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Bad decision.

The workshop comes back immediately. Red hair spilling over dark satin. Bitter between Trixie’s thighs. His hips moving. Trixie seeing me. Bitter turning around.

Then the part that somehow hurts worse.

Told you what I was, sunshine.

I open my eyes again.

The ceiling fan has not improved.

Neither have I.

There is a soft knock on the door.

“Sugar?”

Mercy.

“I’m awake.”

The door opens slowly, and she enters carrying coffee in one hand and a plate in the other.

“You brought food.”

“You cried about pulled pork for twenty minutes last night. I figured breakfast required supervision.”

“I did not cry for twenty minutes.”

“Twenty-three.”

I sit up, my face feeling tight. “Was there a stopwatch?”

“Emotionally.”

She hands me the coffee, and I take it.

“Thank you.”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“Good. I made biscuits.”

I look at the plate.

Two biscuits. Eggs. Bacon.

“You don’t respect language either.”

“Not before nine.”

I take the plate because arguing with Mercy before caffeine seems like self-harm.

She sits on the edge of the little chair near the window and, for a few minutes, lets me eat without talking. I appreciate that more than I can say.

The guest room is exactly what I would expect Mercy’s guest room to be if somebody forced me to guess. Floral quilt. Antique dresser. Black lampshade. Anatomical heart print above the bed. A ceramic hand holding rings beside a Bible. There is also a framed photograph of Mercy twenty years younger standing beside a hearse with one boot on the bumper and her middle finger raised.