Page 44 of Bitter Beats

When the server appears, I rattle off a bunch of appetizers. Mckenna adds a salad and I give her a look.

“Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll take the spaghetti bolognese.”

I grin. “Good girl.”

She narrows her eyes at me and the server’s gaze ping-pongs between us.

“I’ll have the veal saltimbocca.” I hand back our menus.

As the server moves toward the kitchen, I fold my hands and lean closer to Mckenna. “So, what shall we talk about?”

She smiles and leans back in her chair. Holding the stem of her wineglass, she swirls her wine and stares at me. The corner of her mouth lifts and her eyes soften.

Yeah, I like this version of Mckenna too. Sweet and playful. Sincere and easygoing.

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, breaking the ice.

She smiles. “Green. You?”

“Black or red, depending on the day.”

Mckenna laughs. “Favorite meal?”

“Shepherd’s pie,” I admit.

“Really? I would’ve pegged you for pizza.”

I scoff. “I’m more original than that.”

“Pizza’s mine,” she volunteers.

I frown and point to the coal brick oven. “You could have ordered that.”

She shrugs. “I’m mixing it up tonight.”

“Fair. Best memory?”

Mckenna sighs and her eyes take on a faraway look, as if she’s reliving an experience. “Freshman year at UCLA. Allegra, Ivy, Nova, and I hosted a Friendsgiving and that was…” she trails off, her eyebrows pulling together. “It was the first time I felt like I really fit in. Like I truly belonged in a social setting, to a group of friends. It was the first night of many, but that night was special.”

I nod along with her. “I get that. I had a few nights like that, back when the Clovers were starting out.”

Mckenna smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Isn’t it funny? We think those moments will always be there. Those nights,those friends, that bar… We fall into a pattern. It’s such a norm that we never realize that our last time all together is really the last time and then…everything changes. It’s all different now. And I didn’t appreciate it until it became my best memory.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, moving my hand to grasp hers. I play with her fingers as I digest what she said. It’s one of the truest things Mckenna has ever admitted to me. And for the first time, I realize we’re more similar than I ever considered.

Forgotten. Apart. Lost.

“Here’re your appetizers,” the server announces brightly. She sets several plates down on our table.

Mckenna thanks her and takes another sip of her wine. Then, she changes the subject to ask questions about the band and our next album.

We keep the topics light for the remainder of dinner. But something shifts between us. There’s a quiet acceptance that we’re in this together. A nod to our shared circumstances.

And I silently vow not to take this new norm for granted. Even though I know this pattern with Mckenna won’t last—how could it?—I’d still hate for her to one day only exist in my life as a memory.

FIFTEEN

MCKENNA

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