to have surgery.” Slap, slap. “Fucking. Surgery, Kayla.”
I sigh at the use of my full name, watching as he paces away from the island, doing his best to tug his hair out by the root.
“You think I don’t know that?” I shout, holding back a wince at the twinge of pain I feel in the freshly healed bone. “You think I somehow forgot? Think the concussion he also gave me was enough to have me acting like a soap star with a case of amnesia?” Sarcasm bleeds out of me, coating each of my questions more thickly the longer I yell.
“That’s not fucking funny.”
I sigh again, my head tipping back, my shoulders falling as all the fight leaves me. “I know, E, but think about it…” I step around the island, slowly approaching him like one would a cornered animal. The description isn’t too far off; all he needs is a giant ring through his nose to complete his impression of a raging bull. “You don’t—and certainly I don’t—want to be the news story.” I lay the flat of my hand on his forearm, the muscle spasming with restraint under my touch. “This is the best thing I can come up with to help prevent that from happening.”
This close, I can hear the grinding of his teeth. His dentist is going to give him one hell of a lecture on taking proper care of his enamel.
“Think of it as killing two birds with one stone—”
“I’d like to do some killing,” E mutters, and I bite back a snort. He sounds like a teenager throwing a tantrum. It doesn’t help that I hear JT whisper “Same” from the living room.
Bette strides into the kitchen, reaching up to pull a bottle of wine from the rack. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to post your bail if you get arrested for homicide, E.” She says more with one letter than most people can in full paragraphs.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, dear.” E shifts his body to face his wife, blinking with wide eyes, trying to portray the picture of innocence.
“Don’t you dear me, Eric.” She steps to him until their toes touch, her finger wagging in his face.
“Damn, bro.” JT whistles through his teeth. “She Eric’d you. That ain’t good.”
“I know,” E deadpans then nips at the tip of Bette’s finger, causing her to squeak. “Don’t worry, babe.” He hooks an arm around her middle, pulling her flush against him. “I promise to behave.”
“I highly doubt that.” Bette levels him with a look that screams I know how full of shit you are.
I giggle behind my hand at the scene. Mase is always telling me he adores how I can give him shit in the same breath as telling him I love him. Well…I learned from the best.
“I promise.” E holds up a two-finger salute.
Bette scoffs. “You weren’t a scout, you ass.” It takes her a few seconds to pull herself out of the daze caused by the kiss E lays on her, then she’s turning to me, mom glare firmly in place. “You’re going to have to explain your logic if you expect me to get on board with this.”
That’s what I do: I explain all the things I’ve been afraid to admit to. Fear of becoming the story for the press, having my life dissected and critiqued by strangers behind a keyboard and around me. Fear of Liam, and now Chrissy/Tina, digging in and hurting Mase’s draft stock. Worry that if I can’t handle the media—both social and otherwise—when I have Mase by my side, how am I going to do so when he is who knows how many hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away with the team that picks him up?
As I speak, my family gathers around, T and Pops moving in closer too as I purge everything from my system.
“Parts of the story are already out there,” I say as I near the end. “By doing this, we can at least help control a portion of it.”
No one speaks at first, and I appreciate them each taking a moment to digest what I said instead of offering their knee-jerk opinions.
“Kay”—Bette stretches her torso across the counter, linking her hand with mine—“are you sure you’re okay with settling? Really sure this is what you want?”
“If you’re asking if this is what I think Liam deserves for what he’s done”—I shake my head, roughly brushing away the curls that fall forward when I do—“then, no. He’ll barely feel the