Page 51 of Resilient Rhythms
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I guess you really do understand what it’s like to watch the woman you love suffer.”
“More than you know,” he agrees. “And you’re already doing better than me, mate.”
I shake my head and clink my beer bottle against his. “I think you did a hell of a job, Jameson. You and Amelia had a really rough road.”
“We made it harder than it had to be. Don’t do that with Mckenna. Learn from my mistakes, Mav.”
“Is that why you finally told me the truth? Are you trying to spare me a similar heartbreak?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
“I started seeing a therapist.”
“No shit.”
Jameson grins. “I’m serious. He suggested some things for me to work on and one of them is being more honest and upfront with the people who mean a lot to me. To try to trust more.”
I smirk back. “Look at us, sharing shit and being transparent.”
“Our ancestors must be rolling over in their graves,” Jameson murmurs.
I chuckle. “Yeah, but not Nana and Pop.”
“No, not them.”
I stare at my brother from the corner of my eye, wondering if I should tell him the truth about his dad, the truth about Big Jim. But he’s looking back out into the darkness, lost in his thoughts.I don’t want to overwhelm him. Especially not tonight when he confided in me.
Sinking back into my chair, I take a long pull of my beer.
I’ll tell Jameson soon but not tonight.
Tonight, I’m going to enjoy this sliver of peace with my brother.
TWELVE
MCKENNA
With the barexam quickly approaching, I force myself to focus on studying more than this fucked-up situation with Bran.
Even though a crew works next store at Mav’s place daily, noise-canceling headphones do the trick and I’m able to immerse myself in test prep.
During my breaks, I exchange emails with the lawyers Dad hired. However, given the time crunch I’m under to take the exam, I’ve asked Dad and Mav to oversee the initial conversations with the legal team.
I think it shows growth. A handful of months ago, I would have been furious with them. But now, knowing I’m making the choice, I’m relieved to ask for their support. I trust that they’ll keep me looped in but not overwhelm me.
I spend my days with my nose buried in books and my nights hanging out with Mav, poring over paint samples and choosing kitchen cabinet hardware.
Will we live in that brownstone by this time next year? Will I plant a garden in the back? Or buy new bedding for the master bedroom? Or paint the cozy little bedroom yellow for a future nursery?
I shake my head, the thought nearly as alarming as the soft smile that crosses my face when I think it.
I’m one week away from the biggest exam of my life, still married to a rockstar, and debating pressing charges against the man who attacked me. The last thing I should be doing is envisioning a nursery for a fictional baby in a home I don’t own.
“Jesus, you’re delusional,” I mutter to myself, slamming my textbook shut. Clearly, I need a break.
As I wander to the espresso machine for a caffeine hit, my phone rings.
