17. Maverick
SEVENTEEN
MAVERICK
I don’t sleep when I make it home.
Instead, I write.
Isn’t that messed up?
After months of trying, and failing, to produce song lyrics, I now can’t move my hand fast enough to write the words that filter through my mind.
Line by line. Page after page.
I fill an entire notebook with my thoughts.
With the way Mckenna looked at me in the hospital.
Horrified. Traumatized.
Betrayed.
I let her down and broke her fucking heart.
Just like Big Jim said I would.
God, the apple doesn’t fall far from the fucking tree.
My fingers begin to cramp, and I shake out my wrist when my brother appears outside the studio door at the brownstone.
He looks relieved to see me.
“What is it? What are you doing here?” I stand from the chair I’ve spent hours in and my body protests as I unfold it.
“Is it Mckenna?”
He shakes his head immediately.
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
“Oh.” I’ve ignored every call and message that appeared on my phone’s screen, only checking to make sure it wasn’t Mckenna.
“I got worried about you.”
“I’m not suicidal,” I blurt out.
“Jesus, Maverick.” My brother pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You think I’d only show up, worry about you, fucking care, if I thought you were going to kill yourself? Can’t I just check in on you? I know this shit with Mckenna is big. I know this isn’t like you going on a bender or fucking off the grid for a few weeks. I got scared.”
I sigh and hang my head.
“I’m sorry.”
“You need to fucking sleep, man.”
“I can’t.” I lift my head and point to my notebook.
“I’m working.”
Jameson tosses his head back and groans.
“Now? Now you’re writing?”
“Can’t know when the muse will strike, brother.”
He shakes his head.
“The muse is Kenny.”
I close my eyes as a horrible thought flickers through my mind.
What if I can only write when my world is falling apart?
When terrible things are happening to the woman I love?
When I’m a real-life tragedy in the making?
My brows furrow as I turn this over.
What if I can’t be prolific, or successful, unless chaos and heartache reign?
What if?—
“Maverick,” Jameson snaps.
I open my eyes and from his expression, I realize he must have been speaking to me.
“Huh?”
Jameson sighs.
“Let’s leave the writing for a bit, okay? Why don’t you go shower and then we’ll go eat.”
“It’s fine.” I shake off his offer.
“I’m not really hungry for dinner. I’ll just?—”
Jameson’s eyes flash.
“It’s breakfast, Mav. Hell, it’s almost lunchtime.”
Surprise rolls through me.
Have I really been in the studio the entire night?
After Mckenna told me she needed time and space, I wandered aimlessly for a few but then I came here.
I glance around the space and realize I haven’t left in hours.
“Come on, man. Go shower. I’ll wait for you.” Jameson’s tone is gentle.
I look at him and for a beat, I see Pop.
Kind eyes and the patience of a saint.
“Okay,” I mutter.
“Okay.” My brother nods.
I go through the motions.
Stand beneath the steaming stream of water and wash my hair, scrub my body, towel off.
I get dressed and fix my hair.
But I can hardly meet my eyes in the mirror.
When I do, I wince at how awful I look.
Exhausted, depleted, fucking broken.
At the very least, I thought Mckenna and I could be messed up together.
That our relatability, our mutual understanding, our history, would help us heal together.
But again, I’m on the outside looking in.
I’m still the sucker hoping for a different outcome than the one Mckenna presented me with.
I’m just like Big fucking Jim.
The only difference?
I haven’t taken off.
Yet.
“You’re going to get through this,” Jameson says, blowing on his coffee.
We’re at The Grind and I flip my chin at Lia when I see her spinning around the place like she’s running the show.
Hell, most days, I think she is.
“I fucking hope so,” I mutter.
“You will. Things with Mckenna have been happening at breakneck speed. Maybe you guys need a bit of space, some time, to figure it out. Isn’t that what she asked you for?”
Time and space.
Fuck off.
“Yep,” I say instead.
“Eat the pancakes, Mav.” Jameson points at my untouched plate.
I pick up my fork and do as he says.
I’m too tired to argue.
“Later today, go to the hospital, bring her some coffee or dinner, and see if you can’t talk things out. She’s been through a lot; she needs time to process. To heal. You can’t keep secrets from a woman who’s had the rug ripped out from underneath her too many times. All it does is push her away.”
I lift an eyebrow.
My brother is never forthcoming on his history with Amelia, but I know it must be really fucking big if he’s still with her.
“Speaking from experience?”
Jameson sighs.
“Just trust me, Mav. You want to do right by Mckenna? Then be honest with her. She needs that from you.”
I shovel a forkful of pancakes into my mouth, hating the truth in his words.
Despising that deep down, I know Jameson is right.
But will Mckenna hear me out?
Does she care what I have to say? God, I hope so.