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The other two are still in the living room with me. Trace grunts, “Damn. How did you get a wife like her?”
I chuckle, the words working loose from my brain slowly, “Hell if I know.”
8
CADENCE
“Sorry,” Brennon’s shoulders are hunched as he mutters the word. The guys are leaving, and I’ve already waved goodbye to all of them. They stayed for the day while the five of us got to know each other. It was the most fun I’ve had in ages, and I tell Brennon that.
There was something about seeing him interact with his friends. I had a chance to see how much they all care for each other. He’s nothing like his cold and cruel family. No, Brennon is warm-hearted and kind. He teased his friends just as much as they teased him, the four of them falling into an easy rhythm.
He starts picking up the house, moving dishes from the table to the sink. Nash made his famous chili for dinner. I didn’t know it was possible for a blind man to cook but he just laughed it off, explaining he can do most everything.
It made me wonder about Brennon and the things I may not know about him. Even though I feel awkward, I force myself to say, “Can I ask you some questions? About…about your speaking?”
He looks up from his place by the sink where he’s running water for the dishes. He gives me a nod before going back to his task.
I have a million questions to ask, but I start with the first one that comes to my mind. “Were you…always this way?”
He used to be on magazine covers. He was the CEO of his family’s company. He had the world at his feet. Then suddenly, it was gone. Just like me, he lost everything. I don’t like the realization or the way it makes my chest squeeze tight.
He shakes his head without looking at me.
“So…what happened then?” I don’t want to admit that I spent time today searching online and trying to piece together his history. There’s no shortage of articles talking of his success, fame, and wealth. Countless interviews show a powerful, articulate man who took his family’s already successful company and turned it into an empire. He was cutthroat and ruthless, unstoppable and breathtaking in his power. Then one day, there was an article that he was stepping down to be replaced by his father. In the age of social media with endless ways to gossip, you’d think there would at least be rumors as to what happened. But apparently, the Abernathy family had enough clout to keep everything quiet.
He continues washing the dishes for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer. I accept his silence and grab a kitchen towel. I dry the dishes alongside him without saying a word.
When we’re finally done, he turns to me. There’s a faraway look in his eyes. He taps his chest. “Heart.” He pauses searching again for the word and finally lets out a frustrated grunt. He reaches for his phone only to push it back on the table.
I’m learning that once he gets frustrated, the words stay inside.
“Maybe we can do charades,” I suggest quietly. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say. I’m always worried that I’m saying the wrong thing to him. I heard the things his brother said to his face about his ability. I saw the disdain on his parents’ faces at the wedding. It makes me sad that they only valued him when he could perform for them, running the family company and creating an undeniable legacy of wealth. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be another person in a long line that’s only cared about him for what he can do.
He taps his chest, the area where his heart is.
I nod. “Heart.”
He makes a gesture of a circle.
“Circle. Zero. Number,” I call out the words. My father’s favorite game is charades. I’ve lost track of the hours I spent playing it with him growing up. Even now, he loved nothing more than a good game of it at a company party.
Brennon shakes his head and repeats the gesture.
“But it’s something round, like a donut.”
His face lights up. “Middle.”
I think for a second. “The middle of a donut. There’s a hole there.”
He snaps his fingers as soon as I say the word hole and taps his chest again.
“A hole in your chest?” I shake my head. “A hole in your heart.”
Relief flickers across his expression. I don’t imagine that the high society people around him ever gave him any patience. He taps the side of his head and manages the word, “Stroke.”
“The stroke caused a hole?” I frown.
He makes a gesture for me to reverse the order, and I finally get it. “So, the hole in your heart caused the stroke?” My own heart hurts at the thought. This strong man survived hell, and he did it without the support of anyone. “Are you OK now? Does it still hurt?”
