Page 41 of Resilient Rhythms
And for the first time in years, I feel whole.
TEN
MCKENNA
The afterglowof sex with Maverick clings to me for the remainder of the week. The tension I carry in my shoulders unravels. The thoughts that plague me on a never-ending loop close. Hope eats up some of my fear and I feel excited about the future.
Closing the trunk of my car, I count the number of reuseable grocery bags I stowed. Five. I run through the list of items I purchased and nod to myself. I have all the necessary ingredients to cook chicken and mushroom wellington for Mav and me tonight.
Rounding to the driver’s side, a white note tucked underneath the windshield of my car causes me to pause. Was that note there before I put the groceries in the trunk?
I shake my head. No, I don’t remember seeing it.
It’s probably a flyer. I squint at the nearby parked cars but don’t see any fluttering papers on their windshields.
My stomach sinks and a wave of nausea bubbles up my throat. Because Iknow. Iknowit’s him.
Plucking up the paper, I read it and fist it in my hand, tears burning the backs of my eyelids.
Have you missed me? Because I’ve really missed you.
For a heartbeat, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’tthink.
Then, fight-or-flight kicks in with an overwhelming surge of adrenaline and I whip around, looking forhim. But there’s no one. Nothing.
A handful of cars, a bright blue sky, and a nearby gas station. A practically empty gas station.
New fears ricochet through my mind. Is he hiding in the back of my car? Underneath it? Is he watching me right now from behind a leafy tree?
I look over my shoulder. Should I take refuge in the supermarket? But is that where he snuck off to? Is he waiting for me among the produce section or the snack aisle?
Floaters appear in my peripheral vision and a sheet of ice coats my skin.
Where the hell is he? Why is he doing this to me?
A car driving by slows and the driver honks the horn.
“Oh God!” I exclaim, practically jumping out of my skin. My hand darts to the base of my throat and rests there as I gulp for oxygen.
But the red car passes by and the driver isn’t Bran.
I stuff the note into the back pocket of my jean shorts, recoiling from touching the paper, from pressing the pad of my thumb against the words that Bran scrawled, and fling myself into my car.
I instantly lock the doors, turn the ignition, and drive straight home.
My hands shake and my mind whirls. My heart gallops and my stomach twists.
On some level, I know I shouldn’t be driving but I have to get home. I have to put as much distance between the supermarket and myself. I drive slowly, my eyes scanning my surroundings. I clock the drivers who pass me on the road, I constantly glance in my rearview mirror, I study the sidewalks at red lights.
But there’s no trace of Bran.
He’s disappeared again.
And for a moment, I question if he ever left me a note at all. Of course, I know he did. But he has the unique capability to make me question everything about myself—my decision making, my judgment, even my character.
I call Mav, Dad, and the police the moment I’m locked into the brownstone. I darted inside, leaving the grocery bags in the trunk for Mav to bring in.
He does fifteen minutes later, having run home from the studio to be with me.
