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I look over at Mercy, who sits beside me so rigidly that I briefly wonder if she’s frozen, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. But that can’t be.

I can hear her heart pounding, like the beating of the telltale heart.

She is a vision.

Fuck, I want to take her right here.

Mr. Clarke clears his throat.

“Perhaps you’d like to share?”

“Of course,” I say, looking over at him. I pull in a deep breath, feigning nervousness. Except I’m not nervous. My hands are as steady as a surgeon. “I want to marry your daughter.”

The gasp that escapes Mrs. Clarke is so forceful that I wonder if it was painful. Her hand flies to her mouth in shock. Her eyes widen and then close hard.

Mr. Clarke, on the other hand, is stone still, his expression unreadable.

I think maybe he’s dumbfounded.

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Clarke finally squeaks. “I demand an explanation. Why would you ask such a thing?”

Mercy’s breath hitches, her hands trembling in her lap. I can see the tears sparkling in her eyes. She’s trying to keep herself together, and she’s failing miserably.

“Why not?” I ask, cocking my head in his direction. It’s a dare. I’m daring him to challenge me.

“Marriage?” Mr. Clarke scoffs. “You’re not the kind of man we want for our daughter.”

“And what kind of man is that?” I ask. “A man who cares for her and supports her? A man with enough money to give her what you couldn’t? A man who—”

Mercy’s sudden intake of breath cuts me off.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air, and they seem to suck all the oxygen out of the room. Mrs. Clarke’s face pales. Mr. Clarke’s eyes darken, his hands clenching into fists on the table.

How far can I push him in public?

Can I make him explode?

I bet I can.

I watch as Mercy’s eyes fill with tears. She licks her lips and shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Dad. I’m so sorry.”

The color drains from her mother’s face. She presses a hand to her mouth as she pushes her chair back with a harsh scrape. She stumbles to her feet, the napkin she had placed across her lap fluttering to the checkered tiles.

“I… I can’t…” she chokes out, her voice a broken whisper. She turns away, her shoulders shaking as she hurriedly pushes open the door of the diner and steps outside.

She needs some air, I guess.

Mr. Clarke’s eyes fix themselves on Mercy. His face is beat red, and he’s blowing up like a bullfrog.

It’s hilarious to witness, actually.

“How could you, Mercy? How could you shame us like this?”

Mercy flinches, her tears falling faster. She looks like a wilting flower, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. She’s twisting a napkin between her fingers, and I can feel the threads in the fabric snapping from the force.