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“You can add new parts, baby,” she imagined Maggie saying. “But you can’t lose the parts of you that were already there.”
Ava wondered if anyone ever truly conquered that kind of heartbreak, or if it settled in a person’s bones and flared up at a moment’s notice when the afflicted party came in contact with the original pathogen again. A disease – that’s what it had been like. Not love, but a corrosive sickness.
He was beautiful, in the way that a Doberman was beautiful: better looked at through a fence.
The air shimmered around them, neon with possibility, the chemistry of them this hot, sticky amalgam of complementary metals.
She stroked trembling fingers through Mercy’s hair. She loved his hair, black and slick and too-long. “Felix,” she said, voice a breathless tremor. “That’s enough.” And then she collapsed.
He was too shocked to be angry yet. “I…I had no idea.” “No one did.” Because people saw what they wanted to, expected to, and so rarely what was.
A few brave autumn crickets kept him company, and the moon offered its cold sympathy.
Air from inside came through the door, stirring against her face: a sense of human energy abandoning the place. The ghost of Home leaving to haunt somewhere else.
She was in the mood for something dark and Gothic, some tale peopled by steep-roofed houses and ominous cloud cover.
Yeah, fillette.” He breathed a thin laugh. “I’ll be your god.”
He’d never asked for this, for her ugly compass heart spinning toward a north she couldn’t trust.
Little Ronnie, their secret weapon. Sleeping with the worms beside a broken septic tank.
Mercy was a dark ghost in the stern of the boat, like a gondolier from hell.
“You look like death warmed over,” she said, “but I’m a fucking traitor. Not your concerned wife, no. A fucking traitor.”
You two, your marriage – you have my full support, because I think that might be the only thing to keep her from going off the deep end.” He stood. “So do your fucking part. Get better. Stop sulking. Be her damn husband.”
