Page 2 of Resilient Rhythms
It doesn’t take long to gather my luggage, hop in the car waiting for me, and arrive at my home in Tamarindo, Costa Rica.
Paradise.
It’s the only property I own. The only space I’ve ever wanted to return to year after year. It’s just that part of me thought this year, I’d bring Mckenna with me.
I’d teach her how to surf at sunrise. She’d force me to do yoga on the beach and learn how to slow down, maybe even meditate.We’d drink mint tea on the balcony at night and point out the constellations in the sky.
“Get a fucking grip,” I warn myself.
It’s been a week without my beauty. Only seven days, and my brother and Amelia had enough of my moping ass. Deciding to get out of their hair, I left town. I need to get my head on straight.
I need to avoid the tug of drugs and alcohol and partying that grows stronger when I’m lost in my head. Lonely and angry and fucking heartbroken.
Of course, I could find trouble anywhere, just ask my brother. Or Mckenna.
But the familiarity of the party scene in Boston calls to me. It’s too easy to slip into bad habits. A change of scenery, of pace, of lifestyle is the first healthy step I’ve taken for myself since walking away from the woman I love.
Tossing my duffle bag on my bed, I stow my suitcase in the corner of my bedroom. Then, I change into a bathing suit, grab my favorite board from where I stored it in the living room, and head to the beach.
The sun beats down on my back, the rolling waves beckon me, and I suck in another breath. Cleansing and refreshing and centering.
Right now, this is what I need. This is the best way to move on from Mckenna Byrne and not end up in rehab.
Vitamin fucking sea. I used to laugh when people said stupid cliché shit like that, but right now, it hits deep. I could be a meme.
The cool water circles my ankles as I walk straight into the ocean, bodying my board to dip underneath a curling wave. I straddle the board and flip my chin toward the other surfers waiting in the lineup.
They mutter greetings in Spanish, but either no one recognizes me, which is a relief, or they’ve seen me around enough to not care, which is the scenario I prefer.
While news of Mckenna’s and my divorce hasn’t hit tabloids or social media channels, it’s only a matter of time. If I can lose myself here, at the beach, my mental health will be better for it.
A solid set rolls in and I wait my turn to drop into a wave.
As the board propels forward, a rush travels through my limbs. Adrenaline and joy eat some of the depression and anger that’s taken up residence in my bloodstream. I shift my weight, angling the nose of the board down, to pick up speed. Flying down the line, I smile.
My first real smile in over a week.
I’ll never truly get over Mckenna.
I know it. My bandmates know it. Hell, even my fans must know it.
But at least I’ll survive her.
I’ll survive this.
MCKENNA — NINETEEN DAYS POST MAV
“Girl, I am so damn proud of you,” Robyn says, hugging me tightly as I slip into the space beside her at the bar.
“Me? I’m proud of you! Student speaker at graduation.” I give her a little shake.
Robyn rolls her eyes. “I was surprised.”
“I wasn’t,” Emily pipes up, sandwiching me in between her and Robyn. She wraps an arm around my waist. “How are you holding up?”
I blow out a breath. “Okay. Not great.”
“Jesus, Kenny, you’ve had one hell of a year.” Robyn flags down the bartender and orders a round of drinks.
