Page 62 of Almost Ravaged

“Sorry, I didn’t—I mean—”

“Is ‘nevertheless’ not right?” I push.

“No. Well, I mean… it’s not wrong.” Sawyer lets out a nervous laugh. “It’s just not the best word.Neverthelessusually refers to time-related matters, whereas nonetheless is more quantifiable. Measurable.”

I cross my arms over my chest as heat creeps up my neck. “That’s the kind of thing they teach you in marketing and entrepreneurship class?”

Sawyer sighs. It’s a wistful sound, the kind associated with a cherished memory, or a time when life wasn’t so trying. It’s the kind of sigh I know all too well.

“I minored in linguistics at university. I’m studying information and library science now. My dad was a professor of twentieth-century American literature. His research focused on how generational trauma reshaped public understanding of canonical texts. I guess you can say I’m a bit of a word nerd.” She says the last sentence light-heartedly, like it doesn’t matter.

It does. I’ve only just met her, but already, I know that everything she says matters.

“Was? Your dad was?”

Maybe he’s retired. It’s possible, although she’s young.

Far too young for Mercer. But that’s an issue for a different day.

“Was,” she repeats, the light in her eyes dimming. “He died.”

There it is.

“My mom, too. Three years ago. It happened a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday.”

It happened.

The hollowed-out place where my heart used to reside constricts.

My awareness when it comes to death and loss is finely tuned. Even the inflection in a person’s tone as they speak about it, no matter how briefly, stands out. Their choice of words, too. I guess I’m aword nerd, too, though only when it comes to loss and grief.

Something happened, and this woman suffered because of it.

Life isn’t fucking fair.

The mantra rises in me, simmering at first, growing into a slow boil.

Not fucking fair. Not fucking fair. Not fucking fair.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. The words taste acerbic on my tongue. They make up the most useless phrase in the English language. I should fucking know.

But before I can come up with a more eloquent response, a black and white blur whizzes past me.

Sawyer staggers back, letting out a sharp shriek.

Before my brain can register what’s going on, Shiloh leaps onto her, tail wagging wildly, and attempts to cover her in kisses.

“Get down.” I lungefor the mutt.

She fights my hold on her collar, bound and determined to get right back up in the visitor’s face, but I hold tight.

“Heel,” I order.

She doesn’t listen.

“Heel, Shiloh. Heel. What the hell has gotten into you?”

When she still doesn’t settle, I kneel and tuck her into my side. She’s average-sized as far as border collie mixes are concerned. But my god, is she tenacious.