Page 47 of Tainted Tempos

Dad and Mav shake hands again and Mav hugs Jeannie goodbye. Then, he takes my hand, and we slide into the back seat of his Escalade.

“How was dinner?” Alfred asks, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

I grin. “It was really great.”

“Good,” Alfred says. “You deserve it, Kenny.”

Beside me, Mav chuckles. “You’ve charmed everyone you know.”

“Me?” I laugh, swatting at him. “You’re the natural charmer, Mav.”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I think you could give me a run for my money.”

I snort but snuggle closer to him. He links our fingers together and we sit like that for the rest of the drive home.

Today, I did it. I made it through my first day of classes and didn’t cross paths with Bran. And I had dinner with my father. I introduced him to my husband.

I let out a deep exhale. Today was a good day.

The high I rode after my first successful day of classes and dinner with my dad, Jeannie, and Mav, evaporates a little more with each successive day. In fact, by the end of my first week of the semester, that dinner feels like a lifetime ago.

My days drag, with every second on campus feeling like a decade, my stomach in knots, and my senses heightened. My evenings are short bursts, the equivalent of a blink, as I throw myself into a flurry of activity and cross off items on a never-ending to-do list.

At school, I’m observant. The back of my neck tingles, and the hairs on my arms stand at attention. My throat alternates between sandpaper dryness and slicked with bile. My fingers fidget, and my feet are silent as I walk through the corridors.

In class, I’m focused. I take diligent notes, ask relevant questions, and listen attentively. There’s no way I will allow my grades to slip this semester because I’mremembering. I can process my shit and still excel academically. I have to—otherwise, I’m letting Bran win. And he can’t take anything else from me.

I won’t fucking let him.

I know I should confide in Mav about how unnerving it is to be on campus, but the way he looks at me each night over dinner, his eyes studying me sharply, his jawline tight, makes me hold back. I don’t want to cause him any more stress; I don’t want him to hover and constantly worry about me.

When I reach the end of the day on Friday, I sigh in relief and slide behind the steering wheel of my car. Except, once I lock the car doors, the adrenaline I’ve been tapping into ceases and my shoulders slump.

I can admit, it’s less sigh, more sob.

The incomprehensible fear that swims through my veins like an undercurrent during my school days exhausts me. It’s emotionally draining and mentally consuming.

I grip the steering wheel and huff. My fingers tremble, tapping out a disconnected, disjointed beat that reminds me of Mav. He does something similar, although with an actual beat, when he’s nervous or frustrated.

Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against the wheel and drag in a deep breath. I hold it for several seconds and slowly release it. Again. My heart rate is erratic, and droplets of sweat form along my hairline.

I did it. It’s Friday. I’m okay.

Someone slaps my window, and I scream, bolting up. I lift a hand to protect myself from the person and see a guy’s wide eyes and apologetic expression as he points to a hockey stick he’s holding.

“Sorry!” he yells before striding away.

“Oh, God,” I mutter, closing my eyes.

It was an accident. I’m fine. Everything is okay.

Today was a good day, so why am I falling apart now?

I drag in another deep breath, hold, release.

My phone rings, the shrill sound emanating from my car’s speakers since my Bluetooth is set up. Instantly, tension gathers in my shoulder blades, but when I read Allegra’s name, I press accept.

“Hey,” I say.

---