So Much More - Kim Holden Page 0,40

soul

present

I know stress isn’t good for me. It’s a lion that prowls the recesses of my brain waiting to attack and when prodded, it’s a man-eater. It feasts on my well-being, rationality, and health like a gluttonous savage.

Sometimes stress can be backed into a corner and controlled with mental reassessment and a change of perspective. Some problems aren’t as big as I initially make them out to be. And sometimes they aren’t even problems at all.

But what I’m facing now with Miranda and the prospect of her taking my kids to Seattle, it doesn’t get more real than this.

I can feel the stress, physically feel it. In the numbness of my legs. In the blindness of my eye. In the loss of appetite. In the insomnia. In the fatigue of my muscles and the headache crashing like cymbals between my ears. It’s bleeding through me, too thick for my veins, filling me like a bloated balloon on the brink of bursting.

I’m sitting in the reception area of Miranda’s lawyer’s office. Everything about the room is orchestrated to scream dominance: from the masculine, oxblood leather sofas; to the dark wood paneled walls and bookshelves, to the artificial musky scent in the air. It’s a testosterone fest. I’m sure if they’re defending you it offers a sense of security, like being cocooned in Superman’s cape. But if you’re on the other side, staring down an unknown future that’s in their hands, it makes you feel two inches small…to their ten feet tall. Mission accomplished.

This meeting was called out of the blue a few days ago. It was presented to me as a civil offering with a mediator to settle the issue. I’m hoping Miranda came to her senses and is reconsidering, but my gut and the pounding in my head tell me that’s impossible.

“Mr. McIntyre?” The voice is professional. It’s the veil that cloaks the bared teeth and claws that hide underneath.

“Yes,” I answer without meeting his eyes. It’s an intentionally evasive gesture to set the tone. Bitterness has me standing at the edge of sanity looking down into the deep, dark pit of future regret. I fear my mouth may get the better of me this morning. Sleep deprivation has put my sense of decorum and tact through a grinder and left me with shredded remnants of sensibility and preservation. I need to keep myself in check. I grab my cane and stand to follow him down the hallway to a conference room.

Miranda is already sitting inside. She’s wearing a black tailored suit jacket and a crimson silk blouse. The color red represents power. It’s her favorite…color to wear and distinguishing trait.

I take a seat where I’m instructed, directly across the wide table from her. She’s five feet away, but I can feel intimidation tumbling at me in violent surges of aggression. I blaze my eyes in return to let her know I’m not taking her shit today.

Her lawyer, Dean Bergman, clears his throat to break the silent pissing match we’ve already begun, and says, “Why don’t we get started?”

I’m drunk with rage. I raise my eyebrows in challenge. “Why don’t we?”

He slides a neat stack of papers across the table toward me. They’re deliberately neat like they’ve been tapped on all sides on a flat surface several times to ensure perfection and add to the overall presentation of superiority.

I take them heavy-handedly, jostling them into disarray and erasing the posturing they’re vying for.

Revision of Custody

Kai McIntyre

Rory McIntyre

Kira McIntyre

Those are the only words I see on the page. My sight shifts in and out of focus and suddenly I can hear my headache. Hear the cymbal crashing with each beat of my heart as if the blood rushing through me is keeping time for the disaster unfolding. I defiantly squeeze my eyes shut and will the world, and everything in it, except for the names on the paper in front of me, to burst into flames and burn white hot until they’re reduced to ash.

“Mr. McIntyre?” Bergman wants my attention.

I rub my temples with my eyes still closed, silently cursing his existence. “Yes.”

“Would you like me to summarize the document?”

No, I wouldn’t. “Yes.” I pry my eyes open, and Miranda is staring at me, her expression unreadable.

“Mr. McIntyre, Mrs. Buckingham is—”

I cut him off because his voice clashing with the thundering in my head creates a dissonance I can’t bear. “I changed my mind, I’d like a few minutes to read through this myself. Can I have some privacy?” Mutiny from