Page 14 of Resilient Rhythms
Jameson winks at me and holds up his glass.
The rest of the table follows and I blush at the attention. At the praise.
“Proud of you, kid,” Dad mutters, clinking his beer against my wineglass.
“Thank you, Dad,” I reply softly, taking a sip of my wine.
Across the table, Mav’s eyes hold mine.
And even though weeks, hell, months, have passed, I can still read his expression as easily as my own thoughts.
I’m proud of you.
I missed you.
We need to talk.
And we do.
There’s so much to say. So many things I’ve wanted to pick up the phone to tell him over the past few weeks. Somewhere over the last year, Mav became more than my reluctant roommate and the guy I asked to marry me drunk in Vegas. He became my person. My best friend. The man I could count on, trust, and believe in.
Even at the end, when he went on a bender and served me with papers, a part of me acknowledged that my actions contributed to his reaching that breaking point.
We both made mistakes. We were both wrong.
But today, we’re both here.
And it’s not fucking over.
“It’s still your house,” I remind Mav when I pull open the door to the brownstone the following day.
He smirks, removing his Wayfarer sunglasses and giving me his eyes. “I like that you’re still living in it.”
I step aside so he can enter. He crosses the threshold and his eyes swing around the place. The couch and the living room, the open concept kitchen with the butcher block island.
A shadow crosses his expression and I wonder where his thoughts have traveled.
Is he seeing the space like the last time he was here? When he gave me divorce papers?
Or the morning after his bender, when it was trashed and filled with strangers?
Or before? When it was me and him and a fort at Christmastime?
I clear my throat and Mav shakes his head, as if clearing away his memories. “Want a coffee?”
“Sure.” He follows me into the kitchen.
I move toward the fancy espresso machine Derek purchased years ago. As I fix Mav a coffee, I feel his eyes on the space between my shoulder blades.
When I turn around, he’s seated at the island, one foot resting on the rung of the barstool. He looks casual, at ease, and familiar.
My heartbeat kicks up at the sight of him. Months ago, I could have crossed the kitchen, stood in between his legs, and dropped my mouth to his. He would have kissed me back instantly, his large hands cupping the backs of my thighs and sliding up toward my ass, squeezing and kneading and?—
I drop my head, blushing.
We’re not married anymore. Are we even friends?
I approach the island and note the amusement in Mav’s eyes. I missed that look, too.
