Page 118 of Lucky Strike

Bria glances at her new smartwatch. “Are you going to Callaghan’s?”

I nod, sipping my coffee. I started sparring again a week ago. I’m rusty and out of shape, but my contusions have cleared up, so there’s really no excuse. I’d missed being in the ring, clearing my head that way. “I have more control over my schedule now, so I can go later if I want to.”

“I hope Tristan can go back soon,” Bria says softly, staring at her cup.

“He will.” My brother is the most determined person I know. If there’s something he wants, he goes for it no matter what, and MMA is his life. “The second he gets the all-clear. Maybe even before then.”

Nola’s phone rings and she leaves the room. I reach across the table and take Bria’s hand, sliding my fingers between hers. I feel so far away from her lately. It’s not just that she’s sleeping on a different floor, or that her pain meds make her foggy. There’s just so much sadness on her part and so much guilt on mine. I know, deep down, that these are trauma responses. Bria thinks I don’t know, but I do. I might not spill my guts to random people, but I read. I try to figure my shit out in my own way. What I haven’t figured out is how to fix this. Fixus. It’s like we’re on opposite sides of a lake, looking at each other with no way across.

Bria smiles a little, squeezing my hand.

“Do you want to get out of here? Just us?” I ask. “We could go to the beach house.”

A faint line appears between her eyebrows. “What about Liam?”

“Do you want him to come?”

She shrugs lightly. “He hates missing out.”

“So, we’ll bring him. My parents can drive up, take him after a couple of days.” I keep my eyes on hers, wanting her to want this as much as I do. “We’ll be back before Christmas.”

A smile curves her mouth. She turns her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. “Let’s do it.”

We leave the next day,early in the morning. By the time we hit Cape Cod, the sun is shining, and the pale sky is deepening into a brilliant blue. Being back is bittersweet. The last time we were here, I was protecting Bria and Liam from external threats. We were right in the thick of it. And yet, it was one of the most perfect weeks of my life. This is where Bria and I started whatever it is we’re still fumbling through now.

We had Bacon, then. Terry and Mitch. I take a deep breath, rubbing the center of my chest. My sternum is fully healed, but there’s still pain … usually when I think about our losses. Terry flew out the day after Mitch’s funeral to spend the holidays with his family in Portland. I don’t know if he’ll be back. He and Mitch were close, so he’s been going through it.

I hired them in a professional capacity, but they were a lot more than just bodyguards. They became friends, especially to Bria and Liam. Bria can’t talk about Mitch without breaking down. Liam won’t talk about him at all. I hope he feels like he can talk to his therapist about it. I don’t want something like that festering inside him.

He’s happy today, chatting nonstop until we put on music. Then he’s singing nonstop, even to songs he doesn’t know. We stop for sandwiches in Sandwich, because Bria thinks it’s funny, and then ice cream because “it’s always a good day for ice cream, Dad.”

We drive slowly,winding through the quiet winter streets of Mashpee, taking in the sleepy charm of the off-season Cape. The beaches are deserted, and most of the shops and restaurants are closed or operating with limited hours.

“It’s so different than it was in the summer,” Bria remarks, staring out the window. I can see the faint reflection of her face in the glass. She looks content. “I like it.”

“I do, too.” Turning down Shore Drive, I’m struck once again by how isolated this area feels at this time of year. I pull into the driveway of the beach house and park, releasing a whining dog and a squirmy kid from the confines of the back seat, almost getting beamed by Liam’s cast. It comes off soon, right before Christmas. He’s been counting down the days. Bria climbs out more slowly, curls flying around her grinning face as the salty sea air hits her in a frigid gust.

I scheduled housekeeping ahead of time, so everything is ready for us, from clean linens to a stocked fridge and pantry. We go for a very cold walk along the beach, collecting shells and tossing driftwood for Shelby to fetch. Later I build a fire, and we spend our first night in front of the crackling flames with pizza, hot chocolate, andThe Grinchon TV.

On the third day, my parents drive out. We enjoy a gut-busting feast of Mom’s lobster with asparagus and risotto, and then they take Liam back to their place in Nantucket. Bria’s been slowly tapering off painkillers, and since she’s been here, she’s been abstaining altogether. So, I pour her another glass of wine and bring it to the living room, where she’s curled up on the couch.

“Thanks,” she says, cheeks flushed as she takes the glass. It’s blustery outside and cozy in here, the jazzy Christmas playlist we listened to at dinner still going strong.

I clink my glass to hers as I sit.

She takes a healthy sip before setting down her glass. “What are we toasting to?”

“Nothing. Everything.” I settle beside her, pulling a blanket over her legs. “How’re you feeling?”

“Great,” she assures me. “I’m so glad we came. The fresh air really does me good.” She lets out a long breath, a mellow smile on her face.She still has brain fog sometimes, but the doctor said it’ll go away eventually.

I try to focus on what she’s saying, on how pretty she is, and not the sour feeling in my stomach that arises every time I think about what happened to her. “Are you happy?”

“Sometimes.” She gazes at me knowingly. “It’s okay to not be happy, though.”

I smirk. “Therapist Bria has entered the chat.”

“You’d better get used to it. Once my classes start, I’ll be practicing on you,” she warns.

---