I don't want to give anything away but let's go over what we know. Brandon and Dylan…do not talk. It's newer before the plane crash and the 9 months she was missing. Something happened the month before the accident, that put D & B on shaky ground, you don't know yet but you've gotten hints. Text…picture, Brenda's agent fixing it. All have been mentioned. Dylan was talking to someone on the phone. The gang isn't all close. Whatever happened that month before the accident put division there. Dylan isn't in the band, I know it seems confusing. He is a writer, bands do not have agents I'm aware but writers do. Hence the dollar signs Marshall might see. I mean he isn't making money on Brenda anymore. Dylan toured with his sister to be close to them, to write songs and be around the hoopla of it. Wanting his sister and David to be a success in something they both really want. It may be weird, just something I cooked up. Hope that clears some stuff up and let me know if I forgot anything. Here is chapter 6. I'm glad you guys are into it. It will get suspenseful later. Secrets come out, bribery, past villains…it's all in there. Right now it's about Brenda's recovery and Dylan and her reconnecting.
Chapter 6
Dylan finds Steve on the porch with a bottle of Jim Beam. He's pouring out great gulps of the honey-colored liquid into two glasses.
Steve glances up and grins. "Figured we needed this more than iced tea, I won't tell if you don't."
"Deal," Dylan says, his mind still on Brenda. Just touching her tonight, her warm cheek in his palm, was enough to knock him over. It left him breathless, missing her.
Fuck. He hates leaving her. It feels like one false step and she'll fall off the edge of the earth. But he knows Brenda needs space; she's not his to keep.
"You call Brandon?," Steve asks hesitantly as Dylan swipes a glass of whiskey and drops into a porch chair.
He sighs, "No…not yet."
Steve sits beside him. "It's going be in the paper tomorrow, don't you think he should know before then, and the Walsh's Dylan…it's their daughter."
Dylan nods, and Steve continues, "You want me to do it?"
Dylan shakes his head, "No…they should hear it from me."
Steve getting the feeling Dylan doesn't want to talk more about it adds, "I tossed a casserole in the oven too. Think you're well stocked on casseroles, thanks to Martha."
"Thanks, Betty Crocker." Steve's lazy chuckle rolls out. "I fucking hate you, man."
Then his voice turns serious. "How's Bren?"
"Fucking exhausted," he says, sipping his whiskey. Steve follows suit. "I don't blame her. It can't be easy doing all this, seeing a life you don't remember. I can't goddamn imagine."
Steve kicks his feet up on the porch railing. "Bren's strong."
Dylan leans back in his chair and stares out into the neon sunset. Brenda is strong. She's the strongest person Dylan knows. It's why he loves her, among a thousand other heart-crushing reasons. But how strong can she be? Dylan knows Brenda better than anyone does. The fact everyone thinks Brenda's so strong, she's fragile too. It's a side she has shown him numerous times over the years. Just of late, she's been through a miscarriage, a car accident, a plane crash, being held somewhere with no memory of who she was. Now, there's all this expectation and hope that her memory will come back. He's got to get his head on straight, so he can be her center. So he can give her whatever she needs.
"She is." Steve's voice cuts into his thoughts. "You know this."
Dylan looks up to see Steve staring at him. "Thanks," he blurts. Although words barely seem enough. He can't adequately express his gratitude to his friend. But he'll sure try. "For helping out with everything. For finding her."
Steve shakes his head, shakes away Dylan's words of thanks. They're not needed. Not for his friend, and not for Brenda.
Then, clearing his throat, he says, "How'd you feel about me staying over a few nights?"
Dylan swallows down his whiskey in one large gulp. "I think that'd be good for her."
This is Steve's way of protecting Brenda. They've both been away from her for so long; they don't want to be apart from her, even for a minute.
Pouring himself another finger of whiskey, he bites out, "Besides, she probably needs you more than me right now."
Though he tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, Steve's not dumb.
"Dylan." Steve sighs. "Don't do this."
The guilt, the past, the whiskey, courses through him. Tears fill his eyes, and he leans forward, burying his face in his hands. "I never should have put her on that plane," he says, lost in his inner turmoil. The memories of the search for Brenda. "I should have looked harder. I should have found her."
"You never gave up on Brenda," Steve says, his voice rising as if to brace itself against any of Dylan's objections. "You and I both know there was a shot in hell she survived that crash."
Dylan raises his face. "I survived," he shoots back. "And so did Bren. She was alive, and I left her there."
"That sick fuck took her, Dylan. Hell, he probably had her the entire time we were doing search and rescue."
Rage shakes Steve's voice. It's a rage Dylan's been holding on to as well. It goes against every instinct Dylan has not to track this guy down. Some sick motherfucker lays hands on his wife? You hurt Brenda, you don't live. It's that simple. But that would mean hurting Brenda. That would mean going to that dark place again, and Dylan can't. Not when Brenda needs him. Somewhere in the distance, the horses whinny, followed by the howl of a freight train.
Steve leans over to clap Dylan on the shoulder. "Listen. Brenda's safe, she's here with you, and she isn't going anywhere again."
The thought settles Dylan, and he releases his fists. Steve's right. Bren's safe. She's here on their beloved ranch and nothing and no one can touch her. Not if he can help it.
Steve's voice cuts clean through the dusky night. "Where is she anyway?" Heart thundering in his chest, Dylan starts and shoves out of his chair. The feeling owing over him so strongly.
Something's wrong.
Dylan cracks the bathroom door. Steam, hot humidity, hits his face and he waves it away. "Bren?" he asks louder than necessary, wanting to make his presence known. As Dylan approaches the running shower, there's a roar in his head. Worry settles like a lead weight in his gut.
Goddamnit, Dylan thinks when he pulls back the shower curtain. Brenda's huddled in the tub. Her body's curled into herself, her long wet hair hanging dark around her as she's pelted by water.
"Bren?"
At her name, she raises her pale face. A thin trail of blood curves around her cheek. Slowly, Dylan squats beside her, resting an arm against the edge of the tub.
"What are you doing, baby?" His tone is easy. Unthreatening. A faint smile flickers across her face.
"Oh, you know, just hanging out." She rests her chin against her bony knee, tightening her arms around herself. "I hit my head on the soap dish. I got dizzy; I didn't trust myself to get back up."
Dylan curses himself. He should have been here sooner. She could have slipped in the bath and knocked herself out. Hell, she very nearly did.
"How about I get you out of there?" he asks quietly, one hand reaching for a towel, the other for her. "I won't look, okay?"
Brenda nods and lifts her arms, giving him the all clear. Dylan turns off the water and stands. Hovering over her, he cocoons Brenda in a towel, then slides an arm beneath her legs, keeping one wrapped tight around her waist. Then she's in his arms, featherlight and frail. He carries her to the sink, easing her gently down to sit on top of the counter. He settles in front of her, curling the towel up around the nape of her neck to keep her warm. Brenda's clutches the towel to her chest. Her teeth chatter as she fights off a shiver. Again, his gaze lingers on Brenda as he runs his arms down hers in an effort to warm her.
Checking, double-checking to make sure she's okay. He used to be able to read her so easily. After eight years of marriage and eighteen years of knowing each other, wordless conversations, sunny smiles was their language. And now…now…
His hand automatically goes to her temple, where a trail of blood trickles. The nick is deep but won't need stitches.
"Looks like you clocked yourself pretty bad. Let's get you cleaned up, alright?"
Brenda juts her chin forward. "I'm fine, Dylan."
He sighs, placing bets he'll be hearing those words a lot from now on. It's just like Brenda to play it down, to care for others, to never let anyone care for her.
"Yeah, well, how about you let me decide that?" Digging out the first aid kit, Dylan pulls a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a clean cloth from the pack.
Without words, Dylan works to clean her up. She takes the sting of peroxide without so much as a flinch, content to let Dylan work, her eyes heavy with fatigue.
"Baths," he says as he gently dabs at Brenda's hairline. "From now on you take baths. They're safer. Much, much safer." Brenda smiles. "Besides you were always a bath girl." He smirks.
That smirk, god damn. "Mmm, I happen to agree with you," she flirts thinking of her thoughts earlier about baths with Dylan, shifting position so she's on the corner of the countertop, the pads of her bare feet pressed back against the vanity doors. A slice of sexy leg peeking through the towel. Dylan swallows hard.
A memory of Brenda comes to Dylan. The last photo she sent him via text. Sitting on the corner of the bathroom sink, smiling for the camera as she flashed a goofy face and the bump on her belly as she sat in her bra and underwear. She had that twinkle in her eye, that quiet confidence Dylan's always found so damn sexy.
Stung by the memory, the sadness, he moves away from Brenda to replace the first aid kit. But Brenda's soft voice drifts.
"Dylan? Are you okay?" Is he okay? He should be asking her that.
When he turns back around, he sees Brenda freeing herself from the straitjacket of a towel Dylan's swaddled her in. Carefully, she keeps her front important parts covered. Only the side's fallen open to expose her torso. He isn't quick enough to stop the hitch of his breath. Or the faint expression of shock that's passed over his face.
Brenda stares up at him. She's caught him looking. Her lips part. "This is from the crash." She points at the scar tissue on her bony rib cage. Her face, contorted into a pretty frown, says she thinks it's ugly.
To Dylan, it's anything but ugly. All he can think about is how beautiful she is. How it means Brenda is alive.
Before he can form a response, Brenda asks, "Do you have any scars? From that night?"
Not physical, Dylan wants to say. "No," he answers hoarsely.
Feeling bad about the fact, feeling like the shittiest person to walk the planet. It should have been him, he thinks. A mantra tattooed inside his brain.
Brenda draws the towel tight around herself. "Vince told me I was mugged."
Disgust stains her voice. "It's nice to finally know the truth behind my scar. Even if I can't remember it. I always knew something was off, but I never imagined this. I never thought it was this…" Brenda breaks off, overwhelmed.
Dylan moves in front of her, desperate to take her in his arms. Brenda squeezes her eyes shut tight and shakes her head. "I hate him so much, Dylan. I hate him."
"Did he hurt you? Did he..." He stops but asks with lethal softness. He can't help it. Some primal instinct in him has him crying out for an answer. As a man...as her husband.
The question makes her wince. She sags forward a little and Dylan reaches out to steady her. She places both palms against his chest. Raises her weary gaze to his.
For several long seconds, silence. Dylan prepares himself. It's agony waiting for her to speak, to utter words no woman should have to, words that threaten to undo him.
"He never raped me." Brenda's voice is hard. "He tried. He couldn't get it up."
Dylan closes his eyes, an emotional exhale.
A sudden sadness flickers in her eye, a remembrance of something painful, and Brenda hangs her head, her voice a grim whisper. "But yeah. He hurt me. In other ways, he did, fists, choking. When he tried to…it was worse, mad at me for causing his impotence probably. I honestly didn't know what I had done. I just laid there…knowing I didn't want it and being overwhelmingly thankful he couldn't perform. I mean…I thought he was my husband…" Her voice guilt ridden.
Tears spill from her eyes when she sees tears fall from Dylan's intense stare, unblinking lost in agony, she exhales roughly, angry with herself. "I should have been braver, left sooner. Maybe if I had…"
"Hey." His voice is firm. He'll never push her, but damn if he'll let her blame herself. "I don't want you doing that. What he did…that isn't on you." Dylan holds her eyes in his. "Do you understand me?"
She nods, not trusting herself to speak. She's a dam ready to burst.
"He was a monster of a man. A liar. A thief." His voice firm, angry but not at her. Her breath is a shudder. Racking her small frame like an aftershock.
"Why? Why would someone do this?" Brenda's fraught question scorches Dylan's soul. She's not asking for pity, she's asking for an answer.
Though Dylan aches to give her the truth, all he can say is, "I don't know." He looks down at Brenda's small hand pressed against his chest and covers it with his own. "What I do know is that he'll never hurt you again. I swear it," he vows, his fingers curling around her.
The vow is primal and protective, and it has Brenda staring back at him, her light eyes unreadable. "I'll never hurt you." Dylan swears it like his dying breath. "I want you to know that. Even if you don't believe it right now—I will always protect you."
Brenda studies Dylan for a long minute. Then her lips part. "I believe you. I do."
His heart clenches. Her belief, her trust in him—it means everything to Dylan. It means he can't let her down again.
"I want you to help me remember." Her voice soft. A plea. "Please. Can you do that?"
"I will." Dylan searches her eyes. "People love and support you. You're not alone. We'll get through this. Together."
"Thank you, Dylan," Brenda says fiercely. Her lips tremble. She leans forward and holds on to his arm. Her touch is cold. Ice.
"Jesus, you're freezing." Dylan grimaces. "And I'm an asshole for letting you sit here and shiver." He scoops her up in his arms. "C'mon, let's get you to bed."
Brenda sits in the middle of the bed, wearing a spare T-shirt of Dylan's. He turned away as she changed but stayed nearby in case she needed a hand. It was a kind gesture. One that touched her to her core. He's respectful.
Now, she watches as Dylan fans a heavy quilt out on the bed. Inside, she's trembling, though she forces herself to keep a stiff upper lip. She doesn't want Dylan to worry. That's all he's done since she met him.
As Brenda relaxes back into the pillows, her eyes fight to stay open. Her limbs are so heavy she could melt into the mattress. The scene in the bathroom drained her. Her entire body spent. Exhausted. But the soul-baring words she spoke to Dylan were cleansing. Voicing what Vince did—aloud—was like a weight lifted. Like a life changed. And she has Dylan to thank. She wasn't planning to tell him, but he asked, his gruff voice swollen with anger and pain, and she found herself yearning to tell him. Found herself somehow knowing that she could be slipping off the edge of the world, and Dylan would still be reaching out. He'd still come for her. He wouldn't walk away. It wasn't the talk of strangers. It was the talk of two people who'd built trust with each other. A life with each other.
She peers close at Dylan. A warm rush of something floods her veins. Dylan offered to take what she was holding without fear or flinch. Brenda appreciated that. She trusts him.
The bed shifts and Brenda glances up, pulling herself from her thoughts. Pulling her heavy-lidded gaze to Dylan.
He sits on the edge of the bed, evaluating her. "You want some dinner?" he asks softly.
A shake of her head. "I'm beat. I really just want to curl up and sleep."
Dylan's mouth pulls down into a frown of disapproval. She knows he wants her to eat, but all she knows is that she doesn't have the energy to carry on a conversation, lift a fork to her lips, and worry about remembering.
Tonight, all she wants to do is power down her brain, become a lazy lump in the middle of this great gorgeous bed.
"Big breakfast," Brenda says, giving him a placating smile. "I promise."
He sighs. "Steve's going be disappointed. He worked hard to put that casserole in the oven."
She brightens. "He's staying?"
"He is," Dylan says, scratching his beard. "He missed you."
Brenda fiddles with the edge of the sheet. "He told me why we're so close."
Dylan swears. He's pissed as hell at Steve. Brenda knows they've been trying to keep the stream of information she gets to a trickle.
Finally, he lets out a breath. "So do I kick his ass now or later?"
"You don't." Brenda frowns. "I practically arm-wrestled him for the information."
Dylan lets out a slow roll of a chuckle. "Baby, I'd pay good money to see you beat Steve in an arm-wrestling match."
Brenda laughs. Then, overcome with a desire to touch him, she leans in to graze his arm. "Thank you for tonight. For listening to me. For scraping me up off the bottom of the bathtub."
Dylan's lean forearms, corded with muscle, tense. "Always."
The mattress shifts as he stands. He slaps his palms on the thighs of his jeans, stares down at her. "I'm gonna let you rest," he says, looking like he wants to do anything but that.
"Where will you be?"
"The couch."
"The couch, huh?" Brenda. smiles slightly, brushing damp hair from her face. "I might be wrong, but I did notice a few empty spare rooms."
"I like the couch." Dylan pretends to stretch. "Makes my back feel good."
Brenda rolls her eyes and lets out a soft chuckle. "Uh-huh."
Giving her a look that means business, Dylan says, "I'll be right downstairs. Yell if you need anything, okay?"
With a smile, Brenda watches him exit, closing the door behind him. She nestles down into the pillows, stretching her legs in the cool sheets. Sleep beckons, a sleep as dark as her memory, and soon Brenda's consciousness dims.
A ragged scream pierces the night air. Dylan bolts upright on the couch. Chest heaving, he listens close. The scream sounds again.
Brenda.
Brenda's screaming. Adrenaline thundering through his veins, Dylan vaults over the couch and bolts.
At the foot of the stairs, he meets a wild-eyed Steve. Bypassing him, Dylan takes the stairs two at a time, Steve on his heels, until he's slamming into Brenda's bedroom.
The room's cast in a pale-yellow glow as Dylan flicks on the light. Brenda writhes on the bed, violently. Her face twisted in pain, she moans and whimpers as ragged gasps wrench their way out of her mouth.
Nightmare, Dylan thinks. He's by her side in an instant. He tries to take her in his arms, but she punches up and down and across. She clocks Dylan in the temple, and he wants to laugh, to cry out, "That's my girl."
Crawling onto the bed, Dylan manages to get a firm yet gentle hold on her. Carefully, he slips her into his arms, cradling her against his bare chest. She tenses, then goes boneless. Her bloodless lips part in a cavern of a scream, her anguished whimpers pricking Dylan's heart like darts.
"Bren, baby, wake up," Dylan soothes, running a thumb across her delicate cheekbone. He cups the curve of her pale cheek. Feverish. Her hairline's damp with sweat.
Dylan looks at Steve, hovering worriedly in the doorway. "Get her some water?"
Steve disappears with a nod.
Dylan rocks Brenda until she calms, quiets. Her lashes flutter, dark against her pale cheek, then her blue eyes are blinking, staring up at him. Confusion slurs her words. "What happened?"
"You were having a nightmare," he says softly. She shifts in his arms but lets him hold her as she fully comes to.
"A split-apart," she whispers.
Dylan dips his head to hear her better. "A what?"
"It's where the world peels away. Bit by bit. First the sides, then the floor, the ceiling. They all disappear. Then there's fire, breaking glass …"
"The plane crash," Dylan murmurs, and Brenda's eyes lock on his face. "You're describing the plane crash, baby."
He'd never forget the change in pressure, the slow death of the engine, the ground getting closer and closer, the flames swallowing up the plane like an inferno.
Brenda's voice comes disjointed and dreamlike. "I always wondered what it was…sometimes it happens when I'm awake…sometimes it's so real." She smiles faintly. "Funny. I guess I do remember something after all."
The sadness in her voice cracks open Dylan's heart. He lays Brenda back into the bed, wanting to keep her close and protected in his arms. He'd give anything to chase away all her bad dreams. To take away every ounce of agony she's ever felt, all because he's the one who put her on that plane. He's the one who couldn't save her.
"Do you dream about the crash too?" Brenda's soft question catches him off guard. He looks down to see her staring up at him. Her eyes are drowsy with sleep, but her expression is curious, watchful. Waiting on him.
Dylan doesn't know how to tell her. That he dreams of her. That her screams play in his head every fucking night. Over and over and over. Her mouth saying his name while he sat helpless to do anything but reach for her hand. And even then, when he tried to take it, he kept missing. He just couldn't hold on. That he wakes every night with a jolt, his heart on fire because it remembers how bad it needs her.
Dylan's honest. Brenda's asking him for the truth, and he owes her that. "All the time."
Tucking a blanket around her, he chokes out, "I dream of you, Bren. It's all I ever do. I watch you die, again and again."
"Oh, Dylan," Brenda says in her quiet way. "That sounds awful."
"It is." After a second hesitation, Dylan reaches out to cup her cheek. "It was," he amends.
The moment's broken by the appearance of Steve, setting a glass of water on the nightstand. Startled, Brenda raises herself up on her elbows, pressing a hand to her lips. "I woke you up. Shit. I'm sorry."
Steve smiles indulgently at her. "Don't worry about it. I'm barely getting any sleep down there as it is with Dylan snoring."
Dylan rolls his eyes. "I'm right here, dumbass." Brenda laughs. She burrows down into the sheets, her hands pulling the sheet up to her chin.
Her eyes brush to Dylan, then Steve. "I'm okay. Really. Thanks for looking out for me."
"Anytime," Steve says.
After a last look at Brenda, surveying her condition, he gives a rap on the side of the door and exits the room.
"Do you want me to stay?" Dylan asks as he rises from the bed, keeping his eyes steady on her. The last thing he wants to do is leave Brenda alone like this. He'd sleep in a chair beside her bed, post a lookout next to her door, stand sentry over her, anything to be near her, to make sure she's okay.
After a second of hesitation, Brenda says quietly, "No, I'll be fine." Even though…she wants him to stay more than anything.
Brenda wakes the next morning to a bedroom brightened by sunlight. Her nightmare from last night is a mere memory. But what isn't a mere memory is Dylan. Coming to her, holding her like he'd chase away her demons and then some. For a few minutes, she lies in bed, silently listening as she readies herself to take in the first day of her new life.
In the hallway—footsteps. The soft creak of wood floors. Downstairs—coffee, freshly brewed, the rattle of a screen door.
Brenda swings her legs off the edge of the bed. She opens the drawer to her nightstand, rifling through its contents. A lone earring. A fifty-cent piece. A tube of lipstick. A yearly planner. Flipping through it, Brenda pauses when she comes to the week before the plane crash. In the margins, she's written a single note: Kelly.
Wondering, Brenda cocks her head, eyes narrowed, trying to remember. Her mind blurs to blackness, returns to the present. Kelly? Who's Kelly?
Letting out a frustrated groan, Brenda shelves the planner and slams shut the nightstand drawer. Then she grabs her cell phone and exits the room.
In the hallway, she pauses, listening. The house is quiet. No sound from Dylan or Steve. Should she snoop? Yeah. She should snoop. Why shouldn't she? It's her house. Even if she can't remember it.
Jelly brained, she drifts down the hall. Next door to the master bedroom is a guest room. She pokes her head inside. She wants a better look at this room. With walls painted a soft Robin's-egg blue, the room is square and sparse, yet still cozy. Overlooking the front yard is a bay window with a stuffed pony sitting on the cushion.
Brenda goes to the closet, opens it. All it contains is a surfboard that looks like it's never been used, leaning against one wall. Dylan's maybe, though it looks awfully small, like something for a child.
Kneeling, Brenda runs a hand over the sooth rounded edge. She smiles yet confused. Her mind might be shit but she knows Tennessee doesn't have an ocean.
Rising, she stretches. Arms out, lengthening, relishing the freedom of her body, the sunniness of the morning.
Brenda sits in the middle of the bedroom. In her palm is her cell phone. She checks it. She has service; the fours bars tell her so. With only a slight twinge of guilt, she pulls up the web browser.
After casting a quick glance at the open door, like Dylan will pop in and catch her, Brenda types, Dylan McKay. While she wants to know herself, at this moment, she's more interested in Dylan.
That nightmare last night was something else. And there Dylan was, by her side, calling her back, keeping her safe. But what about him? While she's touched that everything of hers has been kept like she's still living, she can't help but wonder if that's what Dylan's barely been doing. Living.
She wants to know more about the brooding handsome man that is her husband. The first headline that comes up has her raising a hand to her mouth.
Brunette bombshell Brenda McKay and her husband, son of murdered dishonest financier Jack McKay in Devastating Plane Crash. Dylan's father is named Jack? Dishonest?
Friends and Family Join Hunt for actress.
Brenda McKay presumed dead.
Brenda scowls at the asshole headlines.
And there are photos of the plane crash. Hundreds of photos. Charred wreckage. Dylan and Steve sifting through rubble. More people searching, some she recognizes like Erica and David, some she doesn't.
A press conference. Serious faces. Wet eyes. Clicking on a video link, Brenda leans in close. It's Dylan. Being interviewed from his hospital bed. He's in pain, agonized, his voice cracking and breaking in all the wrong places.
"We have to keep looking for Brenda. We have to find her. Please. My wife—"
Brenda's heart takes a dip. She turns off the video. Unable to handle Dylan's sadness. It feels wrong to be a voyeur to his grief without first asking him about it.
Now, Brenda types, Brenda McKay.
Her eyes scan articles, quotes, photos. Lists of movies, TV shows and many many plays. Magazine interviews, YouTube videos. It's overwhelming. She really was someone. She was successful and well loved by the public.
Twenty minutes later, the sun has shifted and Brenda's still reading. Noticing the quiet of the house, she pauses, lowers the phone. Glancing down, she traces the tattoo on her wrist. Runs a thumb over her bare ring finger, closing her eyes at the absence of her wedding ring.
She thinks of Vince. Of Dylan. Taking a breath, she stands. She hasn't lived her life in so long. Today, she starts.
Six a.m. and Dylan carries a cup of hot coffee out onto the back porch. From here, he can see everything special about the ranch. The sunrise painting the rolling hills. The sparkle of the river in the distance. The tree line of the silver-green forest. Dandelion fluff floating on the breeze. This view—he's seen it a thousand times, and yet, it's still a scene he can't get enough of.
Unfurling the paper, scooped from the front porch, he scowls at the headline—Dead Star Brenda McKay Home at last!—he trashes it. Fucking vultures.
The crack of the door has Dylan turning, expecting to see Steve. Instead, he finds Brenda. Barefoot, her dark hair kinked from sleep, wearing his T-shirt.
"Hey, good morning," he says, facing her, his back braced by the porch railing.
"Morning." Dylan smiles, amused to see his wife up this early. Brenda was always a sleeper. Especially later in life when working meant 16 hour days.
"You sleep okay?"
"I did." Brenda moves closer to Dylan, her light footsteps whisking across the deck. She barely turns her head. Her delicate features resolute and absolutely steady. There's no mention of the nightmare. Any trace of the vulnerable woman he had held in his arms last night has been chased away by the morning sun. In her place is a grimly determined Brenda who will face the day.
A soft gasp comes from Brenda. She's gazing out at the river. As she takes in the view, a finger of golden sunlight falls across her face. Her luminous blue eyes shine like sea glass, her full lips pulled into a sunny smile.
Dylan can't tear his gaze away. She's so damn beautiful. A tilt of her head and Brenda's asking, "What is it?"
Dylan shakes himself awake. Shit. She's caught him staring. "It's just . . ." His throat bobs. "That view."
"Yeah." She smiles faintly. "That view."
Then, noticing her light shiver, he extends an arm. "Should we go inside? There's coffee." The magic words have Brenda brightening.
Inside, all Dylan can do is watch. The pad of her soft footsteps around the kitchen—their kitchen—hits him like a sucker punch to the face. He can't get enough, drunk on her mere presence. He should get down on his knees and thank his lucky stars above. He never thought he'd get this again. His wife in the kitchen with her coffee. He always loved the messy chaos that filled their mornings sometimes. Brenda running late, because Dylan kept in her bed longer than she intended, running out the door, bagel in her mouth, wild sex hair. Dylan smiles at the memory.
In that instant, Dylan knows he's saved. Brenda's saved him by coming back. Admitting it shames him, it won't make him a better man, but goddamn if it isn't true.
Cabinets clatter as Brenda searches for the mugs. Dylan watches as she opens cabinet after cabinet to no avail. Finally, he points at the cabinet above her. "You're close, baby."
Brenda nods, a bit sadly, and joins him at the counter. The mugs in her hands.
"Smells good," she says as he pours them each a steaming cup. "It should be." Dylan grins. "You picked it out."
She pauses, then adds a little bit of milk. She brings the cup to her lips. "How did I take it?"
He's confused at first, then understands. "Exactly like that."
This time her smile is bright. A beam. "At least I got something right." She blows on the surface of the coffee and takes a deep sip.
"You're in there, Bren," Dylan says, determination coursing through him. "We'll find you. I promise."
The grateful smile she gives him has him unsteady on his feet. "You keep saying that, I'll believe you."
"That's the idea." He sets his coffee down. "Why don't you have a seat?" When she tilts her head, he says, "Big breakfast, remember?"
Brenda laughs softly. She pulls up a seat at the breakfast bar and sits cross-legged in the high-backed chair, wrapping a palm around the coffee mug. "And you're not gonna forget it."
"Nope." Dylan tosses a dishtowel over his shoulder and eyes Brenda. "You hungry?"
"I could definitely eat." Brenda leans over the counter. She's so close he can smell her familiar scent, magnolia and honeysuckle. "You want some help?"
"All you gotta do is sit back and relax." Dylan hunts around for a frying pan, silently saying a word of thanks that Martha and Valerie cleaned up the house and stocked the kitchen.
Though he was never the cook in their relationship at the end of the day, he doesn't bring up the fact that Brenda had turned into a pretty good chef over the years. He can though whip up a standard breakfast. He looks around, it's been so long since things have been normal, he's forgotten where all the gadgets are stashed.
Finally, he finds the frying pan. He gives it a spin and Brenda laughs. "I take my craft very seriously," he tells her. Her mouth curves around the coffee cup as he ties an apron around his waist.
"Oh, you do, do you?" Her eyebrows raise with her smile.
"Absolutely. Bacon, eggs and toast?" Dylan eyes her with a twinkle of flirt. Then his expression turns serious.
Brenda's angular face, her sharp cheekbones pain him. She's too damn thin. And he plans to keep her fed and full.
"Sounds great."
Soon, the air is scented with bacon. Brenda's content to sip her coffee and watch him cook. It's sexy as all hell.
Dylan heats butter in the pan and cracks in three eggs. The bacon splatters in a skillet while he cuts hunks of crusty French bread. Dylan's so engrossed in whipping up breakfast that Brenda's voice startles him.
"So what did we do? Me and you. On the daily?" Brenda has her chin propped in her palm. A teasing smile on her face, a spark of wry humor in her eyes. "Wrangle cows?"
Dylan smiles at the small glimpse of his wife. It's all Brenda. Banter that could break balls or break hearts. Then, looking like she suddenly regrets the question, Brenda crinkles her nose. "I'm sorry. This is weird, right?" She holds her elbows in her palms, curling inward. "I mean, I'm your wife, who can't remember you or our life together. It's fucking weird."
"It is," Dylan counters. "But hell if it isn't a good time to be weird."
Brenda smiles in relief.
With a slow nod, Dylan scrapes eggs onto a plate. "We don't wrangle cows. But we wrangle horses. We go out and feed the horses, exercise them, muck stales. Dylan smiles and brings his best southern accent out, "And when we weren't wranglin' horses, you were wranglin' the theatre and film world."
"And you wrangled lyrics and poems?" He winces. As if sensing his hesitation, she stretches a hand toward him. Searchingly. "You don't write anymore?"
Dylan rubs a hand over his dark beard, trying to decide how to pick apart the pieces of his life without her.
Hell how is he going to tell Brenda how much his life stopped when she died. That he could barely function without her. She doesn't deserve that burden. His goal is to get her healthy, get her whole, get her mind back, and not lay his bullshit on her.
"Dylan?" Brenda asks, dipping her head. Her eyes searching out the cracks he's been trying to hide. He sets a plate stacked with bacon and eggs in front of her.
"I make surfboards now. That little shop you saw out back, that's where I work, custom ones." He holds out a fork, silently urging her to eat.
"Oh." Brenda takes the fork, her face contemplative. It explains the little surfboard in the closet upstairs, sort of anyway.
Then, like she's deciding whether or not to buy his bullshit, she gives a little shrug. "That's a shame," she says. "I listened to some of the band's songs this morning on YouTube. They're good. The lyrics especially. You're quite a song writer."
Dylan arches a brow. "Checking up on me, are you?"
She flashes a mischievous grin. "I had to. You are my husband after all." She pops a piece of bread into her mouth.
Husband.
The word rockets through Dylan. Sucker punches every fiber of his heart and sends it sparking. Being Brenda's husband is a gift, and now that she's back, he has to do everything in his power to prove that.
Silently, letting Brenda eat, Dylan reaches up to re-shelve the box of coffee filters. A pack of cigarettes falls from the top shelf. A hiding spot from Erica's searching eyes.
Dylan lets out a frustrated groan and swipes up the smokes in one quick motion. But Brenda, eagle-eyed, spies it.
She glances sidelong at him. "You smoke?"
He didn't until recently. But she did. Not an everyday habit but Brenda was an occasional smoker. When she drank a lot, when she was stressed or overwhelmed.
Dylan hated it. He got on her every time she was caught with one. But during these months without her. He found one of Brenda's stash. He lit up and even though he hated smoking with the passion. In some weird way…he felt closer to her because of it. He knew it didn't make sense but it just was the way it was.
Dylan crumples the pack in his hand. "Not anymore." He's tossing it in the trash when Steve enters the kitchen.
Steve raises a brow but keeps quiet, waiting to see if Dylan will mention's Brenda little sneaky smoking habit to her. He guesses somethings were better unknown.
Lifting his coffee cup, Dylan smiles, "Nice of you to join us."
Steve offers him a crooked smile. "Hey, man, not everyone can get up at the ass crack of dawn like you."
"Can't spend all day sitting around in bed either, the horses wait for no one."
Steve rolls his eyes at Dylan's harassment, then makes for Brenda. "Morning," he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to drop a kiss on her cheek.
"You save me some coffee?" Her mouth turns up. She holds out her coffee mug. "Only if you get me a refill."
Steve barks out a laugh but gladly swipes the mug from her hand. "Giving orders already, are we? God knows Dylan could use some of that bossing around."
As he pours coffee in a steady stream, his eyes move between Brenda and Dylan, a shit-eating grin on his lips. He can't help but embrace this feeling. Dylan up and acting human. Brenda innocently sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. It's a scene he didn't even know he missed until now.
"So, what's on the ol' agenda today?"
"Shit. You got me." Dylan drags a hand through his hair, realizing he and Brenda have been talking for nearly an hour. He hasn't thought beyond breakfast.
"You want to feed our horses?" Dylan's face lights up. Brenda smiles at the mere sight of it.
"Yeah…I'd like that." She muttered softly. Her eyes not leaving his. A hint of a flirty smile across her mouth as she brings the coffee cup to her lips.
Then, the eye flirting is broken by a frantic, violent pounding on the front door.
Oh no! Guess away, I love your guesses so much. Pounding on the front door…someone is pissed. In my mind without knowing who it is I have like 3 guesses. Curious to see if you thoughts are similar. Hit review my friends.