Page 3 of Resilient Rhythms
“Tell me about it,” I agree. “I’m ready to finish exams, graduate, and take the bar. It feels like the past three years have shaved off decades of my life.”
Emily snorts and bumps her hip against mine. “It’s behind you now. Focus on the future. There is so much waiting for you.”
“I hope so,” I murmur, smiling my thanks at Robyn as she passes me a drink.
The three of us make a toast and drink to passing the bar exam. But the prospect doesn’t fill me with the pride it once did. In fact, I don’t care nearly as much as I thought I would.
I miss Maverick. I miss our marriage. I miss…the life plan that I started to envision when I was with him.
Perspective truly is everything, and right now, I need to realign mine.
MAV — THIRTY-TWO DAYS POST MCKENNA
Sand clings to the heels of my feet and the backs of my calves as I plop down on my board and shake water droplets from my hair. Heaving out a sigh, I brace one hand behind me as I look out over the water.
High tide is rolling in, the sun is dipping below the horizon, and the sky is burning orange and mellow yellow. A hint of a smile curls my lips as I exhale, relieved as fuck that I’m here instead of Boston.
Sure, the weather is thawing now that it’s April.
But I truly needed time and space away from the brownstone. The band.Mckenna.
Irony sure is a bitch because those two things—time and space—are exactly what she asked me for two measly months ago. Broke my damn heart to walk away from her but the thought became easier to stomach once I accepted that I was suffocating her. And self-destructing in the process.
A whirlwind bender, a stint in rehab, and starting therapy helped me see clearly. My wife, the love of my fucking life, was better off—healthier, happier, stronger—without me and my bullshit weighing her down.
Even now, knowing that she’s graduating from law school next month, fills me with pride. She’s an intelligent, passionate, ambitious woman who is going to do amazing things.
Setting her free was the right thing to do—for both of us.
I served her papers, she signed, and I ended up here, in my slice of peace and paradise.
It’s here, among the surf sets, sunrises, and sunsets, that I’ve nursed my broken heart, licked the wounds to my ego, and tried to get my feet back underneath me. It’s been weeks, and most days, I’m still struggling to survive. To fucking breathe.
The heartbreak in Mckenna’s eyes when I slid those divorce papers over is imprinted on my fucking eyelids. A reminder every time I blink.
And the way my heart shattered when she pressed her pen deep into the paper and angrily scrawled her name across the line, sealing the end of our relationship, still aches. A constant phantom pain.
I flip my chin to a dude passing by, selling coconuts. I slap some bills in his hand after he cuts the coconut and passes it to me.
“Gracias,” I mutter, sipping the sweet water.
My phone rings from my backpack and I shake my head, even as I pull it out and answer.
“I’m good,” I tell my brother.
“It’s not always about you, Mav.”
“Isn’t it?”
I hear Jameson’s grin through the connection. “You sound good.”
“Surf, sun, and coconuts. Nature’s cure.”
“You coming home soon?” He disregards my blasé summary of life on the beach and cuts to the chase.
Home. Boston. Mckenna.
Except she’s not my home anymore.
