Chapter 53 Mercer
Chapter fifty-three
Mercer
I’m wrecked by the time my therapy session wraps up, both physically and emotionally. Despite the positive developments over the last few days, I have significant work ahead of me.
I backslid swiftly and severely, my choices coming from a place of fear and jaded self-preservation.
And now that I’m thinking more clearly and can see that, I’m having a hard time trusting myself again.
There’s a boulder of shame pressing into the center of my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Between my propensity for self-loathing and my competence kink, it’s going to take significant effort to displace the boulder and not allow it to crush me completely.
If only I’d recognized the signs and, I don’t know, not spiraled? I spiraled, and kept spiraling, and I hurt people. My therapist reminded me today that we don’t get to plan and prepare for the rough patches.
Then there was the temptation to cope by cutting, a temptation I almost gave into several times.
The urge to distract myself from the mental anguish by physically marring my body is still there. In time, the urge will fade, like it has in the past. But the last few weeks have served as a staggering wake-up call that I will always have to actively tend to and care for my mental health.
There’s no guarantee I won’t spiral again. There’s no way to predict when the rough patches will hit.
But I can weave together a stronger safety net. That’s what I’m focusing on now. Noah, Sawyer, and even Tytus make up the fabric of my support network. If and when I slip, they’ll ensure I don’t fall too far or too hard.
As I bound down the stairs, my body screams to move, my soul needing to be useful. Helpful. Sawyer and Noah should be at Edna’s for a while still, and a glance out the window confirms that the porch, stairs, and walkway here are still covered in snow.
Shoveling will give me a productive outlet for my pent-up frustration, so I detour to my room for a few extra layers and to check in with Tytus.
He doesn’t hear me when I enter, a set of my noise-canceling headphones covering his ears and his focus fixed firmly on the laptop he borrowed, so I rap my knuckles against the door frame loudly to get his attention.
When he lifts his head and pulls down the headphones, I step into the room.
“How’s it going?” I make my way over to my closet and search through the small wardrobe I keep here, selecting a long-sleeve base layer and a well-worn Holt University crew neck.
“Good, just catching up on reading and discussion posts for your class.”
With a snicker, I peer over my shoulder. “Is it weird as fuck to be sitting on your professor’s bed and using his headphones and laptop while doing work for his class?”
Tytus shakes his head, fighting a smile. “When you put it like that…”
I dress, not bothering to turn around or dip into the bathroom. Already, there’s an ease to sharing space with Tytus. In a matter of days, our feelings toward one another have evolved significantly, giving me hope that this dynamic really will work.
“I’m going to grab a shovel and start digging us out,” I tell him as I tug the crewneck on.
He grimaces. “I’d offer to help, but…”
“No explanation needed.” And I appreciate that he doesn’t feel compelled to finish that statement.
We both know why he can’t assist me. “I may be out there a while, but I’ll have my AirPods and phone with me.
Text if you need anything.” I grab a pen and a Post-it from my desk and jot down my number, then hand it to him.
His gaze narrows, like he’s thinking about denying that he could need anything from me. But then he nods, accepts the note, and says, “Will do.”
We stay like that for a beat, staring at each other, a thought that hit me during my own session swirling in my mind, begging to be spoken.
I take a step toward the bed. “Those guys who showed up earlier—the hockey players, and Sawyer’s brother?”
He frowns up at me. “What about them?”
“You’re lucky to have them. It’s clear they care about you, and that’s not something to be taken for granted.”
I brace myself, prepared for him to snap back about not needing unsolicited advice from the likes of me. But instead of rejecting my counsel, he meets my gaze and nods.
“I’m lucky to have you and Noah, too.”
Emotion clogs my throat as his words sink in. This man owes me nothing. It would be reasonable for him to ice me out completely.
Forcing myself to lean into the moment, I dip my chin. “Thank you for saying that. I’m glad you’re here, and I feel lucky to have you, too.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, his focus remaining on me. The two of us stare at each other, silently acknowledging that we’ve carved out a place for one another that extends beyond the bare minimum civility our arrangement requires.
Eventually, I blink a few times and remember why I came in here in the first place.
“This exchange was far more emotionally charged than I expected when I came in to tell you I’m going to shovel. Is this our thing, Tremblay? We’re only nice to each other when no one is looking?”
He smirks. “Nah. We don’t have a thing, prof. Unless you’re still thinking about that time you swiped your fingers through—”
“Enough!” I cut him off, but I can’t fight the grin that blooms across my face. “Text if you need anything,” I remind him before heading out the door.
The reflection of the sun off the white blankets of snow that stretch as far as the eye can see make the world painfully bright as I trek through the knee-high powder toward the barn.
Once I’ve located a shovel and a bucket of salt, I start at the storefront, clearing the porch and the steps, then carving out a path so Edna and any other employees who come in this week can get to the doors.
The snow is wet and heavy, each shovel load requiring a bit of muscle. I savor the pull, grateful for the outlet, and soon fall into a rhythm.
Scrape. Lift. Toss. Repeat.
Snow falls lightly as I work. I’ve lived in Ohio my entire life, and I can’t recall a single snowfall this prolonged or intense in mid-November. I can only hope it isn’t an indication of what the coming months will bring. Although I certainly don’t mind being snowed in with my girl.
But as revolutionary at the last few days have been, I’m eager to get back into a routine, certain that a return to the familiar will settle my nerves.
Once I’ve cleared the storefront, I work on the path that leads to the house. The individual stone pavers are slick beneath the snow, so I opt to shovel a path through the grass.
I work all the way up to the stairs, taking care to clean off each step, repeating the process—scrape. Lift. Toss. Repeat—only pausing occasionally to catch my breath and change the song on my playlist.
I start on the right side of the porch, optimistic that I can get it done before Noah and Sawyer get home.
Scrape. Lift. Toss. Repeat.
Scrape. Lift. Toss. Crack.
I feel it before I hear it.
And fuck, do I hear it, despite the music blaring in my ears.
My center of gravity plummets, my heart leaping into my throat as I flail, the ground disappearing beneath me.
I land flat on my back with an “oof,” the air whooshing out of my lungs. I’ve yet to regain the ability to breathe when there’s another creak and a loud crash, followed by a shower of snow and debris.
My shock is short-lived, quickly giving way to pain.
White-hot, searing, unbearable pain.
My right arm is stuck over my head, twisted at an unnatural angle and pinned down by a wooden beam.
Jesus H.
I try to pull free, but even the slightest movement sends mind-melding pain through my arm, shoulder, and back.
“Help!” I cry out. My voice cracks, and then a sob escapes me.
It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.
Tytus is inside, but he was wearing headphones, so I can’t imagine he’ll hear me, no matter how loud I yell.
But my phone is in my coat pocket. I don’t have his phone number, but there is someone I can call.
Hope rising inside me, I use my free arm to fish out my phone. It takes effort, and even these movements send pain through my shoulder, but eventually I pluck it out and unlock it.
Mercifully, she answers on the first ring.
“Hey!”
I grit my teeth. “Sweetheart, don’t panic. But I need help.”
A heavy moment of silence follows. All the while, I grit my teeth, trying so damn hard not to cry out and alarm her.
“What? What happened?”
The line between us gets muffled, then Noah’s there.
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
I inhale deeply through my nose and focus on keeping my voice steady through the pain.
“The porch. It cracked, I think. I fell through. I’m stuck.”
A sorrowful snarl comes through the line.
“We’re leaving right now.” He grunts. “It may be fifteen or twenty minutes, though. The roads aren’t as cleared as I had hoped. Should I call EMS?”
No.
Just the thought makes my gut twist painfully.
Under no circumstances do I want to create a scenario in which Noah pulls up and finds emergency response vehicles scattered around the orchard.
“Don’t. I’ll be fine until you get here. But have Sawyer call Tytus and warn him. He’s still inside. Tell him not to come out here. It’s not safe.”
He agrees, and when I’m sure the line is dead, I cry out in blinding pain.