JENNIE

"In entertainment news, Breezeo star Lisa Manoban was involved in an accident last night in Manhattan…"

I'm halfway to the kitchen when those words strike me, my footsteps stopping. I turn around, looking at the television across the living room, thinking I must've heard them wrong, but no… there she is, stock footage playing from some red carpet, her smiling face on the screen, bloodshot eyes staring right through me.

"The twenty-eight-year-old actress was struck by a car near the set of her latest film. Eyewitnesses say Manoban stepped into traffic during an altercation with the paparazzi."

I approach the TV as the image on the screen changes, a video of the aftermath playing. The first thing I see is blood streaming down her face. She's alert, though. She's alive. The relief that floods my body nearly buckles my knees.

"A spokesman for the actress says she's currently stable and in good spirits. Filming for the movie has been temporarily suspended as Manoban heals from her injuries."

"Mommy?"

The second that I hear Maddie's voice, I press the button to turn off the TV, hoping she hadn't seen it. I turn to her, my hopes dashed right away. Oh crap. She looks shocked. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Is Breezeo okay?"

"Sure," I say, giving her a smile. "She had a little accident, but she'll be okay."

"You mean like she's sick?"

"Something like that," I say.

Her expression shifts as she thinks about that, her face lighting up. "I can make her a card!"

"Uh, yeah, you can," I say, not letting my smile falter. "I'm sure we can find an address to send it to."

Her agency accepts fan mail for her. I'm pretty sure she doesn't personally open it, so there's no harm sending something, if it'll make her feel better.

Maddie runs off to her bedroom to get to work on some art while I get busy making dinner, booting up my old piece-of-crap laptop while a frozen pizza cooks. For the first time in well over a year, I type her pseudonym into the search bar.

I take a deep breath when the results pop up. Pictures and pictures—whoa, so many pictures—along with a video of the accident. My heart drops as I stare at it. I press play and watch. Thirty seconds. I hold my breath, expecting the worst from her—drunken staggering into traffic with no regard for her life, maybe. But instead, I see her shove a man, telling her to back off when a girl gets caught between them. The girl goes into the road, and her reflexes are fast, so fast, as she grabs her and shoves her back onto the sidewalk before—

Cringing, I slam the laptop closed the second the car strikes her. She saved that girl from being hit.

I sit there in silence, stunned. My nose starts twitching, the smell of something burning tickling my nostrils. It takes a moment—too long of a moment—before my eyes start to burn and it strikes me. Dinner.

I run for the oven, turning it off, and open the door. The smoke detector starts blaring, and I make a face, fanning the smoke away. The pizza is charred.

"Mommy, what's stinky?" Maddie asks, strolling into the kitchen with a stack of paper and her box of crayons, her nose scrunched up.

"Had a bit of a mishap," I say, glaring at the burnt pizza. "Maybe we'll just order some pizza for delivery."

"And chickens!" she declares, climbing onto a chair at the table. "And the breads, too!"

"Pizza, wings, and garlic bread—got it."

I pick up the phone and call the closest pizza place, ordering the whole gauntlet. Can't afford to splurge, but what the hell, right?

After hanging up, I sit down with her, staring at her paper as she draws Breezeo. She's good. Talented. She could be an artist. She could be anything she wanted.

I know, because she's not just my daughter.

Her blood flows through Maddie's veins, too.

She was the dreamer. The doer. The believer.

When she wasn't high, when she wasn't drunk, when she wasn't so utterly screwed up, I saw something in her, something I see when I look at Maddie. The two of them, they have the same soul, they live with the same heart.

And that scares the daylights out of me.

"Mommy, what kinda sick is Breezeo? Where does it hurt?"

"Uh, I'm not sure," I say. "All over, maybe. Lisa—you know, the real one that plays Breezeo—got hurt by a car when she was helping a girl."

"But she'll get better?"

She looks at me, her eyes guarded.

She's worried about her hero.

I've tried to explain the difference between reality and the movies, to prepare her, just in case, but I'm not sure if she gets it.

"She'll get better," I tell her. "Don't worry, sweetheart."

"I just… I can't believe this," Ryujin says, standing beside me in the aisle as I restock canned goods. She leans against the shelf, nose buried in the latest edition of Hollywood Chronicles. The entire thing is dedicated to Lalisa.

Story after story, speculation and theories. Drugs. Alcohol. Maybe she was feeling suicidal. I have no interest in reading any of that nonsense, but Ryujin insists on spilling every nitty-gritty detail while on her lunch break.

"You know, you're supposed to pay for that before you read it," I tell her. "This isn't a library."

She rolls her eyes, flipping the page. "You sound like my mother when you say that."

I make a face. "I'm not that old."

"You sound it."

"Whatever," I mumble. "I'm just saying…"

"You're saying either put up or shut up." She closes the magazine as she pretend-gags. "I've already read about as much as I can take, anyway. Who even buys this junk?"

She does, I think. I've seen her buying copies.

She's quiet for a moment as I work before she asks, "You don't believe any of it, do you?"

"Believe what?"

"Any of this," she says, waving the paper around.

"I believe my opinion doesn't really matter."

"But where Lisa Manoban is concerned, anything is possible, right?"

I cut my eyes at her when she tosses my own words at me. "Right."

She frowns, defeated, and goes back to her register.

I finish what I'm doing, trying to shove all of it out of my mind. When three o'clock comes, I clock out, grabbing a few groceries and heading to checkout. I have to be back here in an hour for inventory, giving me just enough time to see Maddie after school and get her settled at my father's. I pay and am about to leave when I notice the Hollywood Chronicles paper tucked beside Ryujin register, meaning she bought it.

"Look, you met Lisa Manoban, right?" I ask. "And she was nice to you?"

"Yes."

"Then that's all that matters, isn't it? Whatever that trash says about her being horrible, you felt different. Don't let some guy sitting behind a computer spinning sensational stories change what you believe."

She smiles.

I don't linger.

I cringe, honestly.

As if to make the moment worse for me, Cher's Believe starts playing on the supermarket radio, and I figure that's my cue to leave. The soundtrack to my life needs a serious update. Getting into my car, I drive to my father's house, pulling into his driveway as the school bus arrives. My father's sitting on the front porch in his rocking chair as he stares out at the neighborhood.

"Ah, there's my girl!" he says, shoving to his feet, holding his arms open. Maddie runs to him for a hug, dragging her backpack along the ground.

"Guess what, Grandpa!" she says, not giving him time to guess before she continues. "I seen that Breezeo got sick in an accident, so Mommy told me I could draw her a picture!"

My father's eyes go wide as he shoots me a look.

"I told her we'd find an address and mail it to her," I explain. "You know, like fan mail."

"Makes sense."

"You wanna draw one, Grandpa?" Maddie asks. "I bet mine would be better, but you can try, too."

He scowls at her. "What makes you think yours would be better?"

" 'Cuz I'm best at drawing," she says. "You're good, too, but Mommy can't draw."

"Hey," I say defensively. "I can draw some seriously cool stars."

Maddie dramatically rolls her eyes, making sure I see it, announcing, "That don't count!" before making her way inside.

"You heard the girl," my father says, grinning and nudging me when I join him on the porch. "Your stars don't count, kiddo."

After I get Maddie settled in, sandwiches made for her and my father as they hunker down at the kitchen table with paper and crayons, a fresh chocolate cream pie sitting on the counter (don't think I didn't notice), I press a kiss to the top of her head. "I've gotta go back to work, sweetheart. I'll see you tonight."

It's starting to drizzle when I head outside. Ugh, what is it with all this rain lately? Pulling out my keys, I start off the porch when I sense movement. I turn in the direction of my car, my footsteps coming to an abrupt stop.

My heart drops right to my toes, my stomach knotting. I lose my breath in that instant, caught by surprise when I see the familiar face. Oh god. Everything in me says run… run… run… get away while you have the chance… but I can't even move.

She's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a hat on her head. A black leather jacket is draped over her shoulders, her right arm tucked into a sling. Her skin is battered and bruised, but it's her.

Lalisa Manoban.

She's wearing sunglasses, so I can't see her eyes, but I can feel her gaze clawing at my skin. She doesn't speak, looking about as tense at the moment as I feel. My insides are wound tight. My chest hurts as I inhale sharply.

"Hey," she says after a moment of strained silence, that simple word enough to make me woozy.

"What do you want?" I ask, sparing a greeting, my tone harsher than I mean it to be.

"I just thought…" She glances past me, at the house. "I thought maybe—"

"No," I say, that word flying from my lips.

She sighs, her chest rising and falling as she lowers her head. "Can we at least talk?"

"You want to talk."

"Just a conversation," she says. "That's all I'm asking for. Just a minute of your time."

"To talk."

"Yes."

So much of me wants to say no again. The bitterness that has rooted deep inside of me yearns to shut her down. But I can't, as much as I might think I want to… I can't say no without at least listening to her. Because this isn't about me, regardless of how personal it all feels. It's about that little girl inside the house, pouring her soul into a picture for a woman she still thinks is a hero.

"Please?" she asks, encouraged by my silence, by the fact that I haven't told her to leave yet. "Take pity on a banged up guy?"

"You want my pity?"

"I want anything you're willing to offer me."

"Look, I can't do this right now," I say, stepping off the porch and onto the walkway. "I'm going to be late."

"Then afterward," she says. "Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Whenever you decide. Whenever is good for you. I'll be there."

I'll be there. How many times have I yearned to hear those words? I don't even know if she means them.

I slowly approach, pausing beside my car, a mere few feet separating the two of us. "I get off work tonight at nine. If you've got something to say to me, you can say it then, but for now…"

She takes a step back, nodding. "You need me to leave."

"Please."

I slip past her, climbing into the driver's seat of my car, watching in the rearview mirror as she hesitates before walking away. She leaves on foot, her steps slow. I don't know where she came from. I don't know where she's going. I don't know what she expects from me.

I don't know why my heart's racing.

I don't know why I feel like crying.

I drive to work after she's gone and get there a few minutes late, but nobody says anything about it. I'm lost in my head, distracted, wondering what she's doing and what she could be planning to say. I'm not sure words exist that can make any of this better, but there are a few that could make things worse.

"Jennie!"

I flinch and turn toward the sound of Ryujin's voice in the doorway to the stockroom. "What?"

"I've been standing here talking to you for like five minutes and you weren't even listening." She laughs. "Anyway, I just wanted to say goodnight."

"Leaving early tonight?"

"More like late."

"I thought you got off at nine?"

"I did," she says, glancing at her phone as it starts ringing. "Well, my ride is here, so I'm out!"

Confused, I glance at the clock. It's almost nine-thirty. I lost track of time. Shoving everything aside, I clock out, avoiding conversation with Loren. I need to get back to my father's house before Lalisa shows up.

Halfway to my car, my footsteps falter when I spot her. She's here. Lalisa is perched on the hood of my car in the darkened parking lot, her head lowered, the hat shielding her face from view.

She hasn't seen me yet. I approach, studying her as I do. If you want to see someone's true colors, take a peek at who they are when they think they're alone.

She's fidgety, can't seem to sit still. Nervous, I think. Anxious. Or maybe she's just high. I'm almost right in front of her when she finally notices. She tenses as she stands up.

No sunglasses this time, but she's not meeting my gaze.

"How do you know where I work?"

Her eyes lower, like she's ogling my chest, so I glance down and roll my eyes at myself. Work uniform. Duh. I'm a walking advertisement for the Piggly Q.

"I probably shouldn't have shown up here, but I was worried you might try to avoid me," she admits. "That you'd blow me off."

"So you weren't going to give me the chance?"

She laughs awkwardly. "Guess you can say that."

"Yeah, well, that's not me. I told you we could talk, so here I am."

"I appreciate it," she says, still fidgeting, her attention on the parking lot. "I, uh… I didn't really think I'd make it this far. I figured you'd shut me down right away, run me out of town with my tail tucked between my legs like every other time."

"Don't do that," I say as I cross my arms over my chest. "Don't act like I'm the bad guy here."

"No, you're right, I didn't mean…" She sighs as she trails off, rubbing the back of her neck with her left hand. Silence festers between us for a moment. It's so quiet I can hear crickets chirping in the distance. "Do you think we could go somewhere? Sit down for a bit somewhere more private?"

"Look at me," I say, ignoring her question, because she hasn't made eye contact with me yet. "I need you to look at me, Lalisa."

She doesn't.

Instead, she sits back down on the hood of my car, mumbling, "Lalisa. It's been a long time since anybody has called me that."

"Oh, right," I say, unlocking the driver's side door, because I don't have it in me to stand here and play games with her. "Lisa Manoban. Almost forgot that's who you are now."

"I'm still the same person," she says quietly.

"And who exactly is that?" I ask. "Are we talking about Speaker Manoban's daughter? The dreamer, the believer, the one who never let anything hold her back? Or maybe we're talking about the alcoholic. You know, the cokehead."

"I don't do that anymore."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because it's the truth." Her left hand slips into her pocket to pull something out. It reflects the parking lot lights as she holds it up—a shiny bronze coin, not much bigger than a quarter.

A sobriety chip.

I don't know what to say. Everything gets quiet again. My fingertips brush against her when I take it from her. It's solid metal, a triangle etched in the face of it, the Roman numeral I in the center with 'recovery' written along the bottom.

One year sober.

"People saw you coming out of a bar last week."

"That doesn't mean I drank. I wanted to, but I didn't. I won't." She pauses, her voice quieter when she says, "I can't."

I want to believe her.

I wish I could.

Once upon a time, I believed everything that flowed from this woman's lips, but it's hard to give her words any weight after what we went through.

"Then why won't you look at me?" I ask. "You say that, you want me to believe it, yet you won't even look me in the eyes."

"Because I've fucked things up with you," she says. "Do you know how hard it is to face you right now? I know nothing can erase what I've done, but I need you to know how sorry I am."

Sorry.

It isn't the first time she's apologized. She does it every single time. But she was messed up then, always, and I'm not sure if she is right now, because the sobriety chip weighs heavy in my hand but her eyes still won't meet mine.

"I'm sorry for the way I hurt you," she says. "Sorry for everything I did that led us to this point. And I get it, you know, if you hate me. Wouldn't blame you at all. But I just need to tell you… I need you to know… that even when I was completely fucked up, I never once stopped loving you."

Those words, they rip the air from my lungs. I clench my hands into fists, the bronze coin digging into my palm.

"I don't expect you'll believe that." She shoves up from my car, her eyes finally meeting mine, and they're so clear, but it only lasts a few seconds before her gaze returns to the ground. "But that's not the point. Point is, I'm not perfect, but I'm doing the best I can. I don't know shit about being a parent, but I hope you'll give me the chance to try. Tomorrow… the next day… someday… whenever it is, I'll be there."

She starts to walk away with that, like she's said all she can and she has nothing more to offer.

"Lalisa," I call out. "Your chip."

"Keep it."

"What?"

"I know how I'm doing. I don't need a token to tell me, but maybe you do, so keep it."

I stare down at the coin in the glow of the streetlight. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to say. I don't know where she's going or how long she really plans to stay.

At the moment, I don't know much of anything, except that she's here, in front of me, telling me everything I've yearned to hear for a long, long time, and I'm letting her walk away like it all means nothing.

"Lalisa," I call out again.

She pauses and glances over her shoulder at me.

"I, uh… I'm glad you're okay," I say. "I saw about the accident, about what you did, helping that girl, and I just… I'm glad you're okay."

She smiles slightly, a familiar smile, one that's filled with so much sadness. "I'm going to stick around for a while, lay low in town. I'm staying over at the Landing Inn."

"Mrs. McKleski's place?" I ask. "She rented to you?"

A light laugh escapes her. "She wasn't thrilled about it, but I needed somewhere private. Took some convincing and one hell of a security deposit to get her to go along with it."

"I bet," I say, imagining how the woman must've looked when she showed up, seeking out sanctuary.

"So, that's where I'll be," she says. "If you're looking for me."

She doesn't wait around for a response, limping away. It's a little over a mile from where I work to where she's going. Memories of my mother's voice nag at me, the angel on my shoulder, telling me I should've offered her a ride, but instead, I listen to the devil, sounding a hell of a lot like my father when he says, 'Never get in a car with a stranger.'

I'm still not sure who she is right now.

Maddie's asleep when I get to my father's house, sprawled out on her back on the couch. My father is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee—decaf. He looks up when I walk in, eyes following me until I drop down in a chair across from him.

Crayons and papers are scattered along the tabletop, an envelope dead center of it all, addressed to 'Breezeo' in bright red. The return address says Maddie at Grandpa's. It's not sealed, but I can tell she tried, a stamp crookedly slapped in the corner, upside down.

I pick the envelope up and pull out the sloppily folded paper, gazing at it. It's a 'get well' card, the words written in capitals up top, a frowny-face drawing of Breezeo below it. She drew herself beside her, smiling, handing her what looks like a bunch of yellow flowers, a short message written below that.

I saw you got sick in a accident. You should get better! And you should come back cuz Mommy says nobody always is gone. It will make you happy and me too. Love, Maddie

Sighing, I fold the paper back up, shoving it away, setting the envelope down on the table. My father's watching me, still sipping his coffee. Waiting me out, I can tell. He probably spent all evening helping her make that, telling her how to spell all the words.

"Lalisa showed up tonight," I say. "Wanted to talk."

"And did you?"

I reach into my pocket for the coin she gave me, sliding it across the table to my father. She picks it up, letting out a low whistle, a peculiar look flickering across his face as he stands up. Pride. That probably shouldn't surprise me. I shouldn't be surprised about any of this, but I am.

Strolling across the kitchen, he sets his coffee cup in the sink before leaning back against the counter, staring at the coin. Not far from where he stands, a set of keys hang on a hook, a similar coin affixed to them, converted into a keychain. Twenty years sober.

My father spent the first few years of my life struggling with alcohol. I only have vague memories of that time. He got clean before it was too late to be a dad, he always said, and I know that's what he's thinking about right now.

"You're looking lost again, kiddo," he says as I start cleaning up the mess on the table, shoving the crayons back into the box.

"I'm feeling it," I admit.

He doesn't offer me any advice. I've never been good at listening to it. Had I taken his advice years ago, I would've never ended up in this situation. But I have no regrets, despite everything, and he knows that. Regardless of what happened, Maddie came out of it, and she's worth every moment of heartache.

"We all do what we have to," my father says, setting the coin down on the table in front of me. "I'm heading to bed."

"Thank you," I say, "for watching Maddie."

"Anytime," he says. "My girls are my everything. Wouldn't have it any other way."