I shift my feet and my heel strikes something hard. I look down, realizing I’ve once again kicked my guitar case. Without thinking too much about it, I lean down and drag it onto the bed, annoyed by the resulting dizziness. Opening the case, I sigh.
I have a tour bus full of some of the most exquisite, expensive, beautifully toned instruments, but this—my very first guitar that I bought at a pawn shop all of those years ago—remains my favorite. A bit of a good luck charm, my Old Faithful has never once let me down.
Speaking of…I just picked up the case with my weaker hand. A tiny bit of hope flares in my chest.
I’ve been putting off playing because I know it’ll be bad but fuck it—I have to start somewhere. Unlatching the case, I pull the guitar into my hands and strum. My strumming hand is my good side, and I start a familiar rhythm, a piece I’d been playing around with right before everything went to shit. Strumming the open strings, bobbing my head, I rev up the melody in my mind. Letting out a breath, I hold the first cord and strum while singing the first few lyrics.
Fuck.
It’s an epic disaster. I can’t hold the cord worth a damn, and Old Faithful is doing a spot-on imitation of a dying cat. Speaking of dying felines, the two or three lyrics I manage to “sing” sound like somebody is actually killing me.
That little ember of hope is squashed and replaced by a rage I can’t identify or hope to contain.
“I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking,” I growl, throwing the guitar across the room. Before it even lands, regret hits my gut, and the crunch of wood and twang of strings tell me I did a number on it.
“Fuck me sideways,” I curse under my breath.
“I don’t think I’ve ever tried that position.”
My head snaps up to find Kinley at the door, holding up the groceries she purchased for me with a devilish smirk.
Fuck me sideways, indeed.
Chapter6
Kinley
I lift a shoulder,making my way into the small kitchen area. Wordlessly, I put away the groceries, including thetwobags of granola because, heaven forfend, our butch queen should run out of her favorite breakfast food.
In the meantime, Mac goes to the fireplace, where her poor guitar landed. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Old Faithful, the guitar she started on. I watch as she kneels next to it, tears plopping onto the strings.
I leave the dinner fixings on the counter and walk over to her as her sobs grow uncontrollable. Kneeling, I put my arm around her, shocked when she turns into my hold. She falls into me, nearly knocking me down with the force of it. I reset and plop my butt on the ground, awkwardly pulling her into my arms.
I’ve never had someone cry so hard in my presence, including that time I lost it at my father’s funeral. When it continues for several minutes, I remember Cassie’s words, knowing this is probably the brain injury and not necessarily her.
Poor baby.
“Okay, okay. Shh, shh, shh. Now, I need you to gather yourself. Gather yourself, Mac. Take some deep breaths with me.”
Surprisingly, she’s trying to cooperate with me and takes several shuddering breaths before her breathing pattern begins to return to normal. Still, she clings to me like a child, and I let her.
Running my hand over her thick salt-and-pepper hair, I rock her, breathing easy. Once she’s settled, I ask, “Your neurologist talk to you about the mood swings and emotional dysregulation?”
She nods against my chest. “Don’t think I understood the dysregulation part until just now.”
I hold her a little closer and kiss the top of her head. “I definitely liked it better when you were flirting with me.”
She lets out that same flinty chuckle she gave me when I first met her, making me think that maybe all is not lost.
“Look, now. You’ve been spinning up for days in this cabin all by yourself. It’s not good for you to be alone right now. You should be interacting with people, at least a little. It’s good for your brain chemistry, and it’ll help with your recovery.”
She snorts. “Right. You saw how I was with people today. You should’ve seen how mean I was to Ed. And the mayor.”
Laughing, I grab her shoulders, pushing her back enough to see her eyes. “You were rude to Orla? Of all people? She’s the sweetest person ever.”
Mac slides off me and settles into a cross-legged sit, wiping her eyes. “I’m telling you, I’m a fucking mess.”
I reach forward and grab her knee. “Hey, now. Nobody’s going to hold this against you. Maybe you can talk to your neuro and see about having some mood stabilizers added to your recovery regimen.”
