Page 5 of Resilient Rhythms
“I’ll be home before then.”
Jameson’s relief is palpable through the line. I feel it and nod to myself, knowing I’ve shirked responsibilities for too long.
“See you soon?”
“I’ll see you, brother,” I confirm, ending the call.
Then, I toss my phone back into my backpack, take one last, long look at the sea, and push to my feet.
I swipe my board and head home. In truth, my place here is my only real home. The brownstone in Boston belongs to the band, even though I’m the one who has mostly crashed there over the past five years. Well, me and Mckenna.
Reign told me she’s still living there and that knowledge has given me peace of mind over the last three weeks. I wonder if she ever goes into my room, slips beneath my sheets, and breathes in my scent.
Does she remember when the bed was ours?
Does she miss those late nights, our legs intertwined, our hearts beating in sync?
Does she think of me the way I remember her? Fucking constantly.
I rinse off when I get home. I go through the motions of survival. Eat, watch television, substitute the cold beer I want with a mint fucking tea. And sleep.
Tomorrow is another day. And now that I know my time here is winding down, I have to think about my next chapter.
Back in Boston. Back with the band. Back with my brother.
And doing it without Mckenna. It’s a reality I don’t want to consider but now, with Jameson’s call ringing in my ears, I know it’s time to head home.
MCKENNA — THIRTY-EIGHT DAYS POST MAV
“You look good, Kenny,” Dad says as he pushes into the brownstone, his hands full as he balances a coffee tray and a bag of pastries.
I step forward to help, taking the coffee tray from his hands. “Good morning, Dad. Thanks for breakfast.”
“I remember the chaos of final exam week.”
“It’s hell. I finally washed my hair.”
Dad chuckles. “It’s the worst,” he agrees, sitting on a kitchen barstool and tearing open the bag of pastries.
“But…” I grin at him. “It’s over now.” I gasp, my eyes dropping to the pastries. “You got éclairs and cinnamon rolls?”
“You still like them both?” He seems surprised and relieved.
“Very much,” I say quietly. Connecting with Dad again has been one of the greatest outcomes of my situationship—marriage?—with Mav. When he does things like this, remembers the small details, it heals some of the hurt that a younger version of me dwelled in years ago. “Thanks.”
Dad nods and takes a swig of coffee. “Well, we’re celebrating.” He breaks an éclair in half and takes a big bite.
As the pastry cream slides over his knuckles, I force myself to stand and gather a knife, two plates, and a stack of napkins.
“Here,” I say, pushing the napkins toward him. “You’re the first person I’ve had over in a while.”
Dad laughs and shakes his head. “These are delicious.” He wipes his hands on a napkin. “I can’t believe you’re graduating in two weeks.”
“Trust me, I’m ready.” I take the seat across from him and break off a piece of cinnamon roll. Popping it into my mouth, Iclose my eyes and savor the sugary treat. Final exams really have been hell, but they’re nothing compared to the bar exam I’m scheduled to take in July. And they were a breeze compared to the stress I’ve endured this year, dealing with Bran.
And then, there’s Mav. No, I’m not thinking about Mav right now. It’s too…hard. To survive exams, I had to push all thoughts of my ex-husband as far from my mind as possible. So, not very far at all.
“I know you are,” Dad replies, his voice sober.
