New to Mercy? Start here with the first chapter
There was a small ceremony when Lacey finished her rehab program. It was meant to be outside, but April showers brought it inside to the small cafeteria of the old building that was somehow both sprawling and cramped. Cracked plastic tablecloths covered the long tables and large-bellied men sat awkwardly splay-legged half under them and half in the narrow path between them. Compared to the number of graduates, the number of family and friends seemed a little scant, especially since 15 of them were there for one kid named Joey. The program director stood behind a music stand, calling for testimonials, of which there were many, rambling but touching. Lacey whispered to Dave that she was too shy to get up there. He was already holding her hand, giving it a squeeze, and told her that was just fine. At the conclusion, the director reminded them that this was a milestone on a lifelong journey and not the end. She assured friends and family that each graduate had a plan for continuing and sustained recovery, outpatient appointments, support groups, and sponsors.
They said goodbye to the friends she had made, took her small bag, and left. Dave kissed her in the car, and she kissed him back. Just like that, the most natural thing in the world. He wanted to say, “Now, then, marry me,” but he didn’t, because he’d read that that wouldn’t be healthy for her now, that he should wait. He did swap their living arrangements, though—he slept at the studio and she lived in the apartment, sharing all their meals, whether around the tiny coffee table or on his studio desk.
One day over their lunch sandwiches—bologna for her, tomato for him, she said, “I’m going to waitress at The Imperial.” As a shadow of fear crossed his face, she added, “It will be fine.”
“You’ll see people you . . . used to know.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Dave didn’t say anything, just stared at his hands in his lap, running one thumb over a knuckle over and over.
“Dave . . . I’ve been an addict for a long time. A really long time. I haven’t gotten to be a grown-up yet.”
When she left for her first shift, Dave said, “I’m proud of you,” and meant it, but he cried when he was alone, feeling like an idiot but woozy with worry. He thought he was ok, looked ok anyway, when he went over to Kim’s kitchen to pay that month’s rent, but she had sharp maternal instincts. She sat him down with a mug of orange and spice tea and said she was thinking about ordering Chinese for supper. Dave sighed while she looked at him knowingly.
“You want to go pick it up?”
“Will she think I’m checking up on her?”
“Maybe, but that’s not necessarily bad. Anyway, I’ll take the blame. And I’ll order a plain white rice with steamed vegetables so she knows you’re coming.” Kim smiled.
“Well . . . ok.”
“Do one thing for me first, though.”
“Oh?” Dave was cautious.
“Call someone on her support team and tell them you’re struggling.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother . . .”
Kim leaned over and tapped the table and said, “Do it. That’s why they’re there. My other thought is . . . how do you think Lacey will feel if she can’t do anything to support herself?”
“I suppose she might feel . . . worthless.”
“Yes. And you know that feeling worthless is particularly dangerous for her, don’t you? Might make her want to self-medicate?”
Dave hesitated. It was so painful to talk or think about this. “Ye . . . yes. I know.”
“She has to be able to live a life. To be the person that she is, apart from drugs, even apart from you. It’s risky, it’s dangerous, there are ways to be smart about it. But she still has to be able to live, or what is there to live for?”
“So do you think she could get married?” Dave asked abruptly.
“Married? I thought we were talking about waitressing.”
“We were, we were. It just made me think about being able to have a life . . . I mean that’s a normal part of life.”
“Yes, it is. I would like to think that’s an option for her, of course.” Kim looked at him inquisitively.
“I won’t ask today, of course not. This is already a big day. I’ll wait and see how the job goes, wait until it’s just normal, that will be . . . I don’t know, maybe three, four weeks?”
“Dave,” Kim said gently, “time.”
So he gave it time. One July day after they had finished their lunch—a fluffanutter for her, plain tuna on a lettuce leaf for him—she sighed and said she wished she didn’t have to leave him to go to work and he knew his time was near. Anytime now.
Monday-morning coffee time had been on the wane for a while now; Isla seemed less available lately, and he wasn’t staying at the house. But one morning Lacey slept in and both Dave and Isla happened to come by. Dave was getting mugs when he saw Kim’s rings on the windowsill. “You’re going to want these,” he said, handing them to her.
“Did you know,” he said when they were settled, “that diamonds are only popular engagement rings because of a heavy advertising campaign in the 40s? Of course, there are some ethical issues with diamonds.”
“No offense, Kim,” Isla added, mockingly.
“No, no . . . of course not,” Dave added quickly.
Isla chattered on about something unrelated, but Kim looked at him closely, and the next time he stopped by alone, she said, “Do you need a ring, Dave?” She didn’t ask any further questions or state her assumptions.
“Um, well . . .”
“I have some I don’t wear. Not diamonds, of course. Not anything fancy. But some of them are pretty. This one is called a fire opal.” The vibrant stone was set between two hearts.
“I think . . . I think she’d like that a lot actually. How much do you want for it?” he asked anxiously.
She was about to say, “Nothing, I don’t wear it” but stopped. There was something in having paid for the ring, after all, wasn’t there? So instead, she named the lowest plausible price.
“Is that enough?” he questioned.
“Plenty.”
“That would be great, then. Only do you think she’ll mind about it not being a diamond?”
“I’m sure it will be fine. It will be special for the two of you.”
“I hope so.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know. Soon. Maybe tonight?”
“Eager, huh?” Dave blushed.
He took Lacey to the rec and stood beside the river. It was fairly deserted and late, after dark, because he had had to wait until she could get out of work. They could hear the water lapping on the rocks, and he got down on one knee.
“Ohmigawd,” she laughed, “I didn’t know anyone actually did that.” But her startled giggling subsided and her face went soft as she realized he was in earnest.
Dave smiled and opened the ring box, “I hope you like it, it’s not a diamond. I did see one on Craigslist for . . .”
“It’s beautiful. I don’t want some ring from people who broke up.” He put it on her finger. “It’s perfect.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
Later, as they sat on the sand, his arms tight around her, making plans, she said, “I didn’t think this was for people like me.”
“You’re not a kind of person,” he said, kissing her head, “you’re Lacey. And I love you.”
“You’re crazy. And I love you.”
They somehow slipped in and out of the clerk’s office without meeting Isla. Dave supposed he would have explained that they were there for a marriage license if he had run into her, and he wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to. She probably wouldn’t like it. He didn’t want black marks on this sweet time of his life. They’d decided to keep it very private. Dad was coming up, of course. He was delighted. He’d had a soft spot for Lacey from the very first. Dave asked Lacey about her family coming, and she said, “We’ll do something later with everyone. I’m not ready for all that.”
After their vows, they went back to Kim and Phil’s. When Dave’s dad drove up in his rattly old car, the Bilodeaus had guessed what was afoot. Kim had cupcakes when they got back from the justice of the peace, and the kids had made some paper chains. They got Chinese food for everyone, using Lacey’s employee discount. It was, in short, perfect
.
Then they went to the finest place they could afford for their honeymoon . . . the changing room at the studio. With its polished floor and plush lamb skin and the chandelier and mirror silver in the moonlight that peeked through the curtain door, it was luxurious enough.
Lacey had not given much thought to this moment; somewhere half formed in the back of her mind was the idea that sex was the work of marriage, the cost paid by women for romance, the bargain struck at the altar. She’d had girlish fantasies about kissing Dave, of kissing deeply, yes, with her eyes closed and her soul open, as she had already kissed him more than once. She yearned for him with her body. But the kiss she really longed for was the good-bye kiss in the morning and the hello kiss at night, always in pairs like that, the kiss you could count on, the kisses so simple and plentiful that you didn’t even have to remember or think about each one because the supply was renewed so faithfully.
She had been devoured before. She had been the object of hunger. She had been a piece of dirty meat tossed to a hungry dog that would have eaten any meat placed before it. She had been hungry herself, in one way or another. She had paid her way with sex, the same currency that she had seen others use all her life. It was a way to stay fed; it was a way to stay high; it was a way to stay warm, for a while at least.
But now, looking at herself in the mirror and Dave’s joyful smile over her shoulder, she knew, though unable to articulate it to herself, that she had never known intimacy before. And she forgot to see her scars and flaws because she saw herself in Dave’s eyes.
For his part, Dave saw her reflection in the mirror and the moonlight and thought she was almost too holy to touch. But he did touch her, finally. He kissed her. He stroked her cheek, her neck, her arms, her breasts, her waist as if she were a treasure. She breathed in the vaguely herbal scent of his shampoo, his faint male muskiness, and settled against him. “Welcome home, Mrs. Abbatescianni,” he murmured into her hair, and she cried, silently. But it was only ancient hurt beginning to leave her body as something inside her became still that had never been still before—some fretful child afraid of the dark whose crying had gone unanswered was finally being rocked to sleep.
Next Chapter: You Should Write Hallmark Cards
Copyright 2025 Jennie Robertson