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Mercer read me, his hand replacing mine.
Cashmere pants soothed the abrasions on my back as my dirty shirt rose up, all caused by the violent thrashing from my restless sleep. The shirt no longer smelled like Mercer. It smelled like sweat and ruin…like me.
Mercer’s fingers moved to my hair, combing through the short length to rid the tangles my nightmare had encouraged. He mollified the twang of pain when his fingers got caught in the length.
A sticky note told me he was sorry. I accepted his apology and note, sticking the latter to the dull wall. There were no colorful notes on this side, but the far wall was almost completely decorated in tiny sheets of green and orange—all messages to me. Mood lifters, he called them, because every time he gave me one, my face lit up a little. I had tried to argue it was the reflection of the bright colors, but his sinful smile always disagreed.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” I quizzed, finally asking the one question I had avoided every time we talked, out of fear that he would tell me, at home, with our kids. My fingers twirled around an individual strand of frizzy hair.
He didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything.
“Does he have her, too?”
I hated to admit that I hoped this creep didn’t have her. That she was nowhere near us because if she came barreling through that door, I would no longer have my comforter.
No. We aren’t together anymore, an orange note answered.
Wish granted.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Mercer didn’t write me another message to say I shouldn’t be. Maybe it was fresh and still painful. I asked no more questions about her, my fingers pulling out a frizzy hair.
I played with the root, the slimy bulb moving over my lips before Mercer tugged the hair from my fingers and shook it from his own. The little hair tried to stick to him but finally fell to the floor, landing upon a small mountain of other hairs I had pulled out while he slept earlier.
That’s bad for you.
You’re hurting yourself.
I stuck the orange note to the wall after squinting to read it. The red crayon, peeled of its paper wrapping and wearing down, didn’t show up as well on this color paper.
“I had a nightmare. They cause stress. Pulling hair soothes my stress levels,” I told him, eager to change the subject.
The way he held me a little tighter than before told me it was my decision if I wanted to talk about the bad dream.
I pushed myself to face away from him, deciding not to traumatize him with the details. Bile rose up my throat over the mere idea of telling him I dreamed of violence and sexual assaults against me...when I, myself, had sexually assaulted him.
Before I knew it, I was being pulled closer to him. His tattooed chest against my ear, the gentle melody of his beating heart, soothed me in place of pulling hair.
My fingers traced the shaded designs. I didn’t ask about their story, our Post-it sheets were running low, and I needed them. Needed them to bring me back to life, with his bad drawings and sweet encouragements, every time my mood slipped. Every time anxiety chipped away at each and every nerve.
It would be so easy to break...if I didn’t have Mercer.
He handed me a little drawing of a fox whose mouth was far too wide, making the poor animal appear far more creepy than cute as it smiled up at me.
“That is terrifying.” I laughed, almost refusing to take it.
His face—jaw dropped and mouth wide—screamed of his offense. He blinked at his work, shaking his head over my opinion and dismissing it entirely.
The freaky portrait made it onto the wall, a centerpiece I couldn’t look at without laughing, despite my surroundings.
I’m offended.
“Me, too. My eyes feel insulted that you showed them that thing!”
He’s cute.
“He is not.” I laughed again, holding his muscled arms and my own ribs, hurting from laughing so hard.
