8. Mav
EIGHT
MAV
Over the next few days, things normalize between Mckenna and me.
We find our easy again.
Our relentless teasing, our pushing each other’s buttons, our equilibrium.
Breakfasts are filled with laughter.
We take morning hikes, relishing the incredible landscapes and reveling in the gorgeous views.
I’ve never felt as on top of the world as I do with the sea below, the sky above, and Mckenna’s hand in mine.
During our walks, we talk about everything and nothing.
We’re at ease in each other’s presence and even the silence between us bonds us together.
At night, we sip tea under the stars and tell stories.
I recall more of Warren Willoughby’s adventures and Mckenna shares tales of her UCLA days with Allegra, Ivy, and Nova.
One evening, as I take a drink of my mint tea, Mckenna casts a questioning glance at me.
“Yes?” I quirk an eyebrow.
She shakes her head, averting her gaze.
“You can ask me anything. You’re my wife, remember?” I tease.
A small smile skates over her pretty mouth.
But then it slips and she meets my eyes.
“Mav, what happened to your family? Where’s your mom and dad?”
I sigh, letting the hot tea roll over my tongue and burn the roof of my mouth.
In all fairness, it’s amazing Mckenna and I have spent this much time together and not discussed my parents.
“It’s a messy story,” I warn.
She snorts and I realize the irony.
But I don’t smile back; it will never be okay to make light of what Mckenna’s survived.
“My mom is complicated. I really believe she did her best with what she had,” I say slowly, gathering my thoughts.
“She fell in love young. He was a fireman in the city, and she was a freshman at NYU. She was very theatrical and creative. She loved music.” I tilt my head, letting Mckenna correctly assume that Jameson’s and my love for music grew from our mother’s passion.
“Nana and Pop liked her beau very much. He was a good, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth guy with an Irish background.”
“Jameson,” Mckenna murmurs, not realizing how much closer to the truth she is with that tiny observation.
“Jameson,” I repeat, clearing my throat.
“My mom’s boyfriend was named James and, I recognize how on the nose this sounds, but Jameson Whiskey was his favorite drink. He wasn’t a big drinker, but that was his preference. He passed away two months before my brother was born in a brushfire that wreaked havoc in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.”
Mckenna sits up straighter, placing her tea down on the small table between us.
“You and your brother…”
“We don’t have the same biological fathers. But Jameson doesn’t know that,” I admit, recognizing as I say the words that I probably should have told my brother before Mckenna.
But after everything she’s shared with me, I want to confide in her too.
I want her to be the keeper of my secrets as much as I want to be the shoulders that carry her burdens and pains.
Mckenna gasps, her eyes widening.
“My mom met my biological father, Big Jim, when Jameson was four months old. Nana and Pop liked him at first too. He was charming and caring and didn’t mind that mom had a baby. At that point, Mom’s musical and acting aspirations were on hold. She was grieving James, had Jameson to take care of, and was working as a hairstylist at a salon in the city. Nana was minding Jameson during the day, but it wasn’t a long-term solution. Mom met Big Jim while he was in the city for a work conference. He walked into her salon needing a haircut, sat in her chair, and that was it. They hit it off immediately. Nana told me that Big Jim took some of the grief from Mom’s eyes. She started laughing again. It was a whirlwind romance and Mom moved to Boston to be with Big Jim. Nana and Pop followed shortly afterward. And for a while, things were good. I was born. Jim was working. Mom was introducing my brother and me to music. We were happy.”
“What happened?” Mckenna whispers.
“Pop was diagnosed with dementia. Mom was doing everything she could to help Nana with Pop. She was still working as a hairstylist, mostly nights and weekends then, so her days were free to support Nana. And right in the midst of it, Big Jim was laid off.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. Him losing his job was a huge setback. He’d been growing frustrated for years that he wasn’t moving up in the company or landing any promotions. Things were getting more expensive—music lessons, rent, food. Normal things, I guess, that married couples navigate. But when Big Jim lost his job, it’s like he lost a piece of his identity.”
“What did he do?”
“Started hitting the bottle. Spending days in the pubs. Betting on the horse races. And he began taking out his bitterness and resentment on Mom. It’s like he was pissed with her for not being there for him. But I don’t know what the fuck he expected. She was the only parent putting food on the table and her dad’s condition was worsening. Right in the middle of that shitstorm, my father decided that he had enough. I came home from school one day, Jameson stayed after to work on a piece with our music teacher, and Big Jim was packing a bag. Just like that, he was going to take off and not say a word.”
“What did you do?” Mckenna asks, her eyes shiny with tears.
“I begged him to stay,” I admit, my voice scratchy as I confess one of my greatest shames.
“I fucking begged him, Mckenna. Like a goddamn dog.” I shake my head, recalling the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I pleaded with my father.
“He was drunk but not wasted. He crouched down in front of me and told me to man the fuck up or I’d end up just like him. I didn’t understand what he meant and that’s when he told me.”
Mckenna sucks in a sharp breath.
“He told me that Jameson wasn’t his biological kid. That Jameson was born to a fucking saint named James that my mother still held a torch for. That he was the fuckup second choice and I was the leftovers of all the collateral damage. And that one day, I’d end up just like him. A drunk, second-best, good-for-nothing pushover. He said I had choices to make but if I continued to cry like a pussy, then those choices would be made for me anyway and it would be too late,” I continue.
His words are so sharp in my mind, as if he said them yesterday and not over a decade ago.
I heave out a breath.
Shake my head at Mckenna and the mess I made of our lives.
“Some days, I wonder if he was right.”
“Maverick,” she admonishes.
“There’s nothing second-best about you.”
I snort.
“Most people only think I’m in the band because of my brother. He’s the real talent and I’m…the hang around.”
“You know that’s not true. At your level, with your success, come on. You’re crazy talented.”
“I think that’s why I wanted to write songs so badly,” I admit.
“I wanted to prove that I was more than what I am. That I could be better than he said I’d be. Stupid, isn’t it? To still care or be driven by the words of a man who’s missed most of my fucking life.”
Mckenna’s expression is almost stricken as she shakes her head.
“That’s not stupid at all. That’s…well, that’s one of the most relatable things you’ve ever said to me.”
I laugh at that and Mckenna cracks a grin.
“We’re completely fucked up, aren’t we?” I mutter.
“Broken beyond repair.”
“Not even close,” I say, reaching for her.
She comes to my side of the couch and wraps her arms around me.
The second her body melts into mine, I breathe easier.
She snuggles into me, and I hold her close, and together, we pull in an inhale.
“You’re not broken, baby,” I tell her.
“And you’re not fucked up, Mav.”
“Some days I am,” I admit.
“Some days I am too,” she replies, chuckling into my shoulder.
She presses a kiss there.
“I’ve never told anyone that, Mckenna. Even my brother doesn’t know. I got the rest of the truth, the background, from Nana. It was after Pop was in a nursing home. I was in high school and spending a few weeks with her in the summer. She broke down, sobbing at the kitchen table, and told me everything. She admitted my mom didn’t want us to know. To my mom, we were truly brothers, and we were hers and she didn’t want anything to change our perception of that.”
“I understand that,” Mckenna whispers.
I kiss the crown of her head.
“I do, too.”
Mckenna shifts in my arms, glancing up at me.
“Where’s your mom now?”
“Indonesia.”
“What?” Mckenna laughs.
I nod and bite my lip to keep from grinning.
“She’s such a free spirit. After years of hurt, she moved on. She leaned into her creative pursuits and started painting. I mean, she kept things going for Jameson and me until the band made it. By then, Nana and Pop had passed, Big Jim was long gone, and Jameson and I were embarking on a whole new chapter. Mom asked if we minded if she pursued a long-held dream to travel and sell her art. Of course, we didn’t. And she went. She met a man—an artist, named Niko—and they’re living their best lives puttering around Asia together.” I smirk at Mckenna.
“According to Mom, it’s never too late to reinvent yourself.”
“Wow,” Mckenna murmurs, shaking her head before dropping it back to my shoulder.
“She can’t wait to meet you,” I tack on.
“She knows about me?”
“I called her after we got married. She said elopements often make the best stories.”
“But not the best marriages.”
“Too early to tell, Mckenna.”
Mckenna is silent after that, and I don’t push.
Instead, I hold her closer and together, we watch the stars.
That night, as I watch Mckenna sleep, I’m relieved that I shared my secret with someone.
And I’m glad that it was her.
I trust her more than anyone and know she understands me in ways that most people don’t.
There’s a depth between us, a mutual respect and shared sense of responsibility for the other.
There’s a relatability I’ve never experienced with anyone else.
Not even my brother.
And while I love the closeness that’s blossoming between us, I can’t help but worry about what comes next.
On the surface, during our daily hikes, I lean into our newfound lightness.
I do whatever I can to put Mckenna at ease, to make her smile, to ensure her safety.
But at night, an inferno rages through my bloodstream.
Thoughts of Branson hurting her consume me, plunging my mental state into darkness each time I watch her sleep.
“We’re going on an adventure,” I announce the following morning.
Mckenna stretches in bed, her auburn hair fanned across the pillow, her navy eyes blinking slowly.
“What?” she mumbles, dragging herself into a seated position.
The bedsheet pools around her waist as she regards me groggily.
I grin. She’s wearing a black silk pajama set—a tank top with too-thin straps and tiny shorts—and she looks delectable.
Adorable. So fucking perfect, my heart rate accelerates.
“An adventure,” I repeat, striding over to the windows and pushing back the curtains to let the sunlight stream in.
“There’s hiking. Volcanic hot springs. A delicious lunch spread. Perhaps even a waterfall.” I lift an eyebrow to tempt her.
She smiles, and it’s like basking in pure sunshine.
“Well, if there’s a waterfall.” She slips from bed.
I chuckle.
“You should’ve led with that,” she continues, teasing me, as she slides her feet into slippers and pads over to me.
“How’d you sleep?” I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
“I was out,” she says, shaking her head.
“I’ve been sleeping so well here since...” She trails off.
“Just out.”
“Good.” I kiss the top of her head.
“You need the rest, Mckenna.”
She makes a noncommittal sound in her throat and ducks under my arm.
“Breakfast?”
I gesture toward the door.
“Lead the way.”
Over the past few days, we’ve eaten breakfast on our balcony overlooking the beach.
Mckenna hesitates by the door, and I pause, watching her.
While things have been good, she’s been a touch skittish.
Unsure. I hate seeing her struggle, especially when her vibrant confidence seemed unshakeable a few weeks ago.
But it all came crashing down when her mind caught up with her.
When she recalled Branson’s actions with perfect clarity.
Remembering that night, in its entirety, has affected her in other ways.
It’s made her question her trust in herself.
That makes me hurt for my girl.
“Do you want to have breakfast at the restaurant this morning?” Her voice is steady, but I hear the hope threading through it.
While we’ve stayed mostly out of the public eye, with Mckenna keeping to herself to avoid being photographed, it seems she’s ready to resume some aspects of her life.
She’s dipping her toe back in.
I smirk. Does she think I’d deny her anything?
“I’d love to if you’re up for it.”
“I am.” She squares her shoulders.
“Great. Get dressed, and I’ll call down for a table.”
She beams, and my chest tightens.
Is that all she needs?
Someone to support and love her and want to spend time with her?
Thanks for believing me, Mav.
She’s gonna break my goddamn heart.
I give Mckenna time to dress while I reserve a table.
When she’s ready, stunning in a wrap dress that hugs her curves and causes my mouth to drop open, I take her hand and lead her out of our suite.
We’re seated at a little table beside the beach, and Mckenna looks relaxed.
Vibrant. Happy.
“Tell me more about our adventure.” She plucks up a menu.
“Well, the Jeep is picking us up in an hour,” I murmur off-handedly.
Mckenna beams. “And then?”
I grin, her zest for adventure infectious.
It’s so out of character for her usual, type A, studious persona that I love learning about her carefree side.
The girl who throws caution to the wind.
The woman who loves the outdoors.
The heart that gets mesmerized by the stars and sea.
Allegra told me there’s more to Mckenna than meets the eye.
I’m finally seeing her depth, and it’s everything.
An entire cosmic shift.
“It’s a surprise.” I tap the tip of her nose.
“Okay. I’m turning off my mind that needs to know our full itinerary and letting you lead the way.”
There she is.
My little organizer.
“I got you, Mckenna. I promise today is going to be epic.”
She nods as a server approaches our table.
“I know, Mav. I trust you.”
Whenever she confides in me, I feel a kick behind my breastplate.
My chest squeezes and my organs shift, until my heart feels too big for the space it’s allotted.
Is she saying it for my benefit?
Because she needs to believe it?
Or because it’s a simple truth.
She trusts me. I believe in her.
And we’re together.
God, I don’t ever want to leave the Azores.
Not when I can have this honest, beautiful, carefree side of Mckenna with me.
Not when I can keep her safe, protected, and away from the man who hurt her.
Not when I can be the man who makes her laugh, plans our days, and holds her at night.
Not when our marriage can be this good. Feel this right.