4. Mckenna
FOUR
MCKENNA
The Azores are beautiful.
Breathtaking. A dream vacation with my dream guy.
And I can’t enjoy any of it.
Instead, I’m plagued by memories.
Nightmares.
Forgotten seconds and stolen moments.
Branson Burton hurt me.
I’m still trying to process that I blocked out that awful night and trauma for this long.
I’m devastated that it happened.
And everything that occurred since—Branson’s taunts, our classes together, his messages and snide remarks—guts me.
“New bikinis are hanging in the closet,” Mav says, giving me a long look.
I glance up from the book I’m reading in our honeymoon suite.
Ironically, it’s a romance.
I have to keep up appearances even though there’s no happily-ever-after in my immediate future.
I stare at the handsome rockstar.
Blue eyes I want to fall into.
Soft lips I can still taste.
A protective and caring nature I don’t deserve.
I look at Maverick Tate, and I want to cry.
Because he’s my husband, and I’m too broken to appreciate him, even in a fake capacity.
Even in the make-believe world we created.
“Mckenna,” he says. His eyes narrow, and I note the flash of annoyance.
I don’t blame him. I’m annoyed with myself too.
I’m frustrated with my inability to pull myself together.
To persevere. To confide and trust in Mav the way I want to.
“Did you hear me?”
I nod.
I’ve heard everything he’s said to me over the past few days.
Even when I can’t respond, I’m aware of his presence.
Even though I’m going through the motions, I know it’s him here with me.
Mav sighs. “Look, I know this isn’t what you want. Or what you expected. But can we at least try to make the most of our days here? There are some awesome hikes, the views are incredible, and we can do fun day trips. The fresh air and sunshine could be good.” He glances around the hotel room I’ve barely left.
I lick my dry lips. They feel cracked.
I open my mouth. The words don’t come.
Maverick tips his head back and rubs his eyes.
“You wanna go to the beach?” He tries again.
I clear my throat, search for the correct response, and force the words out.
“I’ll change into a bathing suit.”
Gratitude washes over his expression, and I feel gross.
My husband is thankful that I responded to his question.
Mav clears his throat, and I jump.
“The closet.” He points to the massive closet filled with a brand-new wardrobe I won’t work through on this trip.
Still, I force myself to stand, walk toward the closet, and pluck out an emerald-green bikini.
Emerald green. Like the dress I wore when I married Mav.
It’s a color I love wearing as it complements my hair and complexion.
But right now, it causes my stomach to pinch.
I run my fingers over the fabric.
It’s a designer I recognize from back when I bought expensive clothes.
Tears prick my eyes as I study the bathing suits.
Mav is giving me back aspects of my old life, a current wardrobe, a luxury holiday, a leisure week with no deadlines or demands, and I can’t appreciate any of it.
Can’t appreciate him.
Branson stole so much from me that night.
He stole my confidence.
My ability to trust myself.
My capacity to understand my reality.
He broke parts of my mind and shattered pieces of my soul.
My fingers tremble as I slip into the bathing suit.
When I see my reflection in the mirror, I frown.
I recognize the woman staring back at me, but I don’t want to.
Pale skin, sunken eyes, empty.
Lonely. Withdrawn.
My 1L year I wore this look.
Haunted.
“You ready?” Mav asks.
Again, I jump at the sound of his voice.
Pain blazes in his eyes, but he blinks it away.
He keeps his arms at his side and doesn’t reach for me.
Over the past few days, I’ve noticed how hesitant Mav is in my presence.
Like he doesn’t want to cross some arbitrary line I drew in the sand, even though neither of us knows where the line is or what it looks like.
He’s walking on eggshells around me.
And I don’t know if I can tell him to stop.
I draw in a deep breath.
“Ready.” I follow him out of the beautiful hotel suite.
We move to the beach and settle on plush white cushions in a swanky cabana.
Immediately, a server appears and sets up a bucket of ice with a bottle of fancy champagne.
She pops it and pours us two glasses.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Tate.” She beams.
A kick reverberates behind my breastbone.
Mrs. Tate.
“Thanks so much!” Mav gushes, grinning at her.
His eyes flash, his dimple pops, and she doesn’t spare me a second glance.
I’m grateful. Thankful to my husband for covering for me.
Again, the realization makes me feel worse.
I’m under contract. I’m supposed to act a part.
The part of Mav’s doting, happy significant other.
And I can hardly muster the energy to sit on the beach.
“Cheers, beauty,” Mav mutters.
I clink my glass against his.
“Cheers,” I echo, taking a long sip of the champagne.
I settle back against the cushions, stare at the gorgeous beach, and beg for sleep to claim me.
Anything to stop this phantom pain.
Anything to end this darkness in broad daylight.
Mom
You got married wearing green?
Oh fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Mom
Mckenna, that’s so tasteless!
While I understand you’re in a rebellious phase and you clearly married a rockstar to embarrass me, I don’t hate that you’re married.
At your age, it’s about time.
Call when you’re back from Portugal and we’ll plan a proper wedding.
One where you wear white.
Or, at the very least, ivory.
I groan and close my eyes.
Even reading her text messages exhausts me.
She is completely out of touch with reality.
Like, that’s her main concern?
The fact that I eloped while wearing an emerald-green dress?
Doesn’t the part where I eloped in the middle of the night in Las Vegas demonstrate that it obviously wasn’t a planned event?
Shouldn’t she be concerned that I eloped at all?
Dad, on the other hand, has the decency to call.
My phone rings later that day while I’m alone in the suite and Mav is down by the pool, enjoying the views and the sunshine like a normal person.
I arch an eyebrow when Dad’s name appears on my phone’s screen.
I debate letting it go to voicemail but at the last moment, a tiny bubble of hope rises to the surface, and I accept the call.
“Hello?” I answer, praying it’s him and not his assistant.
The last thing I want is to speak about my marriage to Mav via a third-party.
“You eloped in Las Vegas?” Dad explodes with anger, and the hint of a smile coasts across my face.
How sad is that? I want to fucking grin because my father cares enough to be angry.
Oh, I am losing it.
“I did,” I reply, keeping my voice even.
“I married Maverick Tate.”
“The rockstar.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Would you have flown to Vegas to stop me?” I snap, surprising myself with my boldness.
But it feels good to feel a spark of anger after days of oscillating between numbness and agony.
Dad sucks in a breath.
“You could have at least called afterwards, Mckenna. I heard about it from Jeannie. She saw it on the front page of one of those fake magazines in the checkout aisle at the grocery store.”
“Good thing Jeannie buys her own groceries,” I mutter.
“She says congratulations, by the way,” Dad huffs.
“I… Are you happy?”
I pause because he sounds…
worried. Sincere. “Thank you.” I temper my emotions.
“And…” I trail off, not knowing what to say next.
I know he’s asking about Mav, but right now, I’m drowning.
I’m suffocating. I’m hurting.
“I’m doing okay.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
I roll my lips together, trying to collect my thoughts.
The fact that Dad called at all is surprising and yet, I know he’ll do whatever he can to help me.
But I don’t know what type of help to ask for.
I don’t know what I need right now.
I just want it all to stop.
The sliced-up memories and the sounds of Bran’s voice.
The scent of the bonfire and the brown of the couch.
It all haunts me.
I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to articulate…
what? Even my thoughts don’t make sense.
“Do you want out of this marriage?” he presses.
“I can make it disappear like it never happened or?—”
I sigh, recalling my Vegas performance.
“There are photos, Dad. Videos. Of me?—”
“A sex tape?” he gasps.
If I wasn’t so broken, I’d probably laugh.
“Singing karaoke,” I clarify.
“Telling everyone how much I love Maverick Tate. It could hardly be annulled.”
“Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief.
I sit down in a chair and glance out the window to the lush greenery.
Surprisingly, I confide in my dad.
“I care a lot for Maverick. More than I have for any other man in my life. We’re figuring this out.”
Dad sighs.
“I wish you told me, Kenny. I wish I knew, or at the very least, met the man you married.”
I’m about to tell him that it’s his own fault when he surprises the hell out of me by admitting it.
“But that’s on me. I’m sorry, Mckenna.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“If you need anything, any help navigating what comes next, call me. I mean it.”
“Okay. I will,” I reply, meaning it too.
If anyone knows the name of a good divorce lawyer, it’s my father.
“And when you and Maverick are home, Jeannie and I would love to take you to dinner.”
“Really?” I can’t hide the shock from my tone.
It’s followed by a pang of sadness since I know that will never happen.
My husband and I are barely on speaking terms; the last thing we’re going to do is dine with Dad and his new girlfriend.
But the fact that Dad offers means something to me.
“Really,” Dad says, his voice as sad as I feel.
“Okay. Thanks, Dad.”
“Enjoy your honeymoon, Kenny.” He clicks off and I stare at my phone, wondering if that really happened.
Or am I hallucinating scenarios with my parents now?
I shake my head, feeling like I can’t trust my own thoughts.
Everything is a jumbled mess.
As much as I know things between Maverick and me are a disaster, I don’t want Dad to have a bad impression of Mav.
Not when Mav’s tried to help me, to show up for me, to care for me.
If anything, I’m ruining his life.
The following day, I realize how much Mav is sacrificing for me.
A document appears in my inbox, outlining the terms of Maverick’s and my marriage.
As well as our eventual divorce.
Divorce. The word sounds as bitter as it tastes.
I stare at the email Aiden sent over and a rush of emotion swells behind my eyes.
Even though our marriage is a mess, reading this email proves that I don’t want to divorce my husband.
Maverick is the only man I’ve ever fully trusted.
The only man I’ve ever loved.
The only man who showed up for me, protected me, cared for me.
Even before our fake relationship, when I was flipping him an attitude, he tried to look out for me.
To wait up for me. To ask if I was in trouble and needed help.
And then, afterwards.
There was Warren Willoughby and Snowport by the Seaport.
There was Christmas and a fort and a brooch like my grandmother’s.
There were late-night movies and easy conversations.
Genuine laughter and whispered confessions.
With Mav, there’s always been a layer of unshakeable trust.
We may be unconventional—a Goody-Two-shoes and a rockstar—but the times we’ve shared together infused me with hope.
I may not deserve my husband, but I’d like to be worthy of him.
I may not have intended to wake up married in Vegas, but staring at the email before me and wanting to sob proves that I don’t want to dissolve our union either.
Isn’t it strange how sometimes, one instance can clarify the most complicated of situations?
One singular item can untangle the messiest of emotions.
Right now, this email does that.
It demonstrates that regardless of how messed up my mind is, how complicated my marriage is, I still want Maverick Tate.
I want my husband.
My eyes scan the email, and I suck in a breath.
I imagine Mav approved the agreement, but the financial entitlements extended to me still blow my mind.
Disbelief keeps me pinned in place as I reread the document several times and mentally calculate the figures presented—over three million dollars.
To divorce my fake husband after six months of marriage and pretend it’s amicable.
Even Dad couldn’t produce results like these.
I snort and shake my head.
Even now, Mav’s trying to do right by me.
Even when I don’t deserve it.
Mixed feelings course through me, but what else is new?
I’m processing a trauma I mentally blocked out.
I’m newly married, yet soon to be divorced.
I groan and drop my face into my hands as my mind whirls.
Splinters. Wanders.
“What? It’s not enough zeros for you?” Mav’s voice cuts through the air.
I spin in my seat. My mouth drops open as I see him standing behind me.
Anguish lines his face, and his mouth twists.
He reads the document over my shoulder and scoffs.
“Want to make it three months instead of six?” He tosses the words out casually, but they land like bullets, ripping through my skin and tearing up my insides.
He’s got it all wrong.
I know I’ve been distant; I know my silence has been unfair.
But I don’t want more zeroes.
I want more time.
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come.
My husband chuckles, but the sound is pained.
Angry. Reckless.
“Talk to me!” he pleads.
And it’s a fair command.
Why can’t I give him the words?
The reassurances? The love that he’s always given me?
I stare back, unable to form the words I desperately want to say.
“Whatever, Mckenna. Sit here and stew. I’m going for a run.” Mav strides toward the door.
“We have dinner at eight p.m. Try not to look so goddamn miserable.”
A minute later, the door to our suite slams shut.
Shit. I sit back in my chair and try to process.
A whistle cuts the air, and I realize it’s me trying to suck in oxygen.
Dizziness swirls through my mind, and the edges of my vision grow hazy.
Dark and distorted.
Bran’s laugh cuts through my head.
Maniacal and desperate.
I drop my head to the table and focus on the moment.
The seconds. The air in my lungs and the background noises of the resort.
I’m having dinner with Mav at the resort’s fancy restaurant in two hours.
A paparazzo will be present to photograph us enjoying our honeymoon.
And Mav essentially just served me future divorce papers.
But I’m not letting go easily.
I’ve been through hell and have somehow come out on the other side.
I’m remembering and recalling and processing.
Branson Burton may have destroyed aspects of my life, but he cannot have my marriage.
I won’t fucking allow it.