Page 7 of Merciless

“Thanks, Charlotte.”

My eyes widened at the gorgeous nurse who entered the room. Charlotte was petite, with soft features and a dazzling smile. The complete opposite of what I had envisioned.

I stood quietly in the corner, watching them banter back and forth as Mum swallowed her pain relief.

Once finished, Charlotte veered for the exit, which immediately filled me with urgency. I hadn’t spoken a word to her. I should at least introduce myself, right?

Stepping forward, I blurted, “I’m Colton… Um, Beth’s son.”

Mum’s grin turned smug, expression gleaming with knowing. “Yes, sorry. Charlotte, this is my twenty-year-old son, Colton.”

Did she have to mention my age?

Charlotte looked me over with staged politeness, and when I offered her a handshake, she left me hanging, intentionally blanking me.

My smile faltered from the rejection—in front of my own mother, no less. Just when I thought I’d hit the peak of my embarrassment, Charlotte raised those creamy brown eyes to mine.

“Unfortunately, I can’t shake your hand, Colton. You see, I’m twenty-four years old. Borderline geriatric. I wouldn’t want to give you Alzheimer’s.”

She’d heard every last humiliating word. With that parting blow, Charlotte winked, then walked out, leaving me stupefied. Mum had no such qualms, raucous laughter rattling from her chest.

To hear that sound from my sick mum filled me with so much joy that the awkward interaction was worth everything.

A light breeze swept through the cemetery, catching on a stray hair that had come loose from Charlotte’s braid.

I caught the flyaway between my fingers, tenderly tucking it behind her ear.

“I’m leaving,” I whispered. I didn’t know why I was telling her. I guessed because I had no one else to tell.

“When?”

“Now.”

“Don’t you have things to sort out? Your mum’s will? Estate? Belongings?”

I shrugged. “Mum didn’t have much. And whatever she did have will go to my dad anyway. I want to make a clean break.”

“Beth always knew you were destined for great things. Even told me about that fancy scholarship.”

“She’s my mother. Of course she’d say that.” I gave a half-smile for the sentimentality. “Thank you, Charlotte. For everything.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were there when no one else was… You’re here now.” I flexed the hand that wanted to reach out and touch her. “Can I hug you goodbye?”

She swallowed, then gave a nod. Accepting her approval, I enveloped her in a crushing hug, the scent of jasmine layering over my skin like a comforting blanket.

When we eventually pulled out of our embrace, Charlotte looked up at me with shining eyes, awareness catching on to my pain. She could see it all. Empathy soon morphed her features. For me.

“Ahh, looks like I contaminated you with my old person’s disease. Side effects may include memory loss,” she said, fake concern coating her voice. “Maybe you’ll leave and forget this place… and not be able to find your way back.”

“Maybe that’s my intention.”

Charlotte raised a finger to catch the single tear running down my cheek—one I didn’t realise had fallen. The first of the day.

“Do what you must to survive, Colton. Healing is not linear or straightforward. If leaving here… If leaving your father is what you need to heal, then I wish you well on your journey.”

Why did talking to that woman, who was a legitimate stranger, feel so pivotal? Why did I sense she had given me the permission I needed to take that first step? To follow the path I was thrust upon?