Price of Angels
Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Gilley
“No, baby, you don’t understand.”
“No, baby, you don’t understand,” Mercy countered. He stood in the threshold of the kitchen, arms folded, smiling like a goofus as he watched her, clearly not understanding the severity of the situation.
“You know I think you’re adorable,” Ava said, sighing, as she turned to him.
He shrugged. “Naturally.”
“But you are so not right now.”
He feigned affronted.
“These cookies,” she continued, “are a reflection of me as a human being. If they’re all misshapen, it means I’m a sloppy mess of a person.”
“That’s my grandmother for you.”
“Tell her to go to hell,” he suggested.
“I can’t do that; it’s Christmas.”
“Okay, so let me do it.”
“Mercy!” She regretting snapping immediately, closing her eyes and swallowing down her useless, hormonal aggression. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing at him again. “It’s just that...I haven’t visited with her since I got back home.”
He leaned back against the doorframe. “Since August? You moved back home and haven’t seen her at all?”
“No, and I should have, and she won’t let me forget that. Add to that all that’s changed…” She gestured between them.
“Please tell me she at least knows we got married.”
She winced. “I didn’t exactly tell her…”
“Ah, shit, Ava.”
“But I’m sure Mom told her.”
“This isn’t going to go well for me, is it?” he asked with a wry, sideways smile.
“I’m afraid not.”
He shrugged again, as if to say oh well. “It won’t be the best thing that ever happened, but it won’t be the worst either. Is there something in particular you want me to wear?”
Ava felt the faint pressure of a smile at her lips, and was glad for the brief humor. “Don’t take this the wrong way….but you don’t exactly have a diverse wardrobe.”
He gave her a mock-offended face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can’t ask you to put on your nice sweater, because you don’t have any nice sweaters. You don’t have any sweaters, actually.”