Until Dalton Montgomery robbed us of everything. Until the day by the car, and that fucking text, and the sight of her dying on that goddamn floor.
White oak and screams.
But even then, after I rescued her, sat vigil at her bedside, and took care of Jett—who was only an infant—she refused to let me help her through it. Convinced my friend to erase her without my knowledge. And disappeared without a backward glance.
So, even if she knew how I felt then, she doesn’t know who’s showing up tonight.
Champagne and delusions.
Absence changes matters of the heart. Some might say it grows fondness. But in my experience, it breeds obsession.
There has been one recurring thought in my head these last three years:Once I find her, I’ll never let her go.
MERCYALICE
His bushy mustache wiggles over his lips. Well, I hope there are lips under there. Hard to say. He could be hiding loose change. Or a sheepdog.
He’s prattling on about his business endeavors. The street fair around us is hopping with music, fried-food smells, and the roar of the crowd. And I was excited about this.
Kind of.Excitedis strong.Willingis more accurate. He’s attractive enough. But all I can focus on is that damn broom on his face.
Nelly—the one soul in this town who knows I’m not who I claim to be without knowing who that actually is—insisted I take a night toget my rocks off. I’m not very good with idioms, but I got the gist.
And the moons aligned. This guy is only passing through town, a background check assured me he’s safe, and Nelly offered to pick Remy up from preschool and babysit. Plus, it’s been years since I’ve been touched by anyone. Even my vibrator is like a kiddie ride at a subpar arcade. Akin to one of thosecircling planes on wheels with tinkly music—exactly like the boats and cars that do the same thing. No liftoff.
That was the confession I shared with Nelly that scored me this rare rendezvous. Fingers crossed Mustache Man knows how to skydive. Metaphorically. Between my legs.
“So, that sums up what I do.” He grins. “I hope I didn’t bore you.”
“Oh, no,” I lie. “Riveting.”
That wins me a quiet chuckle with a trace of adoration. He’s appeased. I’m thinking maybe we can skip right to the main event. I could be in bed with a book by ten. Satisfied.
But then he pushes me out of our damn plane without a parachute.
“Your turn. Tell me everything. Nelly didn’t give me much information. Just that you were from North Dakota and had been living here for a few years.”
You know how people say they wake up one day and don’t know who they are? They’re full of shit. They’re still them. Same past. Same name. Same education. Same family.
I’m a poorly developed caricature. Nothing is real. Being erased to ensure my son and I weren’t murdered meant giving a lot up.
Namely, everything. My past. My people. My credentials.
My career. Hobbies. Essence.
“We all present ourselves like a window, and those around us have various views into who we are. But none of that negates the profound perspective from the inside.”My father’s wisdom plagues me a lot these days.
What happens when the window shatters and the only perspective left is shards? Who am I then?
So, as we stroll down the street, I spew the concocted story, the memorized tidbits of Alice Kincaid. I’ve mastered how to lead a person to ask the right questions in return. That way, theconversation never ventures into rocky territory. Who says those years in law school were a waste?
Once we cover that, he leads me to an outdoor dining area at one of the restaurants. It’s cute. The patio is lit up, and there’s a girl singing with an acoustic guitar. The town is charming. It just isn’t New Orleans. But no place is. The French Quarter and jazz music, the ghost stories and food. La Lune Noire and …
I knew what I was leaving behind, but I didn’t grasp how devastating the loss would be.
“What’s your preferred cocktail?” he asks, like a perfect gentleman. “Wine, beer, something fruity?”
“I’ll have a glass of Merlot.”
