll be here,” I say. “And we’ll see you at three o’clock on the second of June.”

“You will.” He smiles. “I need to try to get some sleep. I’m due on set in a few hours.”

“Okay,” I say. “Sleep well.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing the button to end the call, the screen going black as the words sit on the tip of my tongue in response. I love you.

Today makes ten years since the night we ran away. Our tenth Dreamiversary. He didn’t mention it. I don’t know if he remembers, but I’ll never forget. By choosing him, I changed my entire world, and looking at my mud-covered little girl, I know I’ll never regret a single moment.

* * *

There are only a few blank pages left in the back of my old tattered notebook. After Maddie came to be, the narrative changed. It was no longer a story about a brazen boy with stars in his eyes and a lovesick girl with her heart on her sleeve, no more ‘you’ and ‘her’ to speak of. The plotline fractured. That boy and girl still existed in the world, and occasionally their stories intersected, but their worlds were just too different.

It became the story of a wandering man, one whose dream was killing him.

It became the story of a heartbroken woman, one who found her purpose.

Both stories continued to be documented, just not like before. One played out on the cover of tabloids, while the other was scribbled in baby books.

I always thought the first story was finished, the original one, and maybe it is. Maybe this is just an epilogue, or maybe it’s a sequel.

I run my hand along the tattered notebook cover. Maddie’s asleep, lying beside me on the couch. Breezeo is quietly playing on the TV screen, still on that endless loop.

There’s a knock on the apartment door. I set aside the notebook. It’s late, pushing ten o’clock at night. Glancing out the peephole, I see someone standing there—a guy, about my age, with shaggy blond hair, wearing jeans and a black Call of Duty t-shirt. He’s holding something, looking nervous, mumbling to himself.

He knocks again, so I open the door a crack, just enough to greet him. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Kennedy?”

“That’s me.”

His brow furrows. He looks me over. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” I say. “And you are…?”

I’m about two seconds from slamming the door in his face, because he looks at me like there’s no way I can be who he’s looking for. I’m wearing pajamas, my hair in a messy bun, still damp from the long hot shower I took to wash off the mud.

He shakes his head. “I know your boyfriend—or, uh, whatever you wanna call the dude. My name’s Jack.”

“Jack,” I say, and I know my expression must mirror his. “Seriously?”

“I’m guessing you’ve heard of me.”

“He’s mentioned you,” I say. “The way he talked, I guess I didn’t expect you to look so normal.”

“He calls me a troll, doesn’t he? That fucking undeserving jackass…”

I laugh, opening the door further. “So, what can I do for you, Jack?”

He holds something up—a gift box. “Just doing a favor for the asshole and dropping this off.”

I take it from him, surprised. “This is from Jonathan?”

“Jonathan,” he says with a laugh. “Never heard anyone call him that. But yeah, Jonathan asked me to get it to you, said it was important it be today. He would’ve mailed it, but he’s busy making another shitty sequel… my words there, not his… and he didn’t trust anyone else, so here I am.”

“Wow, you came this whole way for him? Did he pay for your gas, at least?”

“Better than that—he hired me.”

“Really?”

“Said he needed someone to lighten his load and keep people off of his ass. I told him I wasn’t blowing anyone for him, but if he pays me enough, I’ve got no problem being his errand boy and yelling at him when he’s supposed to be somewhere,” he says. “And who am I kidding, for the obscene amount he offered me? I’d probably blow somebody.”

A personal assistant. Wow. I have no idea how the two of them are going to work together, but I can tell already it’s going to be interesting. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

He mock salutes me. “Sure thing. Have a good night.”

“You, too,” I say, closing the door as he leaves. I lock up again before opening the box to find a spiral notebook inside. It’s simple, college-ruled, with a blue cover, a glittery blue gel pen on top of it. Couldn’t have cost him more than a dollar. When I take it out of the box, a note slips from the front of the notebook, falling to the floor by my feet. I pick it up to read.

My eyes sting. Ugh, I’m crying. My vision blurs, and I blink away tears as I sit back down on the couch. I open the fresh notebook, staring at the blank lines for a moment before I start writing, glittery blue ink flowing across the page: