“Ava, stop,” Maggie said, voice calm and gentle, right before the men stepped into the kitchen, the two of them making the room seem inadequate, like these flimsy walls couldn’t possibly contain both them and their aggressions in such a small space. They were talking about bikes, were even smiling, but Ava could feel the undercurrents, taut lines of threat and suggestion.
They sat down across from one another. Mercy linked his hands on the table and waited, a show of respect as Ghost made the first reach for the food.
Maggie made a sharp gesture Ava could only take to meansit down, and complied with hesitant movements as her mom settled in on the opposite side, bringing out her brightest, most convincing fake smile.
“I would have planned the menu better if I’d known we would have company,” she said, taking a roll and passing the basket.
“So you woulda made better food for a guest than you would have for me,” Ghost said.
“Yep,” Maggie said, without a trace of apology.
“It looks good,” Mercy said, before Ghost could fuss anymore.
Ava accepted the potatoes as her dad passed them to her and selected a small one. Ghost regarded her without expression a moment.
“You feeling alright?”
“Fine,” she said through a tight throat.
“You look sick.”
“Nah, she looks alright,” Maggie said. “Just tired, right, babe?”
Ava nodded.
Ghost pulled a sour face. “Tired. Yeah. That’s one word for it.” He sent a discontented look across the table to Mercy.
“I think she looks gorgeous,” Mercy said.
Maggie smiled down at her plate.
Ava felt her cheeks warm, just like she felt the fast rush of Mercy’s fingers gliding down her thigh under the table, a brief touch of comfort and reassurance.
Ghost grunted to himself.
“So Merc,” Maggie said, voice too loud, plowing ahead with shoveled-on cheer. “Have you found a place yet?”
He made a face as he cut into his chicken. “Nah. Haven’t really had a chance to look for one.”
“Plenty of time for other things, though,” Ghost said.
They ignored him.
“Your old place is available, above the bakery,” Ava said, before she could catch herself. For a fleeting second, she let her mind go back there, to his cozy little spot with the paperbacks on the shelves and the lamplight falling in buttered puddles across the old boards. She allowed herself to envision him, barefoot, in jeans and old thin undershirt, one leg hooked over the arm of his chair while he read Tolstoy with the cover folded back, the look of easy concentration on his face that transformed him from biker to inquisitive student. He liked to learn things; that trait was sexier than all the tattoos and the motor oil and calluses.
She gave herself a shake, banishing the memories, and saw Mercy studying her, a faint spark of wonder in his dark eyes. He’d let his thoughts wander down the same path hers had taken, she realized. He’d thought of the old place and he’d hoped, for a moment, that maybe the rooms above the bakery were a sign being handed to them. A chance to start over, go back to what they’d started, without those awful five years in between; without the devastation of his leaving.
“Ronnie looked at it,” she said, forcing her eyes down to her plate. The chicken was giving off this heady olive oil and wine smell, the potatoes sending curls of white steam up to whisper against her face. “When he was shopping, he went by and saw it. It might not be available still. That was last week.” Why couldn’t she stop talking? The words just kept coming, waiting for someone else at the table to cut her off. “It’s a nice little place. Not that expensive. Someone probably snapped it up already. It–”
“I can call the agent,” Mercy said, his tone gentle, like he knew she was stumbling. “I’ll do that in the morning.”
“Well, if it’s gone, you can find something else for a steal,” Maggie chimed in. “This is a buyer’s market. Who knows” – her voice gained a note of excitement – “maybe you could afford an actual house. There’s this place” – she gestured at Mercy with her knife, little drops of wine sauce slinging down onto the tabletop – “not two streets over, and it has the cutest little front porch. It’s been on the market for a long time and–”
“Mags,” Ghost cut in. “Stop.”
She lifted her brows, questioning the interruption.
“Merc has a lot of shit to get straightened out before he starts buying houses. Right?” Awful, chilly smile across the table.
