And then I turn and walk away, not giving her a chance to respond, although, I think I hear a faint “thank you” filter out the door, and it follows me to my truck.
I feel on edge as I settle into the driver’s side—prickly and unsettled. The gift bag is still laced through my fingers, so I toss it onto the passenger’s seat to join my hoodie and stray tools. That’s where I plan to leave it as I rev the engine, but I falter, glancing to my right and eyeing the treat.
Damn it.
Two seconds later, I’m digging into the bag and pulling out the cupcake, finishing it in just two bites.
And it’s really fucking good.
I’m up early the next morning, chugging down a cup of black coffee and pouring kibble into a metal dog bowl. Walden totters over to the corner of the kitchen, his cloudy eyes shifting between me and his breakfast. The red ball sits dormant in the middle of the floor after another failed attempt at fetch, and I eye it with disdain.
“Eat up,” I tell the dog, but he only stands there and stares at me, causing me to wonder for the millionth time if he’s going deaf, or if he’s just real stubborn. “Or don’t. I don’t like being told what to do either.”
Filling my cheeks with air and blowing out a hard breath, I snag a granola bar for the road and make my way out of the house for a job. The sky is blooming with bright oranges and fuchsias, lighting up the treetops, sunbeams on evergreen. It’s not something I usually notice, but it gives me pause today as I hesitate beside my truck, squinting my eyes up at the first blush of dawn. A peculiar feeling sweeps through me, a quick shot of warmth to my veins, and I find myself thinking about my father and his daylilies.
Fleeting beauty.
My brows knit together as I shake my head, pulling my gaze from the painted sky, and it’s then that familiar tires roll into my driveway, gravel and stones crunching beneath the wheels.
Bree parks diagonally, jumping out of the SUV in her scrubs and wild hair, her door hanging open as she jogs over to me. “I’m glad I caught you,” she beams, her voice an octave higher than usual as it penetrates the music blasting from her Bluetooth. Kelly Perry or something. “Off to the Jameson’s? The third floor reno, right?”
“Yeah.” I sniff, tossing my keys into the air. “That for me?”
Bree holds up a plastic grocery bag, flashing me her teeth. “Yup. Lemon poppyseed muffins, your favorite. Plus, dental sticks for Walden because his breath is bordering on toxic, and a new tool belt I got on sale. Yours is looking rough.”
I glance down at my belt, thinking it looks just fine. “I like this belt.”
“So did I. Twelve years ago.” Bree steps forward, handing me the bag. She wavers when she catches me momentarily spaced out, my gaze pointed over her shoulder, then she follows my line of sight. “Pretty sunrise today, huh?”
I blink away the colors. “Not really.”
“You’re such a Scrooge. You’d have the women lining up at your door if your face didn’t permanently look like you scheduled a root canal, colonoscopy, and vasectomy all on the same day.”
“You know I don’t like women.”
Bree scoffs at that. “I know you like to tell yourself that. Breaking news: I’m a woman, and you love the crap out of me.”
“You’re an alien,” I dismiss, folding my arms over my chest, the bag of goodies dangling from my grip. “Possibly a robot. Did you seriously come all the way out here at six A.M. to drop off stocking stuffers?”
“My shift starts in an hour. You’re basically on the way.”
“Bullshit. I’m eleven miles in the opposite direction.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I just love the crap out of you, too.”
A sigh filters out, and I wish I could return the sentiment, match the tenderness of her words and the humanity warming her brown eyes, but that’s not me. I’m not wired that way, and she knows that, so she just gives me a light punch to the shoulder and trudges backwards.
“Keep me updated on materials,” Bree says. “I can order more boxes of the walnut flooring on my lunch break.”
“Yeah, okay,” I shoot back. Before she disappears into her car, I call out, “Hey, can you text me another copy of my jobs lined up for next week? I need to squeeze in a bathroom remodel.”
“Talking directly to the customers? Shit, little brother. There’s hope for you yet,” she grins, then adds, “But don’t overdo it—the last thing we need is another hospital stay. You’re busier than usual this year.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been pissing sawdust since March.”
Bree’s laughter rings loud over the music as she hops into her SUV and backs out of the driveway, a happy little wave sending me off before she vanishes down the dirt road.
There’s hope for you yet.
A grating huff passes through my lips as I spare the rising sun a final glance and climb into my pick-up truck.
I’m on my knees pulling up carpeting, staples popping up from the subfloor, thinking this is the worst fucking part of the job, when my phone vibrates in my rear pocket.
Leaning back on my haunches, I swipe the back of my wrist over my sweat-lined brow because it’s hot as shit up here on the third floor, then reach behind me to fetch my phone.
A familiar name stares back at me.
Magnolia: I’m not sure where you live, but I’ll assume you’re relatively local to me given our circumstances. If that’s the case, I have to know… did you see the sunrise this morning?
I purse my lips together, rereading the message, then I slip my phone away and smooth the dark tufts of hair back from my forehead. Adjusting my tool belt, I shuffle out of the room to find a bathroom. Activity buzzes two floors below me, some prim housewife making plans for a lavish tea party or something. Pretentious bullshit.
Eyes casing my surroundings, I see what looks to be a washroom down the hallway to the left, so I head towards it. But when I peek through the crack in the entryway, I’m startled to find a little boy sitting at the foot of his bed, knees drawn up, face buried between them.
He’s rocking back and forth, muttering something into the valley of his kneecaps.
The image sucker-punches me. I’m thrown back in time, locked in that dark closet, huddled up and petrified in the exact same position.
“Zephyr. Zephyr. Zephyr.”
My throat tightens up like I’ve coiled a noose around my neck, and my lungs burn, crying out for air. The little boy looks up then, sensing my presence, hearing the pained gasp that must have escaped me, and our eyes lock from a few feet away. Tearstains track down his chubby cheeks, winding through the assortment of freckles like connect-the-dots. There’s a frightening familiarity shining back at me, almost like I’m looking into a mirror, a time machine, and it makes my stomach stagger with unease.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, an apology for something.
Always an apology.
“You’re good. I was just looking for the bathroom.”
He sniffles, squeezing his little legs to his chest as he blinks back tears. “There’s one on the second floor. It smells like old lady perfume.”
“Old lady perfume?”
“Yeah, like my Grams.”
My lips twitch. “What’s your name?”
“Owen.” The boy relaxes a bit, his knees straightening until his legs dangle off the edge of the bed. He looks young, maybe seven or eight. But his eyes tell me he’s seen more than the average kid his age. “What’s your name?”
Hesitation grips me. I don’t like sharing things about myself—even my name. “Parker.”
“Hi, Parker.” A little smile forms on his mouth, something innocent. Something that hasn’t been stolen from him yet. “Will you be back?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’ll be back.”
We share a final exchange before I dip out the doorway and traipse back down the hall to the staircase. I hesitate in the landing, my jaw taut, my teeth clenched together, then fish through my pocket for my phone.
Openin
g Magnolia’s message, I finally send a reply.
Me: I did see the sunrise. But I don’t think I saw what you saw.
—EIGHT—
Me: QOTD: Pineapple on pizza? This could potentially be the turning point for us, so choose wisely.
Zephyr: It’s trash. That isn’t a matter of choice—only fact. But pickles are a different story.
Me: You passed. I’m just going to sit back and relish in your answer.
Zephyr: Punny.
Me: I think you meant cheesy. *pizza emoji*
Zephyr: Also punny.
Me: The best puns come in pears.
A smile stretches as I curl into the corner of the couch, pulling my ankles up beside me. I nibble my lip, sending him one more message.
Me: Did you see the sunrise this morning?
Zephyr: I did. But I don’t think I saw what you saw.
A sadness sweeps through me, as it always does at his reply. I’ve asked him that question every day for the last ten days, and his response hasn’t changed.
I flinch in place when Leah slides down the couch and peers over my shoulder, trying to sneak a peek at my messages. “Girl, you have that look on your face. Who are you talking to?”
“What look?” I wonder absently, closing out my e-mail app.
“That look I haven’t seen in a long time.”
This catches my attention, and I’m certain “the look” promptly fades. A sudden surge of guilt permeates me, as if I were just caught doing something wrong.
Was I?
Is it wrong to smile again, to feel a small weight lift with each passing day, to watch the sunrise every morning with hopeful eyes instead of an insatiable yearning for sunset?
Is it wrong to communicate daily with the man who has Charlie’s heart?
Is there something wrong with my heart for wanting to move forward and live a life without him in it?
Leah gives a pinch to my thigh, her gilded eyes twinkling when our gazes meet. “That’s not a bad thing, honey. That’s not a bad thing at all.”
“It feels like I’m cheating on his memory—on what we had together.” My confession is heavy, enveloping us both in a dense cloud. “It feels like a betrayal.”
“What does?”
I swallow. “Living.”
Leah runs her palm up and down my jean-clad thigh, her softness the antidote to my thorns. “Mellie, listen to me. Living is the greatest honor you can give his memory. Do you really think Charlie would want you to walk around like a zombie every day, with that smile he loved so much snuffed out?”
My eyes water.
“I know it sounds cliché, but he would want you to be happy. Truly happy. And I think, deep down, you know that, too,” she finishes.
The back of my throat feels tight and prickly, like I swallowed a mouthful of needles. “I told you Charlie was an organ donor…” I begin, eyes slipping down to the little pink polka dots on my ankle socks. “I, um, located the recipient of his heart, and we’ve been… talking.”
Leah blinks, eyebrows dipping. “What?”
“It’s all anonymous. I promised him I wouldn’t invade his privacy or ask personal questions. I honestly didn’t think he’d ever contact me back, but… he did. And it’s been helping me with the healing process.”
“Babe.”
Her tone is a little bit of love and a whole lot of warning. I continue to stare at my socks. “It’s nothing, really.”
Leah lets out a hard exhale, her lips puckering as she falls back against the couch cushions. “Your therapist and support group are there to help you heal, Mellie. This sounds… messy.”
“It’s totally innocent,” I counter.
She spears me with a pointed look. “The fact that you need to tell me it’s innocent makes me wonder.”
I clench my jaw, trying not to let her words sour the little bit of joy I’ve managed to pull from the rubble. My correspondence with Zephyr has heightened over the past week and a half, and while our conversations are vague and casual, there is still something earnest, something deeper, hovering beneath the repartee and easy exchanges. There’s good advice. There’s heart.
There’s hope.
And I think there’s something else… a blossoming connection.
Something kindred.
Something potentially messy.
Zephyr strikes me as a broken soul, much like myself, only he’s broken in a different way. Longer, maybe. His pieces are scattered in the wind, some long gone.
But broken is broken, and we cut ourselves the same.
Leah nudges me with her toes when she catches me zoned out, picking at my fingernails. “You know I’ll never judge you, right? I’m not trying to hinder any progress you’ve made. Shit, girl, nothing compares to seeing you smile again.” We share a tender look. “Just be careful. And don’t tell West… you know he’ll get all weird about it.”
Speaking of West, his timing is impeccable.
The front door busts open and my brother saunters through, a little grin unfolding when he spots Leah beside me on the couch. “Morning,” he mutters, kicking the door closed with his heel.
“What are you doing here?” I inquire, but it’s a baseless question. West always drops by unannounced.
“Dad said to take a look at your bathroom, and I finally have some free time. The master, right?”
I frown. “I’m good, West. I hired someone already. He should actually be here within the hour.”
West slips out of his shoes anyway, eyes locked on Leah. “Sweet. I’m off the hook.”
“How is Dad? I need to stop by for dinner. I’ve been so busy.”
“He’s good. Still overfeeding the dog. Still pissing off Mom.”
I let out a chuckle, despite the pit that forms in my chest when I think about visiting Mom and Dad. I love my parents, I love them so much, but they remind me of him. They remind me of the life I no longer have. When I look at them, I see dinner dates with Charlie, I see bonfires in their backyard, I see my wedding day, my father walking me down the aisle and my mother weeping in the front row.
I see their horrified faces when I finally woke up in that hospital bed, teetering the line between fading away forever and making a comeback.
I know I can’t stay away forever, but I still need more time.
The sound of my name has me jerking my head up, pulling me from my idle thoughts and wicked memories. West eyes me from the opposite loveseat, a cup of drive-thru coffee twirling between his fingers. I blink. “Huh?”
“I asked if you were coming out with us tonight. To the brewery.”
“Oh.”
Maybe. Maybe I can do that.
I do feel better. More composed. More… me.
I’m about to respond when a knock at the front door has me jumping to my feet and instinctively smoothing down my hair and adjusting my blouse. Leah sends me a curious look as I shuffle to the front entryway, clear my throat, and pull the door open.
Miserable.
He looks absolutely miserable.
I’ve determined this is just his face, so I hide my wince and smile at him. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”
Parker’s eyes hold with mine, and I can’t tell if they are ice cold or blazing fire. Either way, I feel a temperature shift as he stares at me. His work t-shirt is scuffed and faded, his jeans worn and hanging low on his lips, weighed down by a tool belt. Dark hair curls along his forehead, a little shaggy and mussed, giving his hard exterior a flare of boyish charm. But the rough stubble shadowing his jaw and the muscles that flex beneath the thin layer of cotton when he steps forward, tell me he’s all man.
“That’s the arrangement.”
I chew on my inner cheek when he pushes through the threshold with his toolbox and his clean, woodsy scent. “I know. But I’m sure you’re busy, so I appreciate you squeezing me in.”
He makes some kind of humming sound, or maybe it’s a grunt, giving me a quick once-over before shifting his attention to the right. Parker’s eyes d
rift between West and Leah as he stands there rigid, sporting his trademark scowl, looking as if he was trying to find a church but walked into a brothel instead. He’s clearly not a people person.
“Hey, man.” West holds up his coffee cup in greeting. “How’s it going?”
Leah sends him a little wave, her cat eyes assessing him like she’s on the prowl. Shameless.
“This is Parker. I met him through…” I trail off, remembering that I met him through a suicide prevention group, and that’s probably the most awkward introduction ever. Regrouping, I clear my throat and finish, “A networking thing.”
Leah mouths to me, “Sign me up.”
I feel my cheeks heat as I shift back to Parker, who towers over me like a giant shadow, dark and mysterious.
Parker blinks back at me, expression unchanging. “Bathroom?”
“Yes. Right. Follow me.”
My eyes pop open over my shoulder, issuing Leah a glare of admonishment, but she only waggles her eyebrows in return. West shakes his head, bringing his coffee to his lips.
Leading Parker up the staircase to the second floor, I glance back at him with a floaty chuckle. “Sorry. That was my brother and best friend.”
I’m met with another grunt-huff.
Cranky.
When we reach the top of the stairs, Parker drifts to the left, so I instinctually reach out and curl my fingers around his upper arm, guiding him to the right. His bicep ticks beneath my touch, his gaze zoning in on the contact, then flicking back up to my face before he pulls his arm free and moves around me, trudging towards the master bedroom. The pads of my fingertips tingle with warmth, so I swipe them along my thigh as I trail him.
I gave Parker the basic rundown of my renovation needs at our last group meeting, saving his number into my phone and texting him a few pictures of the unfinished job. Most of the hideous pink wall tiling has already been removed by my father, the new boxes of subway tile stacked along the wall, ready to go. White, clean, a little sterile.
The Wrong Heart Page 6
