"Fight like a Brenda." - jenniegarth, the 12th of November in 2016.
xx
Something was wrong.
It was all wrong. The noise was wrong. The lighting was wrong. Her costume was wrong.
She tried to think back to what she had been doing. Performing, of course. Always performing. Had she fainted on stage? No, the play had ended before then.
She squinted, zoning in on her surroundings. She should have been in a theatre. It was a theatre, of sorts - a place where memorized techniques and talents saved lives, where people entrusted with certain roles masked emotions to deliver wanted and unwanted news to families on both ends of the spectrum.
But it wasn't her theatre.
This wasn't her costume.
Those weren't her cues.
This was, instead, an unscripted moment, one she didn't feel prepared to handle.
The director was calling out to her. She refused to listen.
"No, no, they won't tell me shit. I'm lucky Vee's mum - mom - is a midwife in this A&E. Wachinski got her to vouch for me so I can at least be here with Bren, but they said they need blood kin to tell us anything after some horse's ass used his ex's next-of-kin card last week and the police got involved. The A&E we're in isn't allowed to accept those cards now. I have half a mind to find out who the tosser is and sue his ass. I'd hoped to have answers for you, but I've got nothing. How soon can you get here?"
The man nodded, pinching his temple with his index fingers. His hand slid down over an unshaven chin. His hair was left uncombed, curling out against his ears. He looked hot. No, not hot; gorgeous. Bloody gorgeous. He always looked bloody gorgeous, whether he was shaven or unshaven, whether dressed casually or to the nines.
"Yeah, get the first flight out. I'll cover it, if you need me to. Doesn't matter what it costs. Just get here, man. I'll have Wachinski pick you up from the airport. Can you try calling reception in the meantime? Maybe they'll tell you something."
He looked in the direction of her moan, relief overtaking his features. "She's awake. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, hang on." He cupped her hand in his. "Bren? Bren, do you know where you are?"
She whispered out a letter.
"L. She can say L," he told the phone. "Yeah." He gave a guarded smile. "London. You're in London." He squeezed her hand. "Do you know who you are?"
She nodded, though she couldn't get the words to come out of her lips.
Brenda Walsh. She was Brenda Walsh - soon to be Brenda McKay - and, for some reason, she had awoken in a fucking hospital bed to the sound of what seemed to be a damn flock of pigeons flittering about in the rafters.
"Do you," he swallowed, "do you know who I am?"
She got out another letter.
"D. Yeah," he nodded enthusiastically, "D. That's me. I've got B on the phone. Do you know B?"
She smiled and pointed to herself, holding up two other fingers to indicate a number.
"Yes, B's your twin." Tears glittered against his impossibly long lashes, laid out above the kindest brown eyes she thought she had ever seen. "Brandon, she knows us. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, I'll try." He again covered the phone receiver. "B's asking if you know Val."
Brenda scrunched up her face, adding to her migraine in the process.
"St - Steve?" he asked, hesitantly.
She shook her head.
"No. She doesn't." His hopes deflated. "It's okay, Bren. Brandon's got the hospital speaking to him on his work phone. They're saying you might be confused. It should be temporary. They'll keep you in overnight for observation, and I'll be pinned to your side." He kissed her hand. "They tell you anything else, B? Anything about how our girl ended up in the fucking hospital?" He brought their clasped hands up to his forehead. "What does that mean? She's gonna recover, right?"
He balanced the phone against his shoulder, using his other hand to stroke Brenda's hair. She loved when he did that. He did it often. She stroked his hair just as frequently; and his body, for that matter.
"Okay. Text me when you get to London City. No, not Gatwick. That'll take you an extra hour. Heathrow? Maybe. See if you can book straight to London City. Really, B, cost doesn't matter. Just book whatever will get you here faster, and whatever will keep you free of long layovers. Your sister needs you. And for fuck's sake, man, do not go through O'Hare."
She drifted in and out of consciousness, images blurring and sharpening. That would be the medication, she heard spoken from the man Dylan had called Wachinski, though Brenda could not think of who Wachinski may be. She didn't like being there. She wanted to go home, with Dylan, back to - where did they live? Somewhere in London, that much she knew. And Brandon, her twin, he was in Washington? No, that wasn't right, she thought. Beverly Hills? No, it was a different B, somewhere on the eastern side of the country. Baltimore? No. Buffalo? It rang a vague bell, but it wasn't her brother's home. Birmingham? Too far south. Wait. Bruins. Boston. Yeah. That was it. Boston. Brandon lived in Boston. Was he single? No, he had a wife. Kids. Tiny little infant kids. Who was his wife?
Her brain hurt.
Her whole body hurt.
Her throat hurt when she attempted to speak, leaving her to drop off letters here and there. Words were her refuge, her sanctum. Words had been there when others weren't; words in a diary, in a textbook, in a script, in the books she kept organized upon her shelves.
Her normally advanced vocabulary danced around her head, but all she could speak were letters.
She had fallen asleep and woken again so many times that she had begun to lose count when she felt a squeeze on her hand. It was different from Dylan's; a hand squeeze filled with the kind of familiarity that came from someone who had known her for her entire lifetime, and perhaps for well beyond that.
She looked out into those warm blue eyes, and smiled.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi yourself," he said back. "Still know me?"
"Yes." She slowly added, "Bran. Twin."
"Good. And him?" He gestured to Dylan.
She placed her hand against her heart. "Dyl."
"Excellent," Brandon grinned. "What about him?"
That must be Wachinski, she thought.
"Wa - chin - Wachin?"
"Did she just call me Wachinski?" said the irritated voice with a head of sandy blond hair and eyes shaded similarly to Brandon's.
"Don't take it so hard, man. They said her confusion should clear up on its own."
"Bro, she thinks I'm fucking Wachinski, and I'm not supposed to get offended?"
Fear began to reign over Brenda. Her fingers bunched into the blanket draped over her, rubbing against its thin fabric.
"Look, Big Guy, you've got to calm down. You're scaring her. We'll have to ask you to leave if you don't."
"Fine, I'm calm. Pissed my little sis thinks I'm a fucking British bloke, but calm."
"Miss Walsh," said a new voice, "how do you feel?"
"Pain," she said, the feeling somehow intensifying when she spoke it aloud.
"You're talking. That's very good. Your fiancé said you were able to remember where you are?"
"UK."
"Yes, excellent. The UK. Where in the UK?"
"Lon - Lon - don."
"Do you know where you were before you were brought in?"
"Vic."
"Is that right?"
"Yes, it's right," said Dylan. "We were in Victoria Palace. Bren was performing." He looked anxious, as if he were clinging to a safety net to avoid falling apart. She didn't like seeing Dylan that way. She hated being the cause of it. "Should we be concerned about her broken speech? Brenda's life is words."
"Not at all. My guess is this is only temporary, like her confusion. We'd like to run further tests, but I can rule out a stroke. From the symptoms, we would have assumed a heart attack, but I see in her charts that she's had frequent high blood pressure?"
"Has she?" asked Brandon, turning an interrogative eye on Dylan with an expression that matched the one of not-Wachinski.
"Yeah, she has," Dylan told the doctor. "She didn't want to worry you with it," he added to Brandon. "Bren kept insisting it wasn't a big deal and that you needed to focus on your own recovery."
"No, instead I get to sit here listening to the doctor telling me there was a possibility that my thirty-four year old twin sister had a heart attack or a stroke when I was on the other side of the frickin' ocean. I felt something was off with her, but Brenda brushed it aside when I asked during your guys' visit to Boston. You could've at least told me."
"We can argue about it later," said Dylan. "If it's not a heart attack or a stroke, then what's wrong with our Bren?"
"It says that she was brought in with a dangerously high blood pressure reading. This indicates your fiancée had a hypertensive emergency. Did anything happen yesterday that would send her blood pressure soaring?"
"Yeah," said Dylan, his voice coated in loathing, "her fucking stalker showed up."
"What?" yelled Brandon and not-Wachinski, at once.
"She has a stalker? What the hell, D? How much shit have you and Bren been keeping from me?" asked Brandon, perturbed. "And don't even try to tell me it was in my best interest. If shit's going on with my sister, I'd like to know about it."
"Look, we'll talk about it later," Dylan said. "Is my fiancée going to recover?" he asked the doctor.
"In a hypertensive emergency, we need to rule out damage to the target organs. We'd like to keep her longer and start her on several different tests. My concern is that her chronic high blood pressure has affected one or more of her vital organs."
"Whatever it takes," said Dylan. "No cost is too great."
"Miss Walsh; she's a citizen of Britain, is that right?"
"Yes," said Brandon. "She got her citizenship a few years back."
"Well, the NHS should cover the majority, but our billing department will be in contact if there's extra expense the NHS declines to cover."
"Can we stay with her?"
"Provided you maintain her blood pressure at an acceptable level and do not overexcite her, then yes."
"Understood." Dylan glared at not-Wachinski.
"What?" He held up a large hand. "I'll be good!"
"You better," said Dylan.
"Bren's confusion," said not-Wachinski, "how long will it last?"
"Hard to say. Temporary could be anywhere within twelve hours from now to a month or more."
"Fuck. This is gonna kill Mads," he said.
"Maybe she knows Mads."
"Knows Mads, but doesn't know me?"
"I said maybe," Dylan reiterated. "You can't take it too personally. She doesn't know Val, either. And if she thinks you're Wachinski, then she -"
"- doesn't know him. Shit, I didn't think of that. Doesn't make me feel as good as it should."
"Dyl," said Brenda, reaching out her hand.
Dylan's fingers threaded through hers. "This might not be very pleasant, Bren, but let the doctors do their thing, okay? Even if it involves needles, or stitches, or staples. I need you in tip-top shape when we say I do."
"Okay," she said. "Love."
"I love you, too, baby," he said. "We've got this," he added with a kiss to her cheek as she closed her eyes once more. "You've got this, mi rayo de sol entre las nubes."
They ran cardiovascular tests. Tests on her brain, on her kidneys, on her reproductive organs. Each test made Brenda feel weaker, concerned in her ability to recover, infuriated with herself that she hadn't listened to her friends or Dylan when they had suggested she rework her schedule.
She couldn't be sure of which friends had told her to slow down, but she knew they were friends.
The three men left her side only when required, returning each time. A fourth came in, a dark brunet she thought she heard called Sanders until his harsh swallow when she called him by that name and the anger that resulted from not-Wachinski who stood with a face teetering in scarlet.
A woman was there when she returned from her latest test. No, two women. One brunette. One redhead. The brunette, tall. Stylishly dressed. The redhead, also tall, though shorter than the brunette. Still taller than her, Brenda thought. Both bombarded her boys with questions.
"Hello," said Brenda politely.
"I'd say hello back, but it seems my bitch has forgotten her oldest and dearest best friend," said the bristling brunette.
"I mean, she doesn't seem to know me, either." The redhead stared at Brenda. Brown eyes nearly equal in hue to Dylan's clouded over.
Brenda realized she must have shown her confusion on her face.
"You haven't known her for her entire life. If she should know anybody, it should be the kids from Minnesota."
"Hey!" said Dylan as he helped Brenda out of the wheelchair and back into the bed she had begun to loathe.
"And I guess you, Dyl," said the brunette.
"It's supposed to be temporary," grumped not-Wachinski.
"She doesn't know Brandon's wife," added not-Sanders, his emerald eyes peering at Brenda.
"As if that's supposed to make me feel better," said the brunette. "Can I at least introduce myself to her?"
"Give it a bit," said Dylan. "We'll see if she remembers on her own. We've been told it's an effect of her hypertension and should clear up soon."
"I should update Kelly," said Brandon.
"You?" Brenda pointed to the brunette.
"Oh, she did not just fucking think I'm Kelly," the woman hissed out.
"Woman, don't make me remove you," said Dylan.
"Don't call me woman. My best friend thinks I'm fucking Kelly. I'm allowed to be pissed off."
Brenda looked back and forth between Dylan and the brunette. She was quite beautiful, Brenda thought. Her eyes, though captivating, seemed to hold a world of heartbreak.
Brenda felt terrible about adding to the woman's pain.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's not your fault, babe. It's your fiancé's."
"How the fuck is it my fault?"
"Oh, let me see, Dyl. Can't call any of us to tell us Bren was struggling with high blood pressure until after that high blood pressure landed her with fucking memory loss, however temporary?"
"Look, I was following my fiancée's wishes. She didn't want any of you to know. Said you had enough to deal with."
"This is exactly the kind of thing a supposed best friend and the guy marrying her who's supposedly a friend should've told me."
"And me," said Brandon.
"And me," thirded not-Wachinski.
"I don't know what problems Bren thinks I have that you couldn't tell me," said the redhead.
Brenda's head began to ache from their arguing.
"Dyl," she said, pointing to her head.
"Guys, quit it or I'll have to kick you out," said Dylan.
"I'm not going anywhere," said the brunette, planting herself in a chair. "That fucking doctor is going to give me some answers."
"Not unless you're blood kin," said Dylan bitterly.
"Oh, I'm blood kin," she said. "I'm her fucking sister."
"Bran?" asked Brenda.
"Sort of," Brandon explained. "She's sort of our sister."
"Sort of my ass," said the woman. "Everyone knows I'm the third Walsh sibling, and this third Walsh sibling is finding out what the hell is wrong with our sister. I'll flirt with every damn doctor in this place if I have to."
"Why do I get the feeling you would have done that regardless?"
"Zip it, Bran."
The answers weren't what any of them had hoped to hear, but they were answers nonetheless. Brenda's hypertensive emergency had indeed resulted in target organ damage; renal failure, to be exact. Her body was failing to remove waste products from her blood. Fluid had built up in her lungs. The doctor advised that kidney removal was necessary to prevent further complications.
Brandon offered to be tested, saying that as her twin, he surely was a match for a transplant. An identical twin perhaps would be, he was advised; with fraternal twins, there was no guarantee. But that was a concern for the future, they were told, for Brenda did not yet require a transplant. She still had one functioning kidney and would be able to live a normal life with that one kidney.
Dylan questioned how likely Brenda was to be able to keep one kidney functioning if she had the other that had failed on her removed, to which the doctor didn't have an answer.
"I think you should have the surgery," Dylan said when the doctor had departed and the others had reluctantly agreed to get dinner in order to let the engaged couple discuss, "but I'm leaving it up to you, Bren. You heard the risks. I'm pretty damn sure you can kick those risks' arse, especially since I'll kick yours if you don't."
He joked, but she could see the fear in his eyes, the anguish that had seeped in when it was revealed that one of the risks was hemorrhage and another was death.
Worse still, if she refused the surgery and kept her improperly functioning kidney in place, the risks were even greater.
"Should we go for it?" Dylan asked.
"Yes," Brenda said, bringing his hand to her lips. "Surg - ery."
"Then I expect you to return from the OR in one piece, Brenda, you understand? No giving up on the operating table."
"Under - stood," said Brenda.
"These are our chronicles, Bren. No surgery can change the words we want to write. And I want to write you, my girl in the pink dress, into the rest of my life. So don't go all Crimson Lagoon on me in there because we're a whole lot more than some fucking Shakespearean tragedy. Leave those to the stage and the page."
Brenda underwent a nephrectomy, which they were told had involved the removal of a rib to access her damaged kidney. The kidney was removed in full, a procedure which led to a close watch on her blood pressure, electrolytes and balance of fluids. She remained in hospital for an additional week, a catheter inserted for half of that week. Breathing was sharp. Coughing hurt like a bitch. She had a pain in her abdomen on the side where the kidney had been removed, causing bloating within her belly that she swore hurt worse than period cramps. The pain relievers left her frequently enervated.
Brandon insisted on sleeping beside her every night, along with Dylan, so that there were two cots seen by Jim and Cindy when they arrived.
Brenda knew her parents, but she did not know the brown-eyed blonde who showed up with her grey-blue eyed, brunet husband.
When she asked if that blonde was Kelly, the response was not half as upset as had been the response from the brunette.
On the fourth day following her surgery, Brenda looked out at the brunette she had initially offended and said, "Val."
"Eight days," said Valerie, wiping at her eyes, "it took eight fucking days for you to remember me."
"My Val," said Brenda.
"Don't ever call me Kelly again, bitch." Valerie rubbed her hand across Brenda's shoulder. "When it comes to the blonde and me, there's no competition which of us is better."
"Be nice," said Brenda.
"C'mon, Bren, you know brunettes have way more fun."
"True."
"And us?" asked the blond man, pointing between himself, a dark brunet, and the redhead.
"Steve. Shane. Erica," Brenda said, in order. "My brothers. My sister."
"Took you fucking long enough," said Steve, though he grinned. "I think I'm a little too blond to be Wachinski."
"Yeah, just a bit," said Shane. "And I like to think I'm a tad more intelligent than Sanders."
"Yeah, he i - wait, what the fuck did you just say?"
"What about us?" asked the blonde standing next to Brandon.
"Donna. David."
Donna exhaled out the breath she had evidently been holding. "That's right, Bren. We're Donna and David."
"Can I bring in the lads?" asked Shane. "They're clamoring to see you. Might go better than last time."
Brenda had made the mistake of asking the London crew which of them was Bobby and which of them was Lottie. Vee had been especially annoyed at being called Lottie, whilst Benji took the label of Bobby in stride, despite their completely different skin tones and hair shades.
"Please do," said Brenda, noticing Dylan's ongoing relief every time she managed two words, instead of one.
"I knew you'd pull through," said Dylan. "My baby is a fighter. But next time the doctor's concerned about your BP, promise me you'll listen."
She promised.
She heard Vee telling Shane that Vee would only see Brenda if Brenda knew who she was. Shane said Vee needed to go in to find out, resulting in Vee clomping over to Brenda's bed.
"D'ya know who I am?" asked Vee, sitting on the bed.
"Vee," said Brenda.
"Good, because my name ain't Lottie," said Vee, going off into a fast-paced tangent as to why she was not a Lottie, that soon mixed with Valerie's dissertation on how she was not a Kelly.
"Katie," said Brenda after Levi had cut Vee off in the way only Levi was allowed to do, and Brandon had done the same to Valerie. "Levi. Benji. Sophie. My mates."
"Only you would keep performing when you're experiencing a fucking hypertensive emergency," said Levi with a smile.
"Not true," said Brenda, nodding over at Shane.
"Well, let's hope we don't need to find out what Shane would do," said Katie. "The important thing is you're alive, isn't it? Down a kidney, but alive. We've still got our Bren."
The large group began talking at once, making Brenda's head spin.
"She's not ready for all of this loud noise," said Dylan, quickly catching on to Brenda's discomfort. "Pipe down and just be glad she knows you."
"I'd be more glad if she knew me all along," said Valerie grumpily, "but I'll take it, I guess."
"Andrea had hoped to be here," said Donna. "She's watching the girls for us and sends her love."
"Fletch is still on tour in Bangladesh," said Shane. "He's gutted he can't be here. Said to give you his best."
"Mads is at my mom's," said Steve. "Your niece is pissed as hell that I wouldn't let her fly out when I originally told Mom she could bring her, but I was concerned how Mads would take it if you called her by the wrong name; y'know, like you did me."
"And me," said Val and Vee.
Though he had also been misnamed, Shane remained silent, a pensive look aimed at Brenda until her reassuring smile invoked his own.
"Kelly's doctor said it's too soon for her to fly," said Brandon. "She's bummed. Joy flew in to stay with her and the boys while I'm gone."
"It's okay," said Brenda. "You're here." She pointed to all of them. "And you." She inched closer to Dylan.
"Always," he said, leaning so far forward that he nearly fell into her bed. "I'm duct-taped to you for life, babe. And if you're ever in this position again, we're not using a fucking next-of-kin card."
Brenda was advised to return to her normal activities three weeks following her surgery; or, rather, a scaled-back version of her normal activities, allowing her to take the stage again. Her fellow castmates were elated to have her back, primarily as they claimed her understudy had been a poor substitute for the Brenda Walsh. Support stockings had become part of her wardrobe, often hidden under her petticoat costumes to lower her risk of developing blood clots. Recovery was slated for another three weeks in a total of six, though she had been permitted to fly.
"I really wanted to get married on the fifth of January," said Brenda, lying beside Dylan. "But I'm still so fucking tired and still resting in-between performances. I don't know how I'll do on the flight over."
They had been told that fatigue was a normal part of her recovery, with her body stealing away her energy to heal itself.
Brenda couldn't think of a time she had ever felt so knackered.
"Your doctor isn't concerned about you flying, but said you need to listen to your body. If your body is telling you to stay in London, then we won't fly." Dylan had his arms wrapped around her, more loosely than he usually did. Brenda had told him her sides were healed, that the pain had lessened tremendously. Dylan had said she was short one rib and one kidney and he wasn't taking a chance.
"I think we should postpone," she said, disappointed.
"Then we'll postpone," he confirmed. "I want you fully healed and awake when I take you on a Baja beach."
"Oh, you're taking me on a Baja beach?" she asked.
"Bren, I took you on a beach in Cornwall."
"And a beach in Kerry."
"Exactly, so I think I can do the same in our Baja."
"Our Baja," she smiled. "I like the sound of that."
"Well, it is our Baja," he said. "It's always been our Baja. And sometime next year, I'll marry you on it and that will solidify Baja as ours to everyone we know."
"Just not when we planned," she said sadly.
"Our lives have never gone according to plan, Bren. That just means the two gangs get more time to give us something incredible, and we have more time to figure out the best honeymoon ever. Unless you've reconsidered my offer of an elopement."
"No," she said, "we've waited too long for this to happen to have Brandon murder us for eloping."
"Brandon can come."
"Then Steve would be the one murdering all three of us."
Dylan laughed and smiled at her, that double-dimpled grin that always made her feel sixteen when aimed in her direction. "You seem much better, Bren."
"I'm getting there. I just never thought something like that would happen to me."
"It's definitely not something I ever wanted to have happen to you, but we can be grateful you still have one functioning kidney."
"Yeah, except we'll probably need to keep a close eye on it," Brenda grumbled.
"Annual urinalysis and blood pressure check," Dylan cited, having clearly memorized the pamphlet they had been given by the hospital. "They'll need to test your kidney function every few years. You already have a balanced diet, so that isn't a concern. And your memory recovered pretty quickly, all things considered, even if you did piss off Val and Sanders and Vee in the process."
"It was so weird, looking at three people I know so well and not having a clue who they were."
"If you thought my ego was bad before, being one of the only people you could remember definitely gave it a huge boost."
"It's because it's you and Bran," said Brenda. "The two people I trust most. One's my love and one's my twin. I needed both of you to help me through that."
"Considering it wasn't all that long ago when you were telling Val that you couldn't trust me with your heart, that means a lot."
"That's not to say I don't trust any of the others," she hastily added.
"No, you just couldn't bring yourself to forget your boys," said Dylan, caressing her shoulder.
"Two out of four of my boys, anyway."
"Sanders will get over it. Wachinski already has."
"It's a good thing Maddie wasn't there. I'm not sure I would have known her and not knowing my Maddie would've surely ripped me apart."
"I think she would've been the first person you'd remember. Madster has a way about her that's hard to forget."
"I can't wait to see her in her dress," said Brenda.
"I can't wait to see you in yours," said Dylan. "Should we aim for February?"
"Yes. February."
"February it is." He kissed the top of her head. "I'll call our venue and see which dates they have open. One more postponement and I'm dragging you to City Hall. We'll deal with the wrath of Sanders & Co. later. Steve Sanders hasn't been in love with you for eighteen years, and he didn't waste half of those years trying to deny it. We're not wasting any more time, especially not after I held you in my arms, unsure whether you would return to me." Her hand slid over his wet cheek as his lightly rubbed against her waist. "Okay if I…" he trailed off.
"Yes please," said Brenda. "I'm dying over here."
He glared at her. "Wrong choice of words. Way too soon."
"The sentiment still stands."
He peeled at her clothing, failing to disguise his desperate desire of wanting it off of her. "Want me to lead, or should I follow?"
"Follow," she said. "I'll lead." She helped him to discard her jeans, and then worked on removing his.
"We'll switch second round?"
"If I can stay awake through a second round."
He frowned in concern. "Sure you aren't too tired for a first round?"
"Not half as knackered as I am over all these weeks I haven't been able to make love to my fiancé."
"Just imagine how it will be making love to your husband." He carefully held Brenda's hips, helping her to hover above him as his anticipatory gaze stared up at her with more love than she had ever known to be possible.
"I imagine something like this." She bent down to connect their lips.
He swung her hips towards him, meshing their bodies together as he intensified their kiss. "Starting slow?" he whispered against her collarbone.
"Starting," she said, beginning to move.
His hands roamed over her back, pulling her shirt over her head. "When I think of how close I came to losing you," he began.
"Don't think about it, baby."
"I'm always gonna think about it, Bren. Twice in high school. Once when we were apart. And once now. I'm determined to get you down that aisle in one piece."
"That goes for you, too," she said.
"I just want you to be my wife." He linked their hands together, wrapping them around her back.
"And I want to be your wife."
He lay a gentle kiss to the site of her incision. "Never thought I'd be the one telling you to listen to the damn doctors."
"It's just, I've always been warned about my BP since I hit my late twenties, Dyl. I took it seriously at first, but nothing ever happened and it seemed like my physician was constantly over-concerned. In this industry, slowing down isn't an option."
"I get that, Bren, but we're making your health top priority from now on, got it? You don't need to give up your career, but you do need to put your health before your career."
"Got it. I'll listen to the doctors."
"And we aren't keeping anything that big from Brandon again."
"Yeah, he was forgiving this time, but I'm pretty convinced that was just because of how scared he was. I've had to learn to live without him. I went through three years thinking I'd never see him again. He went through three years trying to find a way back to all of us. He hasn't had the chance to think about me not being around. I'll tell him things from now on."
"Good." Dylan pulled her down against him. "Now, I'll listen to you. Tell me exactly how you'd like me to pleasure you this evening, Miss Not-Too-Much-Longer-'Til-You're-No-Longer-A-Walsh."
"Well, Mr. McKay," she said, "I have some ideas."
She whispered into his ear. A melodious giggle emitted from her voice as he growled and pulled her under their sheets, where they would remain well into the early hours of the morning when they would be awoken by the cackle of a fucking gleeful pigeon intent on capturing its early breakfast.
-x
Great guess on heart attack/stroke, Crystal. A good family friend died from a stroke, which hits much too close to home for me to write. I did consider a heart attack, but reading up on hypertensive emergencies and keeping in mind that Brenda's insane schedule has been a running theme since the very first chapter, that seemed significantly closer to what I had in mind.
The Spanish phrase harkens back to chapter sixteen.
As always, thanks a million for the readership, reviews, follows, favourites, alerts, discourse, plot ideas, etc. Stay healthy and safe out there. x