Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
The curtain opens, the play starting.
Maddie stands along the back of the stage, wearing her costume—white from head-to-toe, with a fluffy tutu and cutout cardboard snowflakes strapped to her back like wings.
She smiles excitedly, waving at us, but it doesn’t take long before she notices the glaringly vacant seat. My father is recording it, and I should tell him to stop, because I’m not sure her first broken heart is something any of us will want to relive, but I can’t get those words to form. I can’t bring myself to say it.
Can’t bring myself to believe it.
Despite everything, I still believe in him.
Maddie stands there, no longer smiling, her gaze scanning every face in the auditorium. She’s anxious, and every time she looks my way, I see her grow a little sadder. One-by-one, kids step forward to deliver lines. When it’s Maddie’s turn, she doesn't move.
There’s an awkward silence.
The teacher nudges Maddie, whispering something to her. Maddie takes a few steps forward, frowning. Another long pause.
She looks at me.
I want to rip her off the stage and hug her, make this all go away, but instead, I give her a smile, hoping maybe it’ll help her.
She smiles back.
Just as she’s about to speak, her mouth opening, there’s a loud noise at the back of the auditorium, the door bursting open. Maddie looks, her eyes growing wide as she screeches, “Daddy!”
Murmurs flow through the auditorium. People shift around in their seats. Maddie runs right off the stage, heading down the center aisle as fast as her legs can carry her.
I turn, more than a little alarmed that she’s running away, and freeze when I see him. Oh my god.
Jonathan stands there, head-to-toe in full Breezeo costume. He takes a few steps forward, scooping Maddie up. She hugs him, as he carries her back down the aisle, ignoring the looks everyone is casting him. Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. There’s some laughter, some excitement, even a bit of annoyance at the interruption. Me? I’m trying not to cry at the moment.
Jonathan deposits Maddie back on the stage before his gaze finds mine. He slips into the chair beside me, whispering, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Hey, guys!” Maddie announces, jumping right into her line. “What’s got six arms and is like nothing else in the whole world?”
A chorus of kids behind her say, “A snowflake!”
“That’s me!” Maddie says. “I’m falling and falling and falling. Where am I going?”
“Down to the ground,” the kids say.
She steps away, taking her place in the back, the play continuing like the disruption hadn’t happened. Maddie no longer pays attention to the play, staring at her father, fidgeting, grinning, like she’s just waiting for it to be over.
The teacher nudges her. She has to give the last line of the play. Maddie steps forward, and I see it as she blanks. She forgot her line. A second passes, and then another, before she shrugs.
“I gots a line here but I dunno,” she says. “So I’m improvising like my daddy says.”
People around us laugh.
Jonathan shakes his head.
The kids are supposed to line up and bow as the crowd cheers, but they have to do it without Maddie, because she’s running off the stage again. Jonathan stands up, catching her as she jumps off the side, not even bothering to use the steps this time.
My father stops recording then, shaking his head. “Never a dull moment with that kid.”
“I knew you’d come, Daddy!” Maddie says when he sets her on her feet. “Did I do good acting?”
“The best,” he says. “I’m sorry I missed the beginning.”
“It’s okay.” She shrugs. “You didn’t need to see them other people, anyway.”
The play officially comes to an end as kids stream off of the stage, meeting their families out in the audience. It’s chaos then, unsurprisingly, as people swarm Jonathan.
My father takes Maddie’s hand, pulling her away from the center of it. “You did great, kiddo. I’m proud of you.”
“Did you record it?” she asks.
“Of course!"
“Can I watch?” she asks, jumping around. “I wanna see!”
He hands his phone to her, so she can see the video, as he steers her toward the exit. Meghan and I are right behind. Jonathan lingers for a moment longer before following, signing a few autographs along the way, before breaking from the crowd once we’re outside.
“Cunningham,” my father says. “Glad to see you.”
“You, too, sir,” he says. “Glad to be here.”
It’s all so cordial. It’s so much not them.
But I have to wonder, as they shake hands and my father bids us goodbye before leaving, if maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe it’s them now, the doting grandfather and the dad that’s trying to be better, no longer adversaries in a political-turned-personal nightmare.
Their stories changed, too.
We head to the parking lot. Parked in front of the blue Porsche, not even in a proper spot, is a raggedy old station wagon, a familiar guy sitting on the hood. Jack.