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Mercy nods toward a stack of disposable paper cups. “Those are emotionally available.”

That laugh hurts worse.

I cover my mouth, and that is all it takes.

My knees give before I make a decision about them. Mercy catches my elbow, and this time I don't tell her not to touch me. She gets me into the staff room and onto the old plaid couch.

I bend forward with my hands over my face.

For a few seconds, nothing comes out.

Then everything does.

Not screaming. Not dramatic wailing. Just one ugly sob that rips through my chest hard enough to make breathing difficult.

Then another.

“Goddamn him.”

Mercy sits beside me. “Yep.”

“I hate him.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“I took him dinner.”

That one destroys me.

I laugh and cry at the same time, which feels medically concerning.

“I took that asshole dinner.”

“I know, sugar.”

“Pulled pork.”

Mercy rubs one hand between my shoulders. “And potatoes.”

“Fried.”

“I know.”

“I put extra on his because he eats like a fucking convict.”

Mercy makes a sound that might be a laugh and might be an attempt not to cry with me.

“And he was fucking her.”

The sentence leaves me raw.

Mercy’s hand stills.

“I saw him.”

“I know.”

“I saw his body moving.”