The Reality of Wright and Wrong

by Leddy Harper

  “You’re still planning to move there? Even though I came back to Ohio?”

  She regarded me with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. “We both know you aren’t staying here. Your future’s with Wrong. I’m entertaining your cold feet at the moment, but don’t, for one second, think you’re gonna fool me.”

  “And what if he decides his future is somewhere else?”

  “The only way that’ll happen is if you already live somewhere else.”

  I wondered what it would be like to have as much faith as she did.

  “Mercy…” She set the sandwich down and shifted on her feet to face me. “You’ve barely spoken to the guy. Honestly, how much longer are you going to drag this out? It’s apparent from his posts on Wrong Inc’s page that he’s miserable. Throw the man a bone.”

  I glanced at my phone that sat on the counter in front of me. She was right. I’d resorted to stalking his page over the last seven days rather than talk to him, because even a simple text was too much to handle.

  “What are you waiting for? How do you possibly expect to find out that he’s in love with you if you don’t give him a chance to tell you?” Again, Stella made a valid point. Maybe all this yoga and meditation had started to work in her favor.

  “Nothing’s stopping him from telling me how he feels. He knows that’s what I need to hear, considering I’ve asked him a dozen times if he loves me. This would be the time to admit it if that’s how he truly felt. Unfortunately, his silence is speaking a thousand words right now.”

  “Nothing’s stopping him? Did you really just say that? How about the fact that you won’t talk to him? Or possibly the fact that you up and left him without so much as a goodbye?” It was clear whose team she was on. And it wasn’t mine. All she was missing was the T-shirt. “In case you weren’t aware, guys are just as insecure about their feelings as we are—even the most alpha male of them all. Not to mention, after all he had to go through with his ex-wife, can you blame him for guarding his heart around a woman who can’t seem to make up her mind if she even wants to be with him?”

  Hearing that was roughly the equivalent of being hit by two freight trains barreling at me from opposite sides. It crushed me. And the worst part was…I somehow hadn’t seen it coming. “How could I be so stupid?” I asked—not seeking a reply—as I dropped my head into my hands.

  “I’ve wondered the same thing since the first time you questioned your relationship with Wrong. I mean, come on, Best Friend. It’s Wrong Daniels. He’s not the kind of guy you walk away from. I knew that before I ever met him and realized he’s the epitome of Prince Charming meets Adam Levine.”

  I separated my fingers to glare at her without removing my hands from covering my face. “What would I do without you, Stella?”

  “Walk away from the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “But for real…you can’t let this drag out forever. And if he can’t admit he loves you right now, give him time. While I understand you guys are married, you really haven’t been together that long. And if you think about it, you spent half that time debating if you should stay or leave. You can’t blame the guy if he hasn’t gotten there yet.”

  “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

  “Royally.” She laughed, which made me look at her. “But I doubt it’s too late.”

  Stella took her sandwich and went to the couch, leaving me in the kitchen alone with my phone. I’d decided it would be best to send a text, but at the moment, I wasn’t sure what I needed to say. Realistically, I only had to make him respond. It didn’t need to be anything poetic or deep. All that could be saved for the phone call. Right now, I only needed to type out a message.

  So what did I do? Went to Google to pull up his shop’s page.

  The very last post caught my eye and made me pay attention.

  Two broken parts of the same,

  Two fragmented halves,

  Can love grow in the fractures of souls?

  Can devotion consummate the shattered hearts?

  Can tenderness bind the two to one?

  Can I become we?

  Can we become mercy?

  My vision slurred. Then blurred. And for the first time in over a week, the tears that poured out of me weren’t born in pain. They didn’t come from feelings of loss or confusion. Instead, my chest swelled with pride. Butterflies took flight in my stomach. A smile stretched across my face, and utter happiness filled every crevice, every hole, every ounce of me at the acknowledgment of Brogan’s words on his site for the whole world to see.

  This was a part of him he’d refused anyone access to—except me. It was his secret. And now, not only was it out there like graffiti on the side of a building, but he’d done it for me. He’d written that piece for me. It was impossible to ignore the love he’d poured into that.

  I had no idea how long I stood there, reading his distorted words through the blur of tears. I wanted to memorize them. Score them into my shattered heart. Breathe them into my fractured soul. But just as I had locked the first line into my memory, the phone was ripped from my hand.

  “Don’t.” Stella had come out of nowhere. Her voice was harsh, stern. No-nonsense. She held my cell against her chest and silenced me with her hard stare. “Talk to him before you start making assumptions. Hear him out. But above all else, give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. Confusion held my tongue while I stared at her, waiting for more information. Anything to let me know what she meant by that. And why she’d taken my phone.

  Finally, she handed back the device, yet before letting it go, she added, “I mean it, Mercy. Wipe those tears away and go into it with an open mind. Think positively. Trust that there’s an honest and reasonable explanation. Got it?”

  When I nodded, she released the phone, but she didn’t leave the kitchen. Instead, she took a step back, crossed her arms, and regarded me while I unlocked the screen. She’d seen something bad, something that would hurt me, and she had assumed I’d seen it, too. She’d taken my tears as pain, rather than happiness. To her, I was full of doubt, when really, his post had flooded me with hope. Which only left me with the question…what did I miss?

  I pretended to send him a text, for no other reason than to get her off my back and buy myself some time to look into the cause of her concern. After tapping on the screen to mimic the formation of a message, I put the phone in my back pocket. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “What did you say?”

  I should’ve expected her to ask that. Yet I didn’t. Meaning I had to come up with something that wouldn’t make her question anything or catch on to what I was doing. “I asked him to call me when he had a minute to talk.”

  “That’s it? No. Give me your phone. You suck at being you; I’m so much better at it. He might take that the wrong way and think you’re going to end things with him. Then he won’t call you.”

  I shoved her arm away. “You’re being ridiculous. Even if he does think that, it won’t stop him from calling me. This is Brogan we’re talking about here. He’s not a coward.”

  Thank God that worked.

  “You’re right. Very well then…let me know when he calls. I wanna be there when you talk to him to make sure you don’t mess this up for us—I mean, you.” She flashed her typical shit-eating grin and went back to the living room.

  Needing more privacy than her small kitchen offered, I told her I’d be in the room getting ready for the day. There was a chance that wouldn’t keep her out, but at least I knew she’d knock before coming in. And to add another layer of security, I locked myself in the bathroom, putting two doors between us.

  As I sat on the edge of the tub, I pulled up Google, knowing that would be the quickest and easiest way to get an idea of what she’d seen. Whatever it was, it seemed Stella had stumbled upon it, which told me I wouldn’t have to do much digging to find it.

  And I was correct.

  My answe
r was on the first page of news that the search engine believed I’d want to see.

  “Wrong Daniels’ Ex Comes Back to Stake Claim After News of His New Marriage”

  It wasn’t news to me that Jessica had returned to town—I’d seen her at the bar the night before I took off. However, the picture of the two of them together was what surprised me. It wasn’t from the bar, or even that night. It was from his shop. During the day.

  Which meant he’d seen her at least twice.

  Stella’s voice ran through my head, reminding me that I can’t trust everything on the internet. And while I knew that to be true, it didn’t stop the doubts that lingered in the back of my mind. Eventually, those doubts left me questioning the reason for his lyrics on his page. The ones he’d written for me. The ones that now felt more like guilt than a declaration of love.

  I clenched my teeth and searched for other articles that might lend some insight into her presence and how often they’d seen each other. But the more I found, article after article, picture after picture of the two of them together, as well as only him, the more I began to wonder if this had been going on behind my back all along. There was no way this had all taken place over the last few days.

  “Wrong Daniels Distraught Over Having to Choose Between Women”

  “New Wife Gives Wrong Ultimatum”

  “Jessica Daniels: I’ve Never Stopped Loving Wrong”

  My stomach couldn’t handle seeing any more. The images of Brogan and Jessica at lunch, holding hands while walking through a parking lot, and secret kisses shared behind the window of his shop, left me on my knees, hugging the toilet while I expelled everything I’d eaten since last night. And when there was nothing left, I pressed my cheek to the cold porcelain and just cried.

  I was fully aware how stupid I was acting; how wishy-washy I had been. Yet I couldn’t seem to switch off the emotion long enough to change it. I couldn’t stop the agony from ripping me apart in order to accept the truth. The pain was physical, as if my body was literally being pulled in different directions. My heart one way. Brain another. Neither willing to concede or compromise.

  While I knew there was a possibility that he’d realize Jessica was the one he wanted, I guess I’d held on to the hope that he would choose me. That he’d recognize what we had together and never want to give that up. After all, this was the whole reason I’d left to begin with—so that we could both come back together without an ounce of doubt that we were meant to be.

  It was a risk.

  I’d taken a gamble.

  In the end, I was left with the losing hand.

  24

  Brogan

  One day without Mercy was like a lifetime without a beating heart.

  Multiply that by three, and that was where I was.

  I’d spent more time with a notebook and pencil in my hand since she’d left than I ever had before. While I had always written, it had never been a constant part of my life. Most of the time, I’d jot things down or scribble out a few thoughts when I needed to get something off my chest, but never this much.

  When my marriage to Jess ended, I had no desire to pen a single word. When Mercy came into my life, there were moments I needed to express my feelings toward her, and that was the only way I knew how since we hadn’t reached a point where either of us were ready to be that open with the other. But ever since she left, I hadn’t been able to stop pouring my heart onto the pages of my tattered notebook. Filling the lines with the anguish, sorrow, loss, and love I felt for her.

  My days were filled with ink and skin.

  While my nights were reserved for lead and paper.

  It was a good thing I had already declined another season on the show. After filming me sitting around like a lost boy for days, I doubted the producers were even interested in another season. This time wasn’t like the last. Rather than turn into the playboy that increased the show’s ratings, I grew quiet. Reserved. Locked within my own head while the world went on around me.

  Honestly, I didn’t know if they’d have enough to fill the proper number of episodes without the viewers watching me stare into space week after week. It was a good thing the others in the shop lived dramatic lives that would appease the viewers. I just didn’t have it in me to give anyone what they wanted.

  Anyone but Mercy.

  And all she wanted was space to make sure we weren’t a mistake.

  My phone chirped from my pocket as I sat on the stool at the front desk. Normally, I would’ve ignored it, but now, every alert became more important than anything I might’ve been in the middle of, just in case Mercy had decided to reach out. And, as if the heavens had grown tired of my pleas, her name appeared on my screen.

  I held up one finger to the client in front of me, who had come in to discuss a design he wanted me to do on his back, so I could open her text and see what she had to say. There was no telling how long this would take, but I didn’t care. He wasn’t here for a tattoo anyway, only to discuss the design so that I would be prepared for his appointment. He could wait.

  Mercy: Do you know what a painite is?

  Her question took me by surprise. There was no greeting, no how are you. Just a question about a word that made my heart stop. Not because I knew what it was, but because the first four letters spelled pain, and it worried me that she might’ve seen the latest drama on the internet and actually believed it. However, rather than assume my fears were correct—which would only make me sound guilty even though I wasn’t—I decided to answer her question and leave it at that.

  Me: No. What is it?

  Her response was immediate.

  Mercy: A gemstone. It’s apparently the rarest one.

  Following her explanation, a photo came through. It was of a stone, bloodred in color with bursts of crimson that shone through with the help of a light source I couldn’t see from the image. While it did resemble a few other red-colored gemstones, I had to admit that I’d never seen it before.

  However, that didn’t explain her reason for asking.

  Me: Looks nice. Have you been shopping?

  I even added a smiley face at the end, just in case she didn’t detect my teasing tone. But the small amount of humor that had bubbled to the surface during our brief chat on jewelry quickly faded when her next message came through.

  Mercy: No. I read your poem this morning. The one you posted on your page. And then I saw the pictures of you and your ex. It made me want to write something. I’m not as good with words as you are, but I understand now why you like to express yourself with poetry. It’s easier to put your feelings into a metaphor.

  Without waiting for a response, she sent me a long message. After seeing the length of her text, I glanced up at the client in front of me, the one who continued to wait with patience. And with a forced smile, I excused myself, fully expecting him to be gone by the time I returned.

  Behind the closed door of my studio, I sat on my stool and began to read her words. Her pain. Her fears and acceptance. And all the while, my heart fissured. Splintered. Broke into a thousand pieces that held on until the end. The pride I felt with the way she spun her lyrics into an image of longing and loss leaked between the cracks. Spilled over into my chest. Drowning me. Leaving me gasping for air—for hope that this wasn’t a goodbye.

  Reading her words felt a lot like reading my life in simile.

  There were the moments of moving from one woman to the next. Then a part about being found by someone special, someone who cared for me. Until one day, she didn’t. I had worried that person was meant to portray her, until I continued reading. Until I got to the part about the woman putting me aside, forgetting about me. While she still could’ve referred to herself, I doubted it. For there seemed to be too much pain for me in those words.

  Then the woman—whom I assumed to be Jess—had tossed me aside.

  It was what came next that left me choking on the shards of my heart.

  Lost. Moving from one place to the next. Waiting. Waiting
. Waiting to be found. To be taken home. To be loved and cherished again. To be worn by her again.

  The heavens cried. Their tears carrying you away until the tides found you. The current picked you up, cradled you, and sent you on a journey.

  I, too, was on a journey of my own when you washed up on my beach. At my feet. Practically in my lap. I saw you. I knew you—your value and worth.

  With you in my hands, I smiled. I laughed. I danced and I sang. I felt like I had been found. Like I had been looking for you, Painite, all my life.

  Yet we both knew that happiness would only last a moment—a brief moment. For you weren’t mine...never were. I wasn’t a thief; I should not have taken something that wasn’t mine to begin with. So with an aching heart, I set you back out to sea. Back on your way to the one you want more than me.

  The surf lapped at my ankles like hands, desperately trying to drag me to you. Yet I didn’t move. Didn’t budge. I stood at the edge, feet buried in the sand for ten thousand lifetimes. Crying ten thousand tears. Begging. Pleading. Hoping and praying you’d come back.

  But you never did.

  The rare ones never do.

  I composed myself long enough to stand up. And then I ran out the back of the shop, not caring in the slightest about returning to work.