Page 68 of Bitter Beats

“He left in the end,” Mav cuts me off, biting the corner of his mouth. “He walked out on us and when he did, he broke my mom.”

Reaching over the table, I place my hand over his. “How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

Damn. “That must have been tough.”

“Yep,” he agrees, chugging his coffee. “It fucking sucked.”

“Did he ever try to connect with you now? Or, you know, after the band blew up?” I ask tentatively.

Mav snickers, the sound sarcastic. “That’s the thing. He hasn’t. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel grateful or angry about that.”

I shrug. “You’re supposed to feel however you feel.”

“Both,” Mav says. “But more angry than grateful.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I’m more angry than anything else, too.”

Mav gives me that lopsided, boyish smirk and flips his hand over underneath mine. “See, we have more in common than you thought.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Even though they’re the wrong things.”

“Who says?”

I tilt my head, considering his question.

“Here are your pancakes!” The server appears, dropping off our stacks.

Before I can pick up my fork, Mav’s managed to cut both our portions in half and swaps them so we both have a half stack of blueberry and a half stack of chocolate chip.

He looks at me and winks. God, why does he have to be so endearing?

“Yeah.” I pick up my fork. “You’re right, Mav. ‘Who says?’” I dunk a bite in a pool of maple syrup and pop it in my mouth. “Oh my God,” I gush. “These pancakes are amazing.”

“Told ya, Mckenna. You can trust me.”

And the truth is, I already do.

I crythree times duringHamilton. It’s beautiful, poignant, and unbelievably moving. When the performance ends and I dry my eyes, Mav passes me a handkerchief—he was carrying one in his pocket?!—and eyes me with amusement.

“You carry around hankies?” I dab the soft fabric underneath my eyes carefully, so I don’t smear my mascara.

“Another tip from Warren Willoughby,” Mav replies.

I fold his handkerchief neatly. “Smart guy.”

“Keep it,” he says, standing from the theater seat. “He was the smartest.” He tips his chin toward the stage. “Pop would have loved this musical. I wish you had met him.”

I stand beside him, staring at the stage. Around us, people gather their coats and their programs, slide their purse straps over their shoulders, and collect their family members. “Me too.” I slip my hand into Maverick’s and he glances down at me in surprise. “Thanks for taking me here, Mav.”

A small smile flickers over his mouth. “It was my pleasure, Mckenna. Come on, you up for a walk?”

I nod. “And I wouldn’t say no to a hot chocolate either.”

Mav’s eyes lighten. “With marshmallows and extra whip!”

“Lead the way.”

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