Chapter Twenty-Six Grant
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grant
She answered on the first ring. “Hi.”
“That didn’t take very long. I figured you’d make me a suffer a bit.”
“The temptation was there, trust me.”
In the background was the sound of a cupboard opening and closing. A faucet turning on and off.
“How was the rest of your day?”
“I reorganized my books. Went for a walk. Met a very chatty neighbor who definitely did not know about my accident, because I got a very detailed update about her dog’s surgery.”
I smiled. “Cindy?”
“If Cindy has curly black hair and incredible veneers, then yes.”
“That would be her. Married to a dentist.”
“Ahh. She’s very friendly. Wanted to know how you’re doing. If you’d be able to come help her next-door neighbor Bernice with a spring clean-out.” Mercy sighed. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her you’d probably never done a day of yard work in your entire life.”
“I beg your pardon! Yes I have.”
She snorted. “Since when?”
“Since owning our very beautiful home,” I said archly. I took a sip of the whiskey in my hand, stretching my legs out in front of me. The Tigers game flickered on the TV screen across the room. They were up four runs to two in the top of the sixth inning. “I find it quite satisfying, to be honest.”
“You mow the lawn?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
I smiled. “Bernice knows the quality of my work. Unlike you.”
“Buddy, I haven’t seen it to make a judgment.” Mercy took a sip of something and swallowed, letting out a small hum. “It’s weird to think how many things about you I don’t know.”
“That just means there’s no end to the ways I could impress you.”
She laughed. She laughed. I had to close my eyes because the sound of it did astonishing things to my poor heart.
“So if I meet Bernice, I should tell her it’s a yes?”
“Depends on how generous you’re feeling. She’s a terrible flirt. Always finding reasons to invite me into her house. Touch me. That sort of thing.”
Mercy made an amused sound. “Should I be jealous?”
“Well, the last time I went to help her was around nine p.m. She called and said there was a raccoon in her garage. When she opened the door, she was wearing a pink lace nightgown and said I could take it off with my teeth if I liked my women more experienced.”
“No.”
“I was quite scarred by what I saw that night.”
“God, how old is she?”
I paused for effect. “Ninety-three.”
Mercy laughed so loudly, so free and unrestrained, so happily that I almost bloody wept.
“Okay, I need more Bernice stories.”
So I gave them to her. From the fake car trouble, when she pinched my ass the moment I looked under the hood, to when she “slipped and fell” in her bathroom and needed me to come lift her up.
When she asked if I could check the pilot light on her furnace, only to greet me with a roaring fire, two bottles of wine, and Fifty Shades of Grey cued up on the TV because she “wanted me to learn something.”
“So why do you keep going?” Mercy asked, voice thick with amusement.
My cheeks hurt from smiling. It was lovely.
“The truth?”
“Please.”
“She’s terribly lonely. Husband number four passed away about a year ago.
None of her kids stayed nearby.” I inhaled sharply before continuing, knowing full well that an honest answer might shift the mood.
“And it makes my wife very happy to help a dirty old woman who doesn’t have any family of her own. ”
For a moment, Mercy was quiet, then she exhaled a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like me.”
“Despite her rigorous attempts to make me husband number five, she does quite adore you.” I sighed. “I forgot to tell her about your accident. I’m sure she would have come for a visit if I had.”
“It sounds like she would have come to visit you if she’d known.”
“Lord,” I muttered. “If Bernice knew you’d forgotten me, that woman would’ve been camped out on our doorstep in nothing but her skivvies.”
“It’s not too late,” Mercy said in a singsong voice. “I could let it slip if you want an in.”
I let out a playful growling sound. “Don’t you dare.”
Mercy yawned.
“Tired?”
She hummed in assent. “Today was . . . a lot.”
“It was.” I finished the whiskey and stared blankly at the baseball game. The Tigers scored again. I reached for the remote and turned off the TV. “How do you feel? After . . . everything.”
“I don’t know.”
She was quiet for a few moments, and I wished I knew where she was sitting. If she was in her office, surrounded by pillows and under one of the thick, plush blankets she loved. Or if she was in our bed, tucked under the blankets. It was good that I didn’t know. That I couldn’t picture.
Removing the distraction of sight was possibly one of the more genius ideas I’d ever had, because she could relax knowing I wasn’t dissecting her every move, every facial expression.
What I wanted, more than anything, was for Mercy to trust that she was safe with me.
That she could take her time—not that she’d ever taken her time with a single thing in her life.
She’d run through a brick wall to reach her destination sooner.
That getting to know me, this version of me, wasn’t a checklist with a deadline.
We were simply going about it from a different angle.
“I think you were right,” she said. “About not coming home tonight.”
“’Tis a heavy burden, always being right, but I carry it well.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I chuckled under my breath.
Mercy exhaled. “I don’t know if I’ve ever made you laugh before.”
“You have.” I closed my eyes. “Many times.”
“Interesting.”
“Quite.” I cleared my throat. “You’ll get used to it. You’re quite funny, you know.”
“Oh, I know that, I just didn’t realize you agreed.”
“Of course. But if I’d shown you that before, goodness, what it would have done to your ego.”
“And now it doesn’t matter because . . .”
“Cat’s already out of the bag,” I said lightly. “I’ve admitted that you’re my favorite person. I can’t possibly inflate your ego more. You’ll be insufferable after this.”
“Probably.” She was smiling. I could hear it. “So we laughed a lot. Before.”
“We did.” I stared at the bottom of my glass. “You more than me, because I’m terribly funny as well.”
“Are you?”
“In a very British way, yes. You find me amusing, at the very least.”
“Well, you were so serious before. It’s hard for me to picture.”
“I laughed at your brother quite often.”
“Not while I was around,” she argued. “Which I think was done on purpose.”
“Perhaps.” I set the glass down on the nightstand next to the bed. “Maybe because I knew it drove you mad that you couldn’t understand what he liked about me.”
“Perhaps,” she mimicked.
I stood from the bed, feeling uncharacteristically tense as I pushed my joggers off, like she might hear the brush of clothes on my skin. Left just in my boxer briefs, I told her I was going to mute the phone in order to brush my teeth.
I clicked the button as I climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over my legs. “All right. Minty fresh.”
She didn’t speak right away, but I could hear her pull in a deep breath.
Eventually, she said, “Thank you for giving me some space. I think I needed it.”
“You’re welcome,” I answered, voice rough. I set my hand on my chest and focused on the drumming of my heart.
“As long as you know I’ll be looking through all your shit while you’re gone.”
“Darling, I expect nothing less.”
Mercy yawned again, then apologized.
“Shall I let you go to sleep?”
“No,” she said quickly, then paused. “I mean, we can keep talking if you’d like.”
I smiled. “I would.”
“I may fall asleep,” she warned. “Not because I’m bored or anything. But I’m in bed and it’s all cozy.”
My chest constricted. “Did you lock the doors?”
“Yes,” she said sleepily.
I wanted to be there. Wanted to be there with her. Whose bloody idea was this?
Separation was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.
She was in bed. Our bed. Under the covers. Nestled into her pillows with a phone wedged to her ear. Her skin would be warm and soft and smell like her soap. Her legs would be bare because she couldn’t abide having them covered when she slept.
My favorite thing to do was curl myself around her back and bury my nose in the nape of her neck while our fingers intertwined over her stomach. Even though we would’ve talked all evening, those quiet moments in bed were somehow better. Sweeter.
The memory could sustain me for days. Which was ironic, of course, because hers were slippery as water.
And for the millionth time, I wished for the power to give her some of mine.
To prove to her that she was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
More than a picture or a story. Something that would validate all this heartbreak. The hardship that seemed to linger.
But it wasn’t possible, was it? You couldn’t show someone tangible proof that the love you shared was real. Pictures and videos and gifts. Letters and texts and memories were all well and good, but they didn’t move the heart. Trust was built with time. With actions.
Which was why I stayed on that phone. We talked about London and what I missed. We talked about sports, arguing for the hundredth time about my football versus hers, but she was pleased to find that I’d fallen in love with baseball. She’d been watching the game too. I knew she would be.
Eventually Mercy did fall asleep, her soft, even breathing the only thing I had left, and for more than an hour, I stayed like that, alone in my hotel room, and when I turned onto my side, a pillow wrapped in my arms, I found myself praying yet again.
Please, I begged. Please, let her come back to me.