Mercy The school parking lot was full. A busy day at the end of the year. They were always busy, weren’t they? Once the calendar neared May, it was concerts and field trips and parties and the usual conversations of Can you believe another year is done? The kids got taller without us noticing. They’d settle into the routine as the months passed, and by the time they were ready to move on to seventh grade, when I was done with them, they were ready for more ind ependence. Ready for more responsibility. I parked my car in an empty spot at the back of the lot and stared at the one-story brick building. The digital sign next to the road scrolled through reminders about the seventh- and eighth-grade band concert and the boys’ soccer championship game. The doors were still bright blue, the sidewalks still covered in chalk from one of the younger classes. Everything was so familiar that it hurt. I could hardly breathe through the relief of it. But I was stuck. Again. My legs didn’t work. With Grant holed up in his office, I’d grabbed my keys and driven without thinking, ending up at the school. And even though this was the first place I’d thought about going, I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I wondered whether Cameron’s soccer team had won his tournament. Whether Kayla had convinced her mom to let her do the blue-tipped braids. She’d look so pretty. Whether Walker ever read the book I’d picked for him over the summer. My students didn’t exist to provide me with a distraction. It wasn’t fair. They’d see my face and want me to be the person I was before my car accident, and I couldn’t give that to them. Imagining their disappointment . . . God, it hurt so bad. So I sat there. Locked in place, like I couldn’t move. Thinking about all the things I’d done wrong since I left the hospital. My thumb brushed over the divot on my finger. This wasn’t a game, no matter how badly I wished I could treat it as such. The questions were stupid. Rash. A feeble attempt to put myself on some sort of solid ground with a man who came with more questions than answers. A feeble attempt at control. I wanted to push through this in the same way I’d always dealt with Grant, but it was impossible. I couldn’t unearth my memories through banter, and I couldn’t conjure a simple solution through tests. I wanted to know what he and I were like. I wanted to know
if we’d talked about Connor before we got married. If we’d laughed about what he must have thought. If I’d cried on my wedding day because, for money or not, I would’ve wanted my brother to walk me down the aisle. When I was the same age as my students, maybe a little bit younger, I had a very clear idea of how my life would turn out. I’d go to Michigan, just like Connor. I’d get my teaching degree and I’d help kids just like myself. I’d marry a sweet boy who made me laugh and carried me over the threshold of our beautiful home. I’d have a dog. A couple kids, maybe. Eventually. Instead, life had just gotten harder. More complicated. My dream school came with student loans. Big ones. Relationships felt too scary to stay in. Whenever that big first st ep of intimacy revealed itself, I used it as a springboard to get the hell out of Dodge. Even the sweet boys who made me laugh didn’t last very long. In the end, I didn’t marry a sweet boy. I married a walking mystery with a sexy accent, a tight ass, and excellent emotional control. I let my head fall back and closed my eyes, desperately wishing for some equilibrium. Wishing there was some true safe place where I could let myself rest without expectation. For most of my life, that had been Connor. Everything had changed so quickly, hadn’t it? The literal blink of an eye. A deer darting out into the road. Or, in my brother’s case, a blood clot in his brain that took him before he likely even knew anything was wrong. He went to bed and never woke up. I woke up missing the most pivotal piece of my life. I wanted it back. I didn’t want to think about turning twenty-six, or twenty-seven, and still feeling this sense of incompleteness. Of inadequacy. Turning thirty and coming up blank with what my life would look like. I started the car again, finding not the slightest joy in the purr of the engine. Would I remember anything by then? Would I remember a life that I’d built with him? Would there be trust and communication, instead of secrets and withheld truths? What else was lurking in the dark, shadowy parts of my brain that I couldn’t touch? The ache twisted into something de eper, more painful, and I rubbed at it again. Go away, I thought. The reminder of what I was missing was hardly necessary. It was in every thought. Every breath. Every corner of the house. Every flicker of Grant’s eyes. Every evasive answer to the endless questions. I drove aimlessly, hardly even realizing where I was until I turned down my old street. It looked the same, but it didn’t make me feel better that this was where I’d gone. There was an empty parking spot across the street, and I pulled in behind a silver pickup truck with an American flag in the back window. The house was still red. The door was still black. The flowers were gone. In their place was a stroller.
This wasn’t my home anymore. There were things I didn’t recognize. Everywhere I went—even the familiar places—that was the case. My throat was tight as I eased away from the curb. A few kids riding their bikes down the street gawked shamelessly at my car, and I gave them a friendly wave as I pulled out. By the time I got home, I felt marginally better. I wasn’t trying to play games with Grant—not really. I was just trying to find familiar footing where I already knew it existed. It was everything else that didn’t make sense. Not the way he looked at me, not the fact that he’d asked for my help. Or the fact that I’d said yes. The sky was still light when I pulled into the driveway, the air pleasant and warm, the lush smell of spring lingering in the air. It was fresh-cut grass and new blooms—on the ground and in the trees. The best part of living somewhere with four distinct seasons was the thrill of the change between each. No matter how many times I smelled fall in the air, no matter how many times I sat by the window to watch the first snow or tracked the lengthening days and welcomed the warmth of summer, it always felt new. Exciting. But this time, spring felt a bit too symbolic for me to fully appreciate it. There was a flowering tree to the left of the front porch—heavy pink blossoms that I couldn’t name. There was new life everywhere I looked, but inside, I still felt empty. Felt wrong. I shut the door, flipping the dead bolt, and for a moment let my forehead rest on the hard surface while I tried to pull myself into a better headspace. Grant was still in his office, so I found a book and curled up on the couch. An hour later, he still hadn’t emerged, even though the sky was dark now and I found myself yawning. The clock on the wall above the couch clicked loudly, minutes continuing to pass. I chewed on my bottom lip, fighting an irrational impulse to go see what he was doing. Ask what was wrong. Check if he was okay. I’d read the same page four times when I heard a noise from his office, like glass against a hard surface. “Fuck this,” I muttered, slamming the cover closed and striding down the hallway toward the closed door. Instead of barging in, I paused, shifting my ear closer to see if he was on the phone with someone or in a meeting, but the office was quiet exc ept for soft classical music and another click of glass. My stomach knotted tight with nerves, but I still raised my hand and rapped one knuckle against the door. Silence. Glass against glass. I knocked louder. A sigh that was loud enough for me to hear. Another clink. “I have to go,” I heard him say. “No, I can’t talk about this anymore.” My neck was hot, and I tried to press my ear closer to the door. “I’ll call you later, I promise. I’m just . . . I’m not in the mood.”
Yeah. The feeling was mutual, because after an entire day of selfreflection, I wasn’t particularly in the mood either. I knocked again. “I’m coming in whether you give me permission or not,” I warned, laying my hand against the door while I waited. “So you better not be naked or anything.” I heard him mutter, “Oh, for God’s sake,” before the door was yanked open so quickly that I almost fell into the room. “Why on earth would I be naked in my office?” His hand reached out to steady me, and I righted myself with a prim clearing of my throat, extracting my upper arm from his firm grasp. “I don’t know what you do behind closed doors.” He raised an eyebrow and stalked back to his desk. He’d shed the vest from earlier, but his oxford was still wrinkle-free. The tie was gone as well, two buttons left undone at the base of his throat. His hair? Still perfect. Grant picked up a decanter filled with amber liquid and added a healthy pour to a lowball cut-crystal glass. That was the sound I’d heard, and my eyebrows shot up because I’d never seen him drink before. “You’re drinking.” “Oh, my dear, you’re incredibly astute, aren’t you?” There was a sharp edge to his voice that made me narrow my eyes in warning, but all it seemed to do was make his eyes glint dangerously. “What happened?” “Be more specific.” I crossed my arms. “Why are you drinking?” “I’m thirty-five years old. Last time I checked, that didn’t necessitate asking permission.” “You know why I’m asking. You’re acting strange.” “‘Strange,’” he said, rolling the word around his mouth like it was a rich mouthful of expensive brandy. “Am I, now?” Then he stood to his full height, so much taller than mine, and my belly quivered. “How would you know?” “I might not remember this,” I said, gesturing between the two of us, “but I have known you for a long time. You’ve been avoiding me all day.” A knowing look made his eyes darker, stormier. “Does that bother you?” “No.” He clocked the lie immediately, leaning in and dropping his voice low. “I don’t believe you.” “Tough shit, I don’t need you to.” My chin notched higher. “But I do expect you to be civil.” Grant didn’t speak, merely held my gaze and raised the glass to his mouth again. The muscles of his throat shifted as he took a large swallow, and Jesus be a fence, he smelled
so fucking good. The entire office was filled with his clean, masculine scent, interrupted only by the sharp bite of alcohol in the air. “A reasonable expectation, my dear,” he said smoothly, then set the glass down. “Let’s talk about that. Is it civility that should have me answering your little question, despite my own significant misgivings?” The change in subject had me flattening my brow. “I—I don’t know. I just . . . I wanted to make it easier for us to talk. Try a different approach.” “Oh, indeed. I can see that.” He leaned back and plucked a folded-up piece of paper from the surface of his desk, holding it up in the same way I’d done earlier, wedged between two fingers. “Shall I?” “If you want to,” I answered hesitantly. The air between us was thick and charged, but I didn’t know with what. My mind raced through the things I’d written down. Grant tilted his head and seemed to come to a conclusion as he stared down at me from his considerable height. “I’ve changed my mind.” He held the paper out. “You ask it.” “What?” He leaned in again, licking his bottom lip before he spoke. “I bloody well dare you to ask me that question, Mercy Kincaid-Hastings. Because you and I have the exact same fucking answer.” The wielding of my full name like a weapon, the casual profanity from a man who rarely used it hit me like a bat to the head, and I knew—oh, fucking fuck me, I knew—what question he’d drawn. My fingers shook as they brushed against his to grab the corner of the paper. They were still shaking when I opened it, my ribs squeezing from invisible hands pressing harder and harder until I could hardly fill my lungs. Someday very soon, I’d learn my lesson. Learn that it wasn’t in my best interest to poke the fucking bear, wave the flag in front of the bull, whatever stupid animal analogy I could come up with. Eventually, I’d learn not to do this with him, right? Because in my reckless pursuit of a reaction, I’d gone and done something really stupid. My own neat handwriting in crisp blue gel pen made a mockery of my little display of bravery. In its place, a sharp knife of dread protruded from between my ribs, making it impossible to breathe. “I can’t hear you.” My eyes screwed shut at the softly mocking tone. “‘What was the best sex you’ve ever had?’” I read in a trembling voice. He took a st ep closer, waiting. Waiting for me to look at him. I could hardly suck in enough oxygen to stay conscious, but I was no coward, so I set my jaw and raised my head, locking onto his ruthless, icy gaze. I couldn’t breathe.
“Don’t say it,” I begged. “Don’t.” He made a small noise in the back of his throat. “You may ask many things of me, wife, but I won’t lie to you.” Then he raised a hand, a wrinkle forming in his brow as he gently touched the edge of his thumb to my chin, a barely there pressure as he tilted my face higher. “And I don’t need to lie, because you already knew, somewhere inside that brain of yours, that it would be like this between us.” “No I didn’t, I—” “You did. You never would’ve asked otherwise.” His thumb sw ept along my bottom lip, and God, I couldn’t look away. He was beautiful. Hypnotizing. And I wanted him. “Imagine it. All those times you pushed and pushed and pushed, just waiting for something between us to snap. It was so good, my darling. Better than anything.” He dragged my lip down, gaze leaving mine only to watch the movement of his own hand. His voice dropped to a growl that scratched something in the dark corners of my mind. I wanted to arch my back into it like a cat. He leaned closer again, his lips nearing mine. “Fucking you rewired my entire bloody brain.” I tore my face out of his grip and stumbled back, legs shaking, stomach flipped inside out and my heart trying to crawl up my throat. But denial was nowhere near the tip of my thick, useless tongue. Maybe I did know. Maybe it was why I’d asked. Because for years, lying in the dark, I’d imagined it. When he pissed me off, when he stared at me across the room—untouchable and so fucking pristine—I wanted to know what it was like. If he’d be rough and demanding and allow himself to whisper vulgar things in my ear. I wanted to know. But not like this. I pressed a trembling hand to my brow and tried to steady my breathing. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes taking on a wild gleam. “I’m so—” “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize. I asked for this.” Without overthinking it, or even stopping to question whether it was wise, I snatched the half-filled decanter off his desk and left without another word.