Annabel Lee looks like she might say something, but then she just shrugs. “Whatever works for you,” she says to Mercy. “I won’t pretend to understand, but if you’re happy, and they’re happy, I can’t talk shit. Hell, I’m still single, so who am I to judge? I can’t find a boyfriend or a girlfriend, let alone three.”
“Four,” Mercy mutters.
“And that’s why you don’t have a boyfriend,” Manson says to my cousin. “Mercy’s dating them all.”
They all laugh, and Heath reaches for the dip.
“We’ll take Jekyll up to the room and get him situated,” I say, since the cat has decided to take a nap in my arms. I turn to Saint. “You coming?”
We step out into the hall, and he pulls the door closed behind me.
“You could have stayed too,” I say quietly.
“I’m not bi, though,” he says. “I like girls. And Heath.”
“There’s your t-shirt slogan,” I joke as we head up to Mercy’s room.
“She should live with one of us,” Saint says as I open the door and check her room. “The Sinners are still on campus. Or they will be when Sinners Tower opens again.”
“If it isn’t condemned this time,” I say.
“Still,” he says. “I have a single suite. There’s plenty of room.”
“I see how it is,” I say. “You’re trying to have her all to yourself.”
“No,” he says, scowling. “I wouldn’t make her give up the people she loves for me.”
“And you wouldn’t give up Heath for her,” I say, nodding. “Just know, if she’s living there, you’re going to have all of us in your room all the time. You can’t be a grumpy bastard and sulk by yourself anymore.”
“I’ve had enough of being by myself,” he says. “Now let’s get her stuff moved.”
As I start to pack up her things, her handmade throw blankets and velvet pillows and threadbare teddy bear, each one a perfect representation of Mercy and all that she is, my heart swells with love for her. I think it might explode if I get any happier. I always wanted a love like my parents have, and I think I found it. It might not look like theirs, but it looks like mine.
Like Mom said, I found someone worthy of loving, who loves me the way I want to be loved. She lets me rest, lets me get away from the dark stuff I’ve had to deal with all my life. With her, I don’t have to be a tough gangster. I can be fun, can joke around, can love her with all I have, without her thinking I’m a pussy. She’s my rest, my reprieve, the soft to my hard.
Not only that, but she lets me feel safe to be soft sometimes too. She’s always happy to lay back and let me spoil her rotten, and she’s always appreciative when I give until she can’t take anymore. And when I want a turn, she’s eager to give back. She’s cozy like her room, nurturing and good and pure of heart, even when we defile her body in the most delicious ways.
I’m lucky I grew up with the example I did. But even though I’ve always had a home to go back to, and it’s hard to top what I saw there, Mercy ismyhome. She’s made a home for me in her heart, a heart big enough to hold not only me but all the members of the family she made, the family we all choose.
epilogue
The Merciless
“What’s this?” I ask, tugging at the locked drawer in Angel’s desk. We’re in his room, cleaning it out on the last day of school.
“That’s my secret stuff,” he says.
“Like a vibrator?” I ask, since Manson and Annabel Lee told me that’s what “normal” people keep beside their beds.
“Never needed one of those,” he says, coming over and unlocking the drawer. “Pack it up, little mama.”
I open the drawer and know immediately that he’s sharing with me his most treasured possessions. I gently lift out his Bible, creased and worn from years of use. My breath catches as I see the bracelet. He told us he still had it, but I didn’t quite believe it. It’s a little worn, a little dirty, but nothing like the ragged strings that remain from my brother’s. Angel’s looks like he took it off one day after wearing it for a year or two, and then he saved it. I like that he knew it was meaningful back then, but he wore in to honor our bond until Eternity was gone, and our bond was broken.
But it never really broke. I know that when I lift out his cross necklace and turn it over to see the same word etched in mine—SHAME. Maybe it’s time I put mine away in a drawer too. Like he said of his tattoo, we’re shameless now.
“And this?” I ask, pulling out a dusty red curl secured with a lilac ribbon.
“That’s a lock of your hair from your first haircut,” he says, like that isn’t a revelation.
