Page 74 of Resilient Rhythms
“Good.”
He frowns, studying me closely. “Nauseous? Hungry? Tired?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. Today I feel good.”
“Good.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. “Are you sure you don’t want me to cancel tonight’s game?”
“Mav! I’m pregnant. I can still bowl.”
“I know. But we’re meeting with the DA’s office in a bit and that could be draining…”
“Thank you for looking out for me. But I don’t want to cancel tonight’s game. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Even if you’re feeling pukey?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Pukey isn’t a word.”
“It should be. It sounds exactly how one feels before they barf.”
I gag. “I hate that word.”
“Pukey or barf?”
“Both.”
“Sorry.” He dips his head.
I snuggle closer.
“I don’t want you to push yourself. You’re still healing and now, with the baby, the meeting with the DA…your body needs rest, Mckenna.”
“Amateur bowling is hardly pushing my body.”
Mav pulls back. “It’s not that amateur.”
I laugh. “I’m good. I want to bowl tonight. And get dinner afterwards.”
“As long as you’re still feeling that way after the final frame.”
“I will.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mav says, not pointing out that I’ve fallen asleep before eight p.m. every night this week.
But today is one of the first days that I haven’t vomited and I want to celebrate that.
Even if it’s at a bowling alley with chicken wings and ginger ale.
I pull in a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to relax, and focus on the feel of Mav’s hand on my back. We’re meeting with the DA. I shuffle into the conference room behind Laura and May, swinging my hand behind me, my fingers searching for Mav’s.
He instantly pulls his touch from my spine to link our fingers together. Squeezing his hand for reassurance, I cling to the warmth of his skin.
Dad couldn’t attend today’s meeting. Partly because I was only allowed one moral support person in addition to my VictimWitness Advocate, May. And because of his involvement in cutting a deal with Mr. Burton, Laura thought it best that he skips this introductory meeting.
When I enter the room, I note the formidable man standing to the side of a circular table. He’s in his mid-fifties, with salt and pepper hair at his temples, a stern, yet stylish, pair of square-frame glasses perched on his nose, and a warm grin.
I manage a small smile in greeting as my eyes dart around the room. Light beige walls wrap around us. They’re adorned with framed photographs of local landmarks. Cold bottles of water are set in clusters on the table along with yellow lined legal pads and black pens for note taking.
I note the details: the scent of coffee, the hum of nearby voices, a folder with my name on the tab—MckennaByrneTate. I reach out and grip the back of a cushioned chair and slowly, relax. I can do this. I’ve been waiting months to have this conversation, to move forward after years of feeling stuck, and it’s finally happening.
