Page 62 of Begging for Mercy
Sam
Mercy ignores allof my phone calls and texts over the next week. I go to her house, but her father won’t let me in. I leave hand-written notes on her car windshield and fold a few into paper planes that get stuck on her roof, but they all go unanswered. The seasons change quickly, and apparently so does my relationship with my best friend.
I may have royally fucked myself over by turning her down for sex.
So much for proving to her how much she means to me. She won’t even give me a chance. My only saving grace is that Grandma Star has been keeping track of Mercy’s medication for me. Every time I stop by the house, she tells me how many pills are left.
That’s the one good thing to come out of that night. Mercy’s taking better care of herself.
Football practice helps give me an outlet for the turmoil inside my heart, but even that is short-lived. The season is nearing its end, and we only have one or two more games before that’s gone, too. Classes for this semester will be over, breezy fall will turn to chilly winter, and I’ll spend another holiday season hopelessly alone. Truthfully, I’ve been attendingthe Morningstar Holiday Banquet every year, but if I don’t patch things up with Mercy, I doubt I’ll be invited unless Grandma Star throws me a bone.
Her father sure as shit won’t invite me after what happened the other night.
Blowing out a breath, I kick an empty can down the curb as I walk from campus back to the frat house. It’s only a few blocks, no big deal. But I walk the same path that Mercy and I took when we went to Papa Joe’s Pizzeria and she first told me about Reaper’s stupid game, and my mind drifts back to her for the millionth time.
I miss my friend.
Reaper better be keeping his hands—and every other appendage—to himself. I’ve texted Mercy to ask about that, too. If she’s keeping up with them. If she’s seen them. If they text her.
I already know the answer, but I want to hear it from her.
After I left her house the other night, I had Grey connect her call log and messages to my phone so that I can make sure she’s safe. When I’m not on the practice field or running drills, I’m glued to my screen to check on her. She doesn’t call or text people often, and what little has passed between her and Reaper has been mild at best.
KANE
Good morning, Siren.
Thinking of you, beautiful.
When are you coming to class? I can’t cover for you forever.
Surprisingly, even Zane has been messaging her… And I happen to agree with everything he’s saying. It’s a knife to the heart that she’s texting them instead of me, but maybe that’swhat I deserve. Maybe I got too comfortable with the idea of being with Mercy that I didn’t give her any other choice.
Maybe she genuinely only want to be friends.
Zane
Just tell him that you’re sorry.
You are sorry, right?
Even if you’re not, is it worth all this? You’re backsliding.
Hey, answer me.
Did you take your meds?
You’ve been sitting for two hours. Time to stretch.
It’s like he’s watching her twenty-four seven. I itch for the same unfiltered access. I want to know when she sleeps. Was it enough? Does she need more? Did she skip breakfast again, or did Grandma Star bring her scrambled eggs and toast with strawberry jelly? Is she getting enough steps in every day, or does she sit in her room with a pencil tucked behind her ear? Has she showered this week, or is she lying in bed crying?
The worst part of all is knowing that if something’s wrong—if she’s sad or lonely or spiraling into a bout of depression—I’m the one to blame. I can’t even fix it, because she won’t let me. If Reaper or Zane gets close to her, it’s my fault for breaking the door off its hinges and giving them a clear path to get to her.
I’ve been so focused on the physical part of our relationship and making her feel like my girlfriend that I took what we had for granted.
That’s on me. But it doesn’t make watching her befriend the enemy any easier. Ihatethat they’re winning.
“This is stupid,” I yell, kicking the can so hard that it skids across the road, tumbling to a stop in front of a sorority house. Their yard is immaculate—lush green despite the season change—and I frown at how stupidthatis, too. Everything feels pointless. Even going to class, knowing that it won’t amount to anything if my father snaps his fingers and forces me to start working for the family business, is a chore. Classes used to give me something to focus on other than my impending doom as the sole heir to the Wright fortune and every million-dollar expectation that comes with it.
