Page 164

Mercy nods. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. I'll get my things too.”

“I'll come with you.”

I almost tell her I can do it myself. Normally I would.

Tonight I am tired of proving I can survive everything alone.

“Okay.”

Mercy squeezes my hand.

We sit quietly for a while.

Outside, the festival keeps roaring. Music. Engines. Laughter. Somewhere, Boogie gets a microphone again despite all available evidence that this is a bad idea.

Inside, I stare at my pink shoes.

Bitter liked them.

That thought hurts too.

Everything hurts. His coffee cup and terrible toast. My repaired car lock. His hand hovering instead of touching. His stupid couch. The way he looked at Mama’s photograph. The way he said no other women.

The way he looked me in the eye today and made me feel like believing him had been my mistake.

Maybe that is the part I cannot forgive.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The cheating hurts. Seeing him with Trixie feels like somebody cut something open inside my chest and forgot to close it.

But the thing that keeps twisting the knife is that Bitter could have admitted he was scared. He could have said he fucked up. He could have told me last night was real and that real terrified him enough to make him burn it down.

Instead, he made me carry the embarrassment.

Told you what I was, sunshine.

As if I hadn't listened.

As if I had invented promises he never made.

As if I was some foolish woman who wandered into his bed, mistook sex for love, and got hurt because she wanted too much.

I didn't want too much.

I wanted what he agreed to give.

Nothing more.

My throat closes again.

Mercy notices.

“You don't have to decide anything tonight.”