Cornerstone (The Mercy Universe #1)

Chapter One

Wendy

October

There are a few embarrassing moments in my life that I can never forget, and most of them involve Atlas.

The first was during our sixth-grade dance at Mercy Ridge Middle School. I felt so pretty in my brand-new white denim skirt and wanted Atlas to think so too.

While our classmates danced, Atlas and I shared our first kiss on the bleachers. That had been the best night of my young life.

Until Atlas and I got up to slow dance, and I heard my classmates laughing behind me.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Wendy, you're bleeding!" My best friend, Taylor, hisses in my ear, her eyes almost comically wide.

Her words confuse me for a moment before I twist to look at my back and gasp. The entire back of my skirt is red. Taylor and Atlas look equally horrified.

I just got my first period, in front of my crush, and in front of the entire sixth-grade class.

I'm frozen in place, not knowing what to do, not wanting to move, while simultaneously wishing to sprint out of the gym, out of the town, out of the country in embarrassment.

Thankfully, Atlas reacts fast and walks behind me, yanking his jacket off while he does.

He snarls at a group of boys laughing and pointing at me.

"Shut up! Don't look at her!"

Even at twelve, Atlas was so sweet and protective of me. I remember how he carefully wrapped his jacket around my waist as he and Taylor guided me to the girls' bathroom. He sat outside the door and barked at anyone walking up, “Use another bathroom!”

Thankfully, Diane, Atlas’ mom, came to my rescue for the first time, but definitely not the last time.

Atlas called her and she brought me a pair of his gym shorts to change into and a box of pads. She sat with Taylor and me in the bathroom and showed me how to use them before driving us home, stopping for ice cream along the way.

"For this, ice cream always helps. Remember that, Atlas!"

Later that week, after Atlas and I had hung out at his house—as boyfriend-girlfriend—she gave me the talk that my own mother thought I was too young to hear.

Anything regarding womanhood or my changing body and hormones, my mother avoided talking about with me like she was ashamed.

There was also the time sophomore year when I tripped and twisted my ankle while running the mile in gym class.

Atlas, with the rest of the sophomore boys, had already finished but then he saw Taylor helping me hobble to the finish line.

I'll never forget how he sprinted toward me, barreling like a bull and parting the sea of sixteen-year-old boys with ease.

Atlas has always been big and tall, solid all over, physically strong from working on house projects or at the garage. He swept me up in his arms and carried me all the way from the football field to the nurse's office without breaking a sweat.

"Hold on, baby," Atlas murmurs against my temple, kissing me sweetly.

Our class hoots and hollers behind us, the guys mock swooning and the girls actually swooning.

Even with the throbbing in my ankle, I couldn't help but giggle at the intense look on my boyfriend’s face, his clenched jaw and brow furrowed in focus.

"You're okay. It's okay, you'll be okay," he repeats over and over, I think mostly to comfort himself.

When we finally get to the nurse's office, Atlas keeps the ice pack on my bruised ankle, glaring at the mottled skin like he's personally offended that it’s causing me pain.

One of the most embarrassing moments of my life was the time my mother found the pregnancy test. I had stuffed it down to the bottom of my wastebasket in my bathroom, but after I started dating Atlas, she'd grown the habit of snooping.

She always thought I was hiding something.

This time, she was right.

She had tracked me down to the local Walmart, where I had been with Diane and Atlas. I still remember the cold dread that washed over me when I saw the rage on her face.

The slap to my face barely registered. That was a standard punishment in our household: a slap to the face, a slap to the head, hit with a wooden spoon, or the nearest object thrown at you.

I hid it from Atlas, knowing he would worry, but she ripped the mask clean off that day.

"What the fuck!"

Atlas roars, pulling me behind him as I cradle my tender cheek. She turned her ring in—something she liked to do when she was feeling really angry.

When I pull my hand away, I see a smear of blood on my fingers.

Atlas notices and sees red.

"Don't you ever fucking touch her again!"

The commotion draws the attention of the other shoppers, the people of our town, who now stop to gawk at the scene.

Shame roots me to my spot behind Atlas as my mother moves to hit me again. She can't reach me behind Atlas’ body shielding me, but her words cut me just as deeply.

"This is the thanks I get for taking care of you?" She snarls, ignoring Atlas yelling at her to back up and Diane trying to yank her away. Her voice echoes through the entire store, "Spreading your legs like a whore and getting knocked up!"

Atlas freezes.

His entire body locks up as her words register and the humiliation makes me lose the battle with my tears. I was planning to tell Atlas that night. I had been trying to find the words to do so all week, ever since I missed my usually very on-time period.

Every time I tried, the what-ifs stole the words right from my throat.

What if he doesn't want this? What if he doesn't want us? What if he’s upset? What if he thinks this baby is ruining his life like I ruined hers?

Atlas turns to me as Diane steps right in my mother’s face, both of them exchanging heated words. His warm hands cup my cheeks, and I meet his soft brown eyes.

"Is it true?"

After a moment of hesitation, I nod, the anxiety choking me as I squeak, "I'm so sorry."

Atlas opens his mouth to respond until Diane's voice cuts him off, her tone calm and measured as she faces down my enraged mother.

"Atlas. Take Wendy out to the car. Now."

My mother looks about ready to explode at that, but Diane leans in and whispers something in her ear that makes her visibly pale.

Atlas wraps his arm around my waist and guides me out of the store, tucking my head into his chest and glaring at anyone gawking, as he brings me to Diane's van. I break into pieces when I’m safe in his lap.

"I'm sorry," I sob into his chest, grasping the front of his shirt in my fists. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Atlas, I—"

"Shh..." Atlas presses kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my eyes, kissing away my tears.

When I pull back to see his face, he doesn't look angry or scared.

He's smiling at me.

"It's okay, baby. I promise, everything will be okay. I love you, okay? I love you so fucking much, Wendy."

He presses his hand to my belly, "And you too."

While those moments were completely humiliating, they were also made bearable by Atlas soothing me, comforting me, assuring me that he loves me.

There’s no Atlas this time.

The clock on the wall ticks, the sound almost mocking as I see that our couple's therapy session was supposed to start twenty-seven minutes ago.

He's still not here.

And I know that he's not going to come.

I texted him. I called him earlier and left a voicemail when he didn't pick up.

The appointment was clearly marked in our shared calendar that I don't think he even looks at anymore. I even put it in the calendar at the garage—the same place I know he looks at every morning, because that's where he sees his appointments for the day.

My mechanic husband is incredibly skilled at fixing cars. He always has been. It's in the Durant blood with three generations of mechanics.

He can easily diagnose complex engine problems, identify the issues, and work patiently to repair them.

If only our marriage were an engine issue.

I am just so, so tired. Mentally, emotionally, physically exhausted and stretched past my limit.

There is nothing left in the tank for me to give.

"Did you want to continue waiting?" Dr. Anderson asks from her spot across from me, her voice gentle and sympathetic.

The look on her face tells me that she's seen this before. I'm sure at this point, I've just become a statistic amongst the other women in failing marriages.

It makes me a little sick to think of the hours I spent researching this doctor on the computer, comparing reviews with those of other couples therapists in a thirty-mile radius, and calling to schedule the appointment.

Not to mention, finding a time that worked for both of us. I took into account our son’s schedules, Diane and Emmett's availability for babysitting, and even Atlas’ work schedule.

I booked the appointment, then rebooked it when Atlas gruffly told me that he had an important client at that time. And then I had to rebook again for today, when that time didn't work for him either.

I stressed to him that I couldn't—wouldn’t—rebook the appointment again. This was important, and I needed him to show up, leaving it unsaid that this was the last shot for us, for me.

My voice was shamefully plaintive this morning when I reminded him.

"It's the campus across from the Target. Dr. Anderson, her office is number 8 and the appointment is at 5," I remind Atlas, smiling as I hand him his lunch bag, which I packed, and a tall thermos of coffee made just the way he likes.

A rush of excitement spreads through me at the thought of the session tonight—hoping, praying, wishing that something good would come from it.

That something could change tonight, and maybe we could take the first step back to us.

"Yeah, I got it," Atlas says, his voice short, his eyes not even looking at me.

I try not to flinch at his annoyed tone as he grabs his coffee and lunch bag from my outstretched hands and rushes out the door.

No kiss.

No, “I love you, baby.”

There's nothing.

I don’t feel like a wife anymore. I feel like the maid, the cook, the mother. I stand in my spot until my son, Liam, walks downstairs.

“Mama, you okay?”