3. Laguna

WHEN I GET back to Rinoa's on Friday evening, there's this black Range Rover parked on the street out front, all tinted windows and custom rims (and, if it's even worth mentioning, way the hell out of my price range). A curious, maybe even treacherous voice in the back of my mind wonders who it belongs to as I get out of my average-as-average-can-be car and head for the front door.

I quickly ring the bell and right away I can hear Harper's eager steps running toward the landing, Angelo's dutiful bark, and Rinoa calling out after both of them. Harper's arms are around my waist as soon as the door opens.

There's something to be said for the uncomplicated, honest kind of love that a kid can have for a parent, and vice versa; it's almost surprising, like here's this human who is actually excited to see you, who wants to spend time with you. I pick her up and rest her on my hip, and it feels natural, as if it's something I've done my entire life, and not just the few short years that she's been a part of it.

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hey Harps." I give her a quick kiss before turning my attention to Rinoa. She passes Harper's backpack to my free hand.

She's close enough that I can smell her perfume, Guerlain Shalimar, that warm floral that she used to keep on our dresser, the one that she wore on our dates. It takes me back to twenty-one in Downtown Balamb, walking on the boardwalk along Monteo Boulevard just after dinner. Her laugh against the sound of ocean waves and buskers and gulls. I wonder darkly who she's wearing it for now, because it's definitely not me.

"Be good for Dad?" she asks, cocking her head to one side. Her nose scrunches and she does that cute sideways smile that's driven me crazy for as long as I've known her. Unfair move. I have no expression of the sort to counter (not that it would matter; only one of us is in love, here).

"I will! Love you, Mommy!"

"Love you too, babe."

"See you Sunday," is the only thing that I say to her, a phrase she parrots back in equally plain tones before I head out with Harper in tow. Part of me wants to stick around and see if I can spot the owner of that dark SUV, but I'm afraid of what I might find out. And I know I have no right to be jealous or harbour this kind of paranoia, but I can't help myself sometimes.

Harper seems thankfully oblivious to the machinations of my mind as I drive back toward Wilburn Hill, past ever-more-excited streets, all coming to life in Deling's weekend reawakening. It's been a long time since I've been out for the sake of being out like that, and some nights I miss it more than others; I miss not knowing what's next, I miss the energy, I miss the buzz and the high (and I even miss—although not without a healthy dose of shame and guilt—all the things that got me into so much goddamned trouble with Garden, with Rinoa, with everything).

I know it's stupid, and it really doesn't make any sense to feel this way, especially not as a parent with a kid in the backseat. It's a secret want, a longing that starts in my gut and not my head. It has no consideration for the reality bearing down on me. And now I'm stuck with pangs of what-is-Rinoa-doing (or worse, who), which makes the wanting even more pronounced, almost like a nagging thought, or some bad memory that'd be better off forgotten.

I steal a quick glance at Harper, her little gaze watching the passing lights, unbothered, and I quietly remind myself why I cannot go down that road again.

—

THERE ARE SOME sleepless nights where I like to do this fun thing that includes going through my memories one at a time, and then analyzing all the fuck-ups I've incurred in my nearly three decades on this planet. Is it pointless? Yes. Will the toiling change anything? No. But I've come to accept that some of the shit that gets stuck on repeat in my head will just never make sense. Take right now, for example: the particular scenario on the menu is the first time I found out Rinoa was seeing a guy that wasn't me.

It was about a year and a half ago; Rinoa had me picking up Harper right from daycare one Friday. Turns out, she was headed on a date with some guy from her work, which really should have been fine, should have been expected after years of separation. But timing usually never works out, at least not in my experience, this revelation was received one, right after she told me she didn't love me, and two, right after I'd been making this massive effort to clean up my act and fly straight.

Well, goddamn if point two wasn't just thrown right out the fucking window.

I remember asking Laguna to watch Harper and then getting loser-trashed downtown. And then it was passing out in my car, waking up to the cops knocking on the window just before dawn, and then abusing my status as a SeeD (almost as badly as I'd abused my body the night before) to get them off my back.

And then there was Laguna's reaction once I got back to his place after half a dozen missed calls and even more unanswered texts. I think that was the absolute worst thing I could have done to him, showing up at his door still wrecked from a wretched mix of booze and whatever else I'd managed to get my hands on. And to be that way in front of Harper, no less. My father (in a moment where it actually felt like he was my dad) hauled my ass into the house and sent me to the guest room with a glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a bucket to puke in.

It was all just a stupid, shitty series of events that unravelled in a matter of hours. And I knew full well at the time that I was being a hypocrite. It's not like I hadn't just been dating another woman only a few months prior. Even right now, as I'm struggling not to obsess over that black SUV, I'm trying to remind myself that I've gone on dates, that I've found myself in strange beds—hell, it was only Tuesday that I was thinking of getting with that cute server at the pub.

Sometimes I wonder if I should go and get some actual help. I remember being forced into Garden-mandated counselling sessions and absolutely hating every minute of it—albeit, this was after I did a good share of damage to my position, which of course was caused by a laundry list of reckless behaviour. And that was all on their terms, not mine. I guess I just don't know if it'd do me any good to even try—there's probably not a shrink out there that could sort the mess my brain's become.

Whatever. I've got a half a joint and a cig, and Harper's long since gone to bed. I head out onto the patio and hope to get stoned enough to pass out.

—

LAGUNA LOIRE USED to be an enigma to me. And I was such a smug asshole as a teenager, with an undeserved superiority complex framing my less-than-rosy perception of him. I'd called him a moron, a deadbeat dad, an absent asshole (and much, much worse) in my head, to his face, to anyone who'd listen. But I was immature and quick to judge back then—not that I'm all that much better now, but at least I can say I'm aware of it—and my father had made himself an easy target for my angst.

Laguna's house isn't quite as extravagant as you'd expect from an ex-President, but it is in the nicest part of town, at the north end by Malgo Bay. There's still a gate to get onto the property, more at Kiros' insistence for security than Laguna's own discretion, and then it's a short trip up the dogwood-lined driveway, toward the large tudor-style stonework house. It's chilly and a bit windy as we get out of the car and round up the entryway steps; the front lawn is still crisp with frost that has yet to melt under the Saturday morning sun.

I let us inside, skipping the formality of a knock, and am greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of the TV playing in the background. Laguna's home is warm, inviting, and full of character. There's art hanging on the walls, Kandinsky and Albers contrasting the old wooden beams in the vaulted ceilings. A copy of Timber Maniacs sits framed in the foyer, his first cover story, the February '79 issue. "Storytelling in the Sorceress Era", it reads in bold, dark print.

Harper loves visiting this place, and if I'm being honest, I kind of do, too—it feels almost like a home to me, even though I never grew up here. Sometimes I try to picture what it would've been like—me, Ellone, Laguna, and Raine. An actual family. It feels like a ghost memory living in some faraway and fractured reality.

I hang Harper's winter coat up and help her get her boots off, but before I can do anything else, she's bolting down the hallway, past the study and the dining area, and rounding through to the kitchen at the other end of the house. I follow her to find Laguna, sitting at the white granite breakfast bar and watching the Estharii news. The big windows bathe the room in the eastern sunlight, inviting and bright against the pale grey walls.

His attention diverts as he sets sight on us, and his smile turns up the crows feet around his eyes. "Hey guys!"

Harper jumps into his lap. For a second I worry that she's thrown him off-balance, but he manages to catch her (with all the grace I've come to expect from him—none). "Grandpa!"

It's weird, even now, hearing her call him that, especially since I still can't bring myself to call him anything other than Laguna, but I don't let my own hang-ups get in the way of the two of them building a relationship; Harper deserves this normalcy, this stable figure in her life. Not to mention, Laguna's done a hell of a lot better at this than that bull-headed prick, Fury Caraway—although that's just my humble opinion.

I help myself to the coffee (brewed, of course; another common trait) and offer him a quick nod and a "hello". There's another seat next to him at the breakfast bar. I choose instead to lean on the countertop behind me.

"How are you guys doing?" he asks, repositioning himself so that Harper's comfortably sat on his knee.

"Dad helped me draw a chocobo last night!" Harper doesn't really manage to answer his question, but she's beaming, and I can see Laguna's eyes light up in amusement.

Four-year-olds, I have come to discover, are eager to share their accomplishments, no matter if it fits into the context of a conversation or not. Harper happily volunteers her immediate thoughts in the same way Rinoa does, and she's perfectly content to wear her emotions openly with those around her. I hang onto the hope that she stays this way.

Laguna raises an eyebrow and looks over to me. "Oh really?"

It should be known that my own drawing ability is barely a step above abhorrent. Selphie had once convinced me (or at least, a half-drunk me) and Rinoa to try an art class with her in Balamb. But Selphie has a natural ability; her understanding of art and music and photography are all innate. Rinoa and I—that was a different story. We laughed at how horrendous our clumsily-drawn lines looked, our subjects barely recognizable on the large sheets of paper that the teacher had the misfortune of giving us.

"I printed off instructions for her to follow," I say with a shrug. "I wouldn't torture my kid with having to see my own so-called artwork."

Laguna laughs. "I was going to say…"

There's a bit of a script that goes with these visits. My father focuses his attention on Harper first, asking how daycare is and how her mom is doing and what new things she's interested in or excited about. Harper enjoys the attention she gets, so engaged and undivided, and sometimes, I think they're on a closer wavelength than I am with either of them. They're both extroverts, though; talking comes easy. I'm honestly just happy to see them enjoying each other's company.

"Grandpa, can I colour?" Harper asks once she's satisfied she's caught Laguna up on all her need-to-know gossip.

He nods. "You know where everything is."

Harper hops off his lap and I can hear her socked feet thunder down the hardwood toward his study, where he's made a space for her colouring books and art supplies. Laguna finishes off his coffee and turns his gaze to me.

My anxiety level always seems to rise once I'm the subject of attention. Sometimes, it's just a hair higher, and sometimes it spikes. I get this way with most people, but it's usually worse with Laguna. Because once the script flips to me, my father inevitably starts prodding, asking questions that should be innocuous and yet aren't, and then I end up giving answers that he knows better than to believe.

See, the naïveté that most people associate with him, I've learned over the years, is more or less a presumption they make based on his laid-back and easy disposition. The real Laguna is a surprisingly sharp and quick-witted man, and his space for empathy makes him more perceptive than most are willing to give him credit for.

Add on the fact that right now, I'm three hours without a smoke (I try to hold off as much as I can in front of Harper), and my mind spent almost all of last night edging on thoughts of darker things and lonelier spaces. If I had to give my anxiety a rating from one to ten, I'm probably registering around a four.

"So," Laguna starts, "what's new with you?"

"Not much." It's the truth.

"Hence the visit." He lets out a small sigh from behind his smile. "Not that I mind. I was surprised to hear from you the other day."

"Ellone said I was overdue. I didn't disagree."

"I see."

I take a sip of my coffee. At four out of ten, I'm actively searching for distractions. I can hear pencil crayons spilling out from the study, Harper's small hands sorting them. Naked branches keep scratching at the window panes. They claw and claw and claw, caught up in the influence of gusts drawn from the nearby bay. I resist the urge to claw at those same windows and ask for someone to let me out of here.

And I know, there's a myriad of things we could talk about if I wanted to—music, movies, politics, Harper, literally anything—but I don't. Or maybe I can't. I think part of me is just scared that the conversation will steer towards something that hits closer to home. Laguna knows as well as anyone how shit I've been with certain aspects of my life. And not just pieces of the past. I'm one-hundred percent sure he's not a fan of my smoking, or the drinking (although I'm sure I inherited that from both my parents), or whatever other anti-coping mechanisms I have managed for myself.

Sometimes I wonder if these visits would be any easier if Raine were here. Would she have some sort of clever way to bridge the divide, to break this silence?

I turn my attention to the small TV on the wall above the stove, anchors on the Estharii nightly news broadcast still chattering away in the background. I catch enough to know they're talking about the upcoming elections. It's been two full terms since Laguna's been President, eight years that have flashed by in many ways, and I wonder if he ever misses the seat, or even just living in Esthar. I don't ask. I think I'd feel too guilty if he said anything even remotely resembling yes.

Laguna turns the TV off. "Enough of that. I'll get breakfast started."

"Need help?" I ask, partly out of courtesy, and partly out of desperation for something to occupy myself.

He motions to the fruits sitting on the countertop, bananas and strawberries and apples and a fairly large cantaloupe. "Can you cut those up for me?"

I nod, wash my hands, and feel myself ease half a point. Three and a half out of ten. I grab a knife and find a rhythm, starting with the cantaloupe, halved then quartered and then sliced into wedges that are small enough for Harper to handle. I watch Laguna lay out bacon on a sheet, then heat up a frying pan.

"It's too quiet," he says after a minute and fishes for his phone. There's a short silence, and then a lone guitar and words I memorized at sixteen start to fill the space. Laguna shoots a quick grin back at me. "I liked this one."

I think I'd given him The Colour and the Shape six or seven years ago, now, with a note to let him know the times it had gotten me through—ass kickings by the so-called Disciplinary Committee, an unrequited crush on a girl from history class, SeeD pre-reqs, the algebra test I'd flunked. For awhile, I think I'd gone so far as to convince myself that the album was the best friend I'd ever have (partly because I was a dramatic kid, partly because it might've been true).

It's almost nice. I can hear him hum along; it's like he's actually paid attention (not that I thought he wouldn't have). I whisper out, "'Doll me up in my bad luck,'" and feel the warmth of embarrassment flush over my face; I doubt Laguna's even heard me, but in my head, I feel like I might as well have just bust out some grand operatic performance. I bite the inside of my lip and turn my attention to the strawberries.

I get lost in the blade for a moment, staring at red against the glint of steel. I count myself fortunate that I haven't had to slice through anything other than ingredients in the last decade of my life. The things I've done as a SeeD, either for good or for money, they've fucked me up. It's without a doubt the main reason why I'd turned to so many different vices in the first place. The lack of control, the feeling of being attached to puppet strings—it was all so consuming. See, Rinoa could teach me how to love and Garden could teach me how to kill, but no one could teach me how to cope.

I guess that's part of the problem of growing up an orphan. I think Laguna probably regrets that he never got the chance to teach me anything. I'm scared that I've gotten too old to learn.

The kitchen starts to smell fragrant with cooking, bacon and onions and garlic, and the hiss of things frying hovers over the sounds of Hey, Johnny Park!. I smirk, looking at all the food he's gotten out, far too much for three. Laguna's figuring all this out on his own too, though; I have to keep reminding myself. It's not like he's had to take care of much other than himself in the past few years.

He puts a lid over the pan as I finish cutting apples into eighths. I want to stay in the moment, to think about nice, uncomplicated things like breakfast, but as soon as the busywork is done, we're right back where we started. My eyes make contact with that grey-green stare—it's enough to push me back up past four, heading toward five out of ten.

"You tired or something?" Laguna asks, and it almost sounds like he's a bit concerned. I hate when he blurts out things like this. Like, hey, yes, of course I'm tired, when am I ever not tired? Honestly, I don't know how he can have this kind of energy at fifty-six.

I don't say that out loud, though. Instead, I present Exhibit A in the category of answers he won't believe: "I'm fine."

Laguna gives me this look, like he's trying to find the words to say, hoping for a sentence that could settle into the void between us. Verbalizing just isn't his strong suit either, but unlike me, he'll usually try to babble out something anyways, instead of letting the silence rest where it may. He's gotten to know me, though, well enough to stop himself from putting his foot fully into his mouth. He recoils a bit and says, "Well, breakfast will be ready soon."

I excuse myself for a smoke and step out onto the back patio, skipping the jacket, simply because that would mean walking past Harper, and then hearing her ream me out. I don't need to feel any extra guilt right now. I can't. So I stand there, hauling on a cigarette in a t-shirt even though it's just above freezing, and I'm staring at the empty yard that seems too big to maintain, at the pool that's been drained and covered up for the winter, and then down at my feet. I notice that Laguna's set out an ashtray, and although it's a nice gesture, it's also just kind of fucking deflating, because he's accommodating the things he hates just for me.

I make quick work of my cig, and I level off at a four again as I smash the butt into the tray and head back in. Laguna's sitting in the same place he was when we arrived. There's a subtle change; I can see it in the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he's holding his head in his hand in the same way I'm wont to do. It almost looks like defeat. I have a great way of doing that to him, sometimes.

It should be pointed out that I'm fully aware my struggle with him is irrational. It's not like Laguna is anything besides well-intentioned. And I don't even hate his company, rather the contrary. I'm just wired to be on high alert anytime anyone (other than Harper) gets too close. I decide to take the spot next to him.

"You know," I start, "I'm glad we made it over. I'm sorry I'm not that talkative today."

He looks up and nods. "It's okay, Squall. I'm glad you're here, too."

—

THE REST OF the day goes by without much effort. I spend most of the time watching my father and daughter play with wooden cars and trains, colour in cartoon characters, share stories. And Laguna's good at painting rosy pictures. He tells her about Auntie Ellone when she was small, he tells her about how big and incredible Esthar is, and he tells her about being a kid himself. What his own parents were like. I listen in a little closer when he talks about them.

I was never curious about my grandparents, not really. Why bother thinking of them when you don't even have parents in the first place? But the way Laguna tells their story, like they're real human beings—it just hits differently.

They were Henri and Annette Loire from Dollet. They got married as teenagers and moved to Deling soon after. He worked for Galbadia National Rail and she was a bank teller up until she had Laguna, their only kid. Laguna tells Harper about how no one could weave together a story quite like his mom, and how his dad was one of the hardest workers he'd ever met.

The part he doesn't tell Harper is that Henri was an alcoholic who died of a heart attack when Laguna was nineteen. But Laguna told me one night a few years back. Said his dad would beat the shit out of him and sometimes his mom. He went on about his mixed feelings when his dad passed, how he'd go back and forth debating whether he should be happy that his mom was safe, or sad that she was alone. She didn't really thrive. Laguna joined the army and tried to help support her with whatever shit pay he could scrape together, but then she passed too, from loneliness, he figures.

I'm still not sure if it's worse to have abusive parents, or no parents at all. I know only one side, but it's not hard to imagine the other, at least, from the way my father narrates his experience. Still, knowing all this, I'm even more astounded at the man Laguna became.

One day, maybe Harper will learn the full history. But today, it's the story of how Henri used to carve wooden train cars, just like the ones she has sprawled out on the family room floor. And Laguna tells her about the time when he was small, how if he was good and did his chores, he'd be allowed to play with them. There's a bit of a wistful look in his eye though; I catch it at certain inflections, and I wonder how incredibly complicated and painful it must be to love and hate someone at the same time.

—

WE GET HOME late, and I end up carrying Harper to bed. It's been a long day for her, and she's already fallen asleep from the drive. My head's a bit of a mess, though. Overtired. Overthinking. I change into sweats and tread lightly back down to the living room to collapse on the couch.

TV helps, sort of. I put on a show that I've seen a dozen times before with the hope that the noise will drown out my thoughts. But instead it just gives me something to stare at while I think of Annette, and wonder if I'll suffer a similar fate, dying alone. I want to believe there's something better out there for me, but I'm not sure. Rinoa once said I was a pessimist, and I'm worried that maybe it's become more of a self-fulfilling prophecy—I expect the worst for myself to the point where it manifests, and then becomes true.

I turn the TV up just a notch, try to focus in. Part of me needs to get a drink, or get high, or do something to help the process along; I want nothing more than to just pass out right here, in the cold company of laugh tracks and fictional characters.

Best I manage is falling half-asleep on the couch not too long before Harper comes downstairs. She nudges me, so insistent for such a small kid, and I try to find my way back to consciousness. Everything's bleary at first, but then it's just regular blurry; I don't have my glasses, but I can see well enough to know she's wearing this look of concern, the one that lets me know her imagination's made it impossible to sleep out of fear for the things that showed up in her dreams. I should've expected this; it usually happens whenever we go off to do something that breaks her usual routine, like a long visit at Laguna's house.

"Dad, I had a nightmare. A bad one." She sounds so matter-of-fact about it. I guess she is part me, after all.

I wake up a bit more and notice that her cheeks are swollen from tears. I wipe them away with my thumb. "You're okay, Harps."

She nods, sniffles.

"Come here." I pull her up beside me and wrap a blanket around us. I can feel her cold feet, her small heartbeat. Times like this make me wonder how she can even be real, how she can be afforded to someone like me, and yet, here I am, holding her. Like I'm supposed to do this. Like she's supposed to be mine.

Laguna had missed out on all of this.

I remember when I was Harper's age, how I was waiting for Ellone to come back to the orphanage so that we could go back home. She'd told me all these stories about my father, about what a fun and caring man he was. He wouldn't forget about me. He wouldn't leave me there in Centra, alone with no family to love me.

But then there was chatter from the adults, Cid and Matron and some strange man from Shumi, about a garden they were going to send a bunch of the kids to live in. And I asked Matron one night if she was going to send me there, too.

Of course she said that yes, I was headed to this garden I had no idea about, and I remember getting upset, because she couldn't do that. How would my father find me if I was living somewhere else? I cried uncontrollably until my voice went raw and I couldn't cry anymore. In my vague grasp of life and death, I'd known that my mother was gone, but my father was a vow from Ellone, from my Sis. He was the hope I was holding on to, the promise of family and belonging, and just like that, he was stolen away.

I draw Harper in closer, hold on to her tight. I don't want to sleep anymore; I'm afraid of losing a moment with her, afraid of another loved one being stolen away, afraid of being alone forever, afraid, afraid, afraid. I kiss the top of her head, rest my cheek on her mess of dark hair, and contemplate the possibility of a fixed future.