“Of course, you are totally right. I’m sorry, genuinely,” I say because repeating an apology fifteen times is totally the way to someone’s heart. “That was the first time I’d ever seen somebody have a brain event in real-time, and I guess…I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Okay?”she asks, gesturing at herself. “What makes you think any of this isokay?I can’t sing, can’t even pick up a guitar, and the career I spent my entire adulthood trying to achieve is gone barely three years in.” She scowls, pausing to wipe the spit that’s gathered in the corner of her mouth. “You should’ve left well enough alone. Let the damn strokes finish the job.”
Mason glances at me, his eyes downturned.
I don’t know why, but I keep trying to make it better.
“Look, this is just the hard part, Mac. You’re only a month in—not even. I’m sure Dr. De León explained that the brain needs time. Also, you aren’t just a singer and an instrumentalist. You’re also a brilliant songwriter.”
“How the fuck would you know that?” she asks, pinning me with an angry look. “You couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, remember?”
Ouch.
“I’ve been listening to your entire catalog on repeat since that night. I’ve listened to all the songs you’ve written, some of which I didn’t even realize were yours. I didn’t know you wrote pop songs, for instance. There’s a lot of things you can do, is all I’m saying.”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, wiping her mouth again. “I don’t need you telling me what you think I can do.”
Okay, so…I guess this is the part where we’ve all decided to stop being nice and start being real.Cue cheesyMTVintro music.
I take a breath and reset. “You’re right, Mac. Let’s have Mason take you out to the cabin. It’s real pretty out there, and I’ve already chatted with your physical therapist. She knows exactly how to get out to you, has the gate code and everything. I’ve been talking to Mason, and we filled the refrigerator and pantry with some of your favorites. I’m hoping the break from touring and relaxation will help you recover more quickly.”
“Yes, nothing like a medically imposed break to revive the spirit. I’m sure your old hunting cabin will have miraculous healing powers,” she snarks, scowling at her cane. “Just let me have my solitude if you can possibly help yourself.”
With that, Mackenzie Nash, country music star, turns on her heel and walks out the door, with Mason helplessly following.
After the bell goes off again, Joey comes out of Dr. Zamora’s office.
“Well, she’s not very nice, is she?”
“Nope.” I rub my forehead, frustrated. “She’s mad and afraid. Honestly, I shouldn’t have examined her like that. I just…it was autopilot, but I understand why she’d be upset.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Joey taps her chin. “You know? I think this is still the right place for her. We’re all welcoming and friendly. As she continues to recover and gets to know us, she’ll know she landed in the right place.”
I shake my head. “There’s no way she’s going to be sociable enough to figure out that we’re the cool place to be. She’s going to keep to herself and stay stuck out in that cabin. From what I can tell, she’s used to pushing through on her own.”
“That’s going to suck when she realizes how much help she actually needs.”
“Yep,” I say, popping theP.
“Shame. She’s damn hot though.”
I nod in agreement. “Hot, but prickly as fuck.”
* * *
I ringmy bestie’s doorbell, figuring that if I hafta deal with this crushing Mackenzie Nash obsession, I should call on the woman responsible for this mess. However, when Cassie comes to the door holding her ribs, her shirt stained with three kinds of food and what looks to be baby urp, I question my motives…and timing.
“Nobody tells you that motherhood sucks this bad, Kin,” she says, gesturing me inside. “They let you figure that shit out on your own. One day, you’re a blissfully ignorant twenty-year-old, falling in love, promising forever, and then, poof. You’re thirty, trying to parent with a bunch of cracked ribs, wondering if you’ll ever again be able to take another deep breath in your entire wretched life.”
I grimace, feeling terrible for her. Cassie’s wife, Blake, has been amazing and supportive while Cassie gets better, but cracked ribs are a beast. Cracked ribs with three kids? Brutal as fuck.
“I thought you’d be feeling better by now,” I say, following her into the living room, where I plop onto her comfy, well-loved couch. She carefully joins.
“This is better, sadly enough. Got another two to four weeks of restricted work duties, then I’ll be right as rain.”
