Maggie’s garden was, as always, a profusion of seasonal colors as he made his way around the back and to the door off the patio. The sidewalk was flanked with yellow and orange and purple and deep blue flowers he didn’t know the names of. The Harley-Davidson welcome mat awaited the soles of his dirty boots. He would just wipe them, he reasoned; no sense taking them off since he didn’t plan to stay long. The entire walk around to the back door had built an acidic cramp in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to see Ava yet, not after last night. There were only so many more meetings in which he’d be able to spurn her open adoration.
He knocked and saw the sheer curtain flicker at the window: Ava checking to see who it was. When the door opened, he was greeted by the sight of her in one of Aidan’s old outgrown flannel shirts and a pair of black leggings. Her hair was a loose tumble of brown around her shoulders; her feet were bare; in her right hand, a .22 Colt revolver hung limp alongside her thigh.
She set the gun on the kitchen counter as she stepped back and let him come in.
Mercy blinked before he entered and heeled the door shut. He put on what felt like a normal grin. “When did you start answering the door with a gun in your hand?”
“When I was old enough to be left at home alone,” she replied without returning his smile.
There was a pale blankness to her face; she looked tired, yeah, and…something dark and suspicious in her eyes. Wary. She lookedwary. And never before in her life had she shown him anything but bald acceptance and love. But now she had doubts; she didn’t know what to make of him, and that hurt – worse than he expected. Couple that with her blonde footballer, with Ghost’s trust, with Fisher’s killer drugs, with Jasmine’s taunt, with his overwhelming guilt…
Anger cycled through him in hot currents.
“You studying?” He gestured to the open textbooks at the table.
Ava moved to close and stack them, making a place for him to sit, if he wanted.
He sat.
“I can’t afford to fall behind my senior year,” she explained in a flat, uncharacteristic voice.
“Right.” He shrugged out of his cut and jacket and draped them over the back of the chair where he sat. “Bet it’s nice not to have to go into class, though.”
She made a noncommittal sound. “Dad sent you to check on me,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “He thinks I’m going through some sort of late-onset teenage rebellion, and he thinks I’ll tell you all about it.”
He snorted. “Are you?”
“No.” She stepped toward the fridge. “Beer?”
He didn’t like this distant side of her, not even a little bit. She wasn’t supposed to act like a spurned lover, damn it. She was a little girl –hislittle girl. She wasn’t supposed to have hurt feelings, wasn’t supposed to harbor resentment or give him this newly realized cold shoulder.
She brought a six-pack of Michelob in brown bottles to the table and set it before him, taking the seat opposite, folding her hands on the tabletop in front of her.
Mercy uncapped the first beer and took a long pull.
The silence stretched in a nerve-racking way.
Ava stared at him, watchful and judgmental as a cat.
“Rough day?”
Mercy paused with the bottle halfway to his lips. It was his third bottle. Without much thought, he’d slugged down two beers and then opened another. He hadn’t been angry, that’s what he’d told himself. Not even a little bit. He was in good control of that shit these days. He wasn’t some character in a story Ava would write; he didn’t have blazing passions that got the best of his temper.
So why was he slugging Michelob like it was lifeblood?
“Nah.” He forced a smile that felt stiff and set the bottle back on the table, staring at the beaded condensation sliding down the sides so he didn’t have to stare at the way the old worn flannel shirt pulled tight over Ava’s breasts. Not only was he not himself, but he didn’t trust himself, and that was a dangerous state of being. “Just thirsty is all.”
He heard her take a deep breath, and then she said something that absolutely cut him to the bone. “I think you should leave.”
His head lifted at that, eyes finding her delicate porcelain face. She had dark circles smudged beneath her eyes. She looked pale and rattled. And it was his fault.
“Why?” he asked, swallowing.
“Because…” She bit her lip and took a deep breath, the shirt stretching tighter as her chest lifted. “Because I don’t know you anymore, Mercy. And it scares me.”
“I scare you? Me?” He scared every damn body, but not her, not hisfillette. She’d never been scared of him for a second, and that was a safe harbor, he realized now, one that he needed badly.
“No. It’s just–” She shook her head, but she didn’t break eye contact. Her irises were a rich chocolate in the sunlight, same as her glinting hair. Tears welled up in their depths. “You treat me like a child, and you never did that before.”
