Wife.
I always wanted to be someone’s wife. When I was a little girl, I imagined dressing up in fancy gowns and carefully applying my makeup before my husband—dashing in a black tuxedo and shiny shoes—would whisk me away to a gala or a ball.
Instead, I married a rockstar, I don’t remember our wedding, and he wants an annulment all in twenty-four hours.
Clearly, I’m not cut out for marriage.
I sink onto the couch beside Allegra. My friend presses a hot cup of coffee into my hands.
Burnt coffee. Stale beer.
I wrinkle my nose as the scent of it—an old memory, a reminder—flickers around me. I shiver.
That morning was cold and gray. Overcast.
I look out the window. A blue sky and fluffy, white clouds.
It’s a new year, yet I feel haunted by a past I can’t shake. Instead, it bubbles to the surface and threatens to pull me down.
“Drink it,” Allegra murmurs.
I stare at my friend, beyond grateful she’s here. Wishing I could express it.
“Mckenna,” she says, her expression worried. She reaches for my hand. “Ivy and Nova keep calling. They’re sorry they already boarded a flight to Knoxville before they saw the news. Ivy says that she can fly back if you want her to.”
I shake my head and sip the hot coffee. It anchors me to the moment, and I wrap my hand around the mug, forcing myself to pay attention to the conversation unfolding around me.
“I’m here for you, Kenny,” Allegra whispers, squeezing my fingers.
I don’t have the strength to squeeze back but I keep hold of her hand.
“You can’t get an annulment,” Derek says to Maverick.
“Have you seen the news today?” Jameson’s tone is careful.
“You’re trending on all the socials,” Allegra explains.
“Fuck.” Mav pinches the bridge of his nose and hangs his head. His hair, always sexy, is messy in a way that speaks to his stress instead of our night in the sheets.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is small. Insecure.
Mav’s head snaps up, and his eyes find mine. He looks as miserable as I feel, but his gaze also holds confusion.
“Mckenna, this isn’t on you.” His voice is sincere. Soft and soothing.
For some reason, his understanding makes me feel worse. I’m at a loss. The photos and videos from last night aren’t helping me fill in the blanks. Instead, I have gaping holes.
I squint, as if that will help me concentrate.
Shivers coat my skin, and I release Allegra’s hand. I snuggle deeper into the couch.
Memories I’ve been trying to recall for years form on the edges of my periphery.
I blink and then 1L year comes rushing back.
His hand is warm, his shake strong when he envelops my fingers on the first day of classes. “Branson Burton. But everyone calls me Bran.”
“Where are you from, Bran?” I ask, relieved to be talking to another student on my first day. Considering I’ve lived in Boston my entire life, you’d think I’d have seen a familiar face. But the students on campus at BU have been entirely unfamiliar.