“Orders? Like, for dolls?” Mercy says.
“Yes, for dolls. Do you have time to spare, Coach Meyer? We need all hands on deck.”
“Um, ah, I don’t know how to make dolls.”
“It’s easy. Jack can show you.”
“Dad, I really don’t think Coach Meyer wants to—”
“It would be my pleasure,” Mercy chimes in, setting his helmet on his bike.
“Good. This way.” Dad doesn’t bother waiting for us.
“That can’t be your navy captain dad even though he’s used nautical terminology.”
“Correct. You’ll know the captain when you see him, which is apparently now. Jeez, Merc.”
I scrub my hands over my face. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. He’s definitely not ready for this despite the cocky expression he’s sporting.
“I wasn’t turning him down. That would have been rude.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You couldn’t turn him down, but, oh God … my brothers are here too.” They will try to destroy him.
“I’m from a family of nine children, Jack. I think I’ll be all right.”
The Leslie family is hard at work in Dad’s doll factory otherwise known as his craft room. The captain always looks funny, trying to glue curly raffia onto the head of a doll for her hair. He sticks his tongue out; says it helps him concentrate, and it might be true since an earthquake couldn’t break his focus.
Dad whistles loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Jack and Mercy are here. They’re going to help.”
The captain stands to shake Mercy’s hand. “I hear my son likes you more than a coach.”
“Dad!”
“It’s a simple observation, Jack. As if he doesn’t know, judging by that hickey on his neck.”
My eyes snap to Mercy’s neck. Only the barest hint of it shows above the line of his t-shirt at the bottom of his neck, but leave it to the captain to notice.
Mercy doesn’t bat an eye at the teasing. “Mercy Meyer,” he says, shaking his hand with all the confidence in the world.
It’s a simple interaction, but I’m staring. It’s just like when Mercy’s on the ice, barking drills at the team. The self-assurance bleeds off him. His aplomb movements give calm and relaxed vibes. If he is wearing my hickey—which I’m not even sure he’s seen yet—he’s damn proud to wear it.
I went feral this morning. I’m officially addicted to Mercy, and I don’t know why. It’s terrifying as much as it’s exciting. I can’t pinpoint anything specific. Sure, I could list qualities about him I like. The way his voice lowers enough to send shivers down my spine is in my top five on that list, but it’s not the qualities addicting me. It’s something bigger. It stirs hollowness in my gut when I think about leaving him for five minutes.
That’s dangerous.
If our situationship is going to evolve, I can’t stick to him like I stuck to Rhett. I barely survived Rhett. My intuition tells me I’ll never survive the end of the Mercy and Jack era.
“Okay, okay, enough chit-chat,” Dad says. “Mercy, you can stuff the dolls I sew. Jack, you’re on sew-up duty.”
“Hear that, Jack-Jack?” Damien says. “Your new boyfriend’s gonna stuff dad’s dolls.”
Oh boy. Kill me now.
“Jack knows all about how much I like to stuff things,” Mercy says without missing a beat.
Holy fuck, he’s one of them. Everyone laughs but Dad who’s close to a panic attack, but not because of Mercy’s comment. This must be some doll order. “To work. We can joke around later.”
Guess we’re not getting breakfast this morning.
