Page 80 of Resilient Rhythms
“You bought me a home,” she breathes. “But my home is you, Mav.”
We stare at various shades of yellow—limoncello, golden hour, sunbeam, daffodil—swathed across the wall when the call comes through.
Mckenna pulls her phone from the back pocket of her cutoff jeans and freezes. “It’s Laura.”
“What? Answer it.”
She presses the phone to her ear. “Hi, Laura.”
Mckenna’s posture straightens and her mouth drops open.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I move closer to my beauty, reaching out a hand.
She doesn’t shake off my touch, but she doesn’t answer my questions either. Her eyes meet mine, wide and bewildered. She clenches the phone tighter. “When?” Her voice cracks. “You’re sure?”
“Tell me,” I plead.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t, that’s, wow. Yeah, okay. That’s fine. We’ll be here. Call anytime. Okay, thanks.” She disconnects the call and places her cell phone in my hand.
“Mckenna.”
“You’re never going to believe this,” she says, half breathless with the news. Emotions cross her face, her eyes practically dancing.
“What is it?” I murmur, too nervous to feel hopeful when Mckenna’s expression is telling me I should feel joy. But how many times has the other shoe dropped? “Beauty?”
“Two women have come forward,” she says, her eyes dimming to show the pain that the realization causes. “They’re sisters.”
“Two women?”
She rolls her lips together, clutching at my forearms. “They were the twin daughters of the headmaster at the boarding school Bran attended in Massachusetts. They’re about three years younger than me. Apparently, their father tried to cover things up and made a deal with Bran’s father to keep the situation quiet. He didn’t want his daughters to suffer in the media and he also didn’t want to tarnish the reputation of the school.”
“Jesus,” I swear. Was a father more concerned about his job than his daughters’ well-being?
I look at Mckenna’s stomach, at the little wonder growing there, and the lump that forms in my throat is painful. I already love our baby so damn much and I’ve never met them.
“The two women have come forward and want to tell their story. They were horrified to learn about me and knowing that there was another woman hurt by Bran pushed them to file charges.”
“What did Laura say?”
“She’s about to speak with Rob and then, she’ll call us to explain what will most likely happen next. She’ll walk us through the various scenarios.”
“Will there be a trial?” I’m conflicted at the thought. On one hand, I want Mckenna to enjoy the full closure of Bran being convicted after a trial. On the other hand, I hate the idea of Mckenna reliving her trauma aloud, in front of a room full of strangers.
But that’s not my call to make. Of course, I’ll support her through whatever comes next. I’ll play this any way she wants. I just want her to have closure with the outcome.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet.”
“Wow. Two women.” I tug Mckenna closer and she steps into my embrace. I hold her for a long moment, my eyes still glued to the yellow paint.
“Those poor women.”
“Yeah.”
“But the chances of a more severe sentencing have improved. Bran could go to prison for a long, long time.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my mind reeling.
I hate the uncertainty that continues to wrap around Mckenna and me. No matter how many steps forward we take in our relationship—staying married, having a baby, moving in together—Bran’s presence, the trauma he caused, continues to loom.
