That pinch in her throat, the way it moves up her neck, how it tightens, pisses Keira off, until her eyes are stinging. The fear is too heavy, the weight of it making breathing impossible.
“No,” she says to herself, walking into the kitchen, pushing back bags and cards until she finds the Scotch among the condolence gifts. Glendronach, single malt. Blake Shelton’s camp sent it over when news of her mother’s death reached Nashville. There were many others; sympathy cards, empty vases that had held flower arrangements, none of which Keira had found the time to toss away. Gifts given without the knowledge of Keira’s non-existent grief. Most barely registered. Except the Glendronach. That Shelton had damn good taste and was still happy about the song Keira wrote for him.
She doesn’t even feel the burn as it slides down her throat. The stuff is smooth, crisp. She pours another glass, eager to drown the worry, to distract herself from glancing at the clock.
Keira had run from the domineering force of her mother’s expectations. She’d run away from the woman’s fists, her flat palms, and landed in Nashville; she’d landed into safety and warmth and love. She had Ransom. He had become her salvation. Her haven. Her sanctuary, but now the past had come back. The past and his wide, beautiful shoulders; those strong, confident hands; those words Keira tries not to believe. There had been so much drama, so much heartache between them. Would it ever stop?
The next sip is deeper, a gulp that Keira feels as she tries to dull the memory of Kona’s kiss, the promise of his lips, his tongue. The pain… she couldn’t take any more of it. Even if she wanted to.
Can she go back to that past? She wants to. Sometimes, Keira needs to and maybe part of her forgets that the past hasn’t always been some rose-colored dream. Part of her buries the reality; the memories of those days before Kona when she thought she might die from loneliness. That part of her that doesn’t bother with the way reality fell, with the proper order of who she was with Kona, of who she thought she’d never become.
She forgets that there were nights that he made her cry so hard her eyes burned and snot coated above her top lip. She forgets about his jealousy, the looks and whispers about her others made because she loved him. She forgets about the constant fear of losing him.
Kona had been her daydreams, he filled her nightmares and, back then, she’d watched herself from a distance, just a shadow monitoring the stupid, stupid things she’d do whenever he was around. She’d loved it, she couldn’t refuse it. And to him, she was just the same. All-consuming, a threat to anything he wanted his tomorrows to be. A lit match, barreling too close to that tantalizing fuse, waiting, panting with hungry anticipation for the ignition.
But she didn’t remember that, not at first. Not when she forgave him as she held her son in her arms.
She’d just remembered the way his mouth fit so perfectly against her neck when they slept in that too small dorm room bed. She’d remembered the way small sparks of light would kindle in his eyes—hungry eagerness, dangerous joy—when he’d set her temper off. He did it on purpose. She did. But a cyclone and a volcano aren’t supposed to connect. The results were disastrous. It had been life altering and now she has to remind herself of the danger. She has to recall how all that passion bit into her, made her ache. How it nearly destroyed everything she wanted for herself.
In her mind, that eighteen year old Keira tells her to ignore the truth, that it doesn’t matter. That girl reminds Keira that her heart had never been fuller than when Kona held it. No one could make her smile, make her ache with belly laughter like him. That loud mouth, nagging girl reminds her that his touch is searing, soul shaking and that no other man alive would ever bring her that much joy. Not like that. Not like Kona.
The door closes, echoes against the low voices as Ransom and Kona enter the kitchen. Her son stares at her, eyes squinting as he shifts his attention to the bottle in front of her, then back to her face.
“Mom?”
A quick wipe against her face to dry it and Keira greets her son, holding his shoulders. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” She picks up on how easy the vibe is between them, how Ransom and Kona exchange a look, how the big Hawaiian leans against the doorframe, pretending to scan through his phone, giving Keira a moment with their son.
“You better now?” She doesn’t like the dark circles that have formed under her boy’s eyes, how the day and its drama shows in his features.
“I’m okay. It’s done now and we’re cool.” Ransom moves his chin to the table. “What about you? You drinking for a specific reason?”