Me: Your turn.
A few moments pass before she responds.
Magnolia: I do have a confession… and it’s probably TMI, but I can’t talk to anyone else about it. You’re kind of like my secret diary, only you talk back to me and give oddly good advice sometimes.
Hmm. Interesting.
Me: Sometimes? I’m offended.
Magnolia: You don’t get offended.
Me: Touché. Okay, hit me.
Magnolia: You won’t judge?
Me: Never.
Another long pause, and then:
Magnolia: Okay… I miss sex.
My fingertips stall on the keyboard, barely grazing the keys. I wasn’t exactly expecting that, and I’m fairly certain I’m the worst possible person to give advice on the subject.
I’ve had sex twice. Fucking twice in my entire thirty-two years of life. I lost my virginity to some awkward classmate when I was sixteen because I thought it was something I had to do. It was weird and terrible, and I ignored her for the next two years of high school.
Then it happened again on my twenty-first birthday. One of Bree’s tipsy friends dragged me up to her bedroom, hopped on my dick, and five minutes later I decided I had no desire to ever do that again.
While I’m inherently attracted to women in the physical sense, my emotional connection to them has always been nonexistent, if not bordering on toxic.
Whenever I look at a woman, I see my mother. They all morph into her, with her sneering laugh, her beady, yellowing eyes, her blanched skin. Her long, brittle talons that would scratch at me, leaving bloody nail marks in their wake, and her dark, wiry hair, always hanging loose and greasy around her sunken-in face.
They’re all girls like Gwen and the rest of my foster sisters—all except for Bree. Sniveling, mocking, cruel. They’re like my foster mother, with her sharp, pointy features and a thin mouth that never smiled.
They’re all the girls in swim class who would laugh at me because I refused to take my shirt off in the pool, too horrified to put my grisly scars on display.
One of the girls ripped it off of me once, then humiliated me in front of the entire class, pointing and laughing at the evidence of my abuse.
I still never take my shirt off in public, even when I’m working outside in the ninety-degree heat, and it’s probably just another reason why I’ve had no interest in sex.
I’m too… exposed.
Swallowing, I shoot her the only feasible advice that comes to mind.
Me: So, have sex.
Magnolia: It’s not that simple. I haven’t been with anyone since… him. I haven’t been with anyone before him. It’s always been him. Only him.
My mind wanders, and I can’t help but wonder if Melody has slept with anyone since her husband died. Maybe she rotates men in and out of her bed like a goddamn Ferris wheel.
Or maybe not.
Maybe she’s lonely and celibate. Maybe the moment we shared together in her basement was as alarming and out of character for her as it was for me.
I send my reply.
Me: And now it’s only you. What are you going to do about it?
Magnolia: Stew in my loneliness and complain to you, apparently.
Me: Cop-out. The Magnolia I know stopped wilting a long time ago.
Magnolia: Maybe.
Falling against the chairback with a heavy breath, I roll it side to side, chewing on my lip as I ponder a response.
And then that response comes spewing out of me like vomit.
Me: Advice time. Here it comes…
Magnolia: Oh, boy.
Me: I think you need to go have sex. Raw, dirty, messy sex. The hair-pulling, biting, scratching kind. The kind that turns you inside-out and reinvents you. You need to come so hard, you forget about everything else, and you shatter into a million pieces, blinded by stars and galaxies, until you’re fucking free-falling, levitating, weightless. Screaming and begging. And the only thing you can think about is doing it all over again.
I click send before thinking it through, and then I have instant regret. Especially after three solid minutes tick by and nothing.
Fuck.
What the hell was that? Where did it come from?
I’ve never experienced that shit before. Is that what… I want?
Wondering if I scared her the fuck away, I attempt to fill the silence.
Me: I lose you? Too much?
She finally responds.
Magnolia: No. I’m just sitting here trying to figure out if that was supposed to be a suggestion or an offer.
Wait… what?
I blink at the screen, scanning over her words at least a dozen times.
Double fuck.
I’m not sure what the hell to say to that, as it was entirely unexpected, so naturally, I continue to spew more absurdity.
Me: What do you want it to be?
Magnolia: I’m trying to figure that out, too.
I rub both palms up and down my face with a strained exhale.
Triple fuck.
This conversation has taken multiple wrong turns into Too-Many-Fucks-To-Count-Ville, and I’m not sure how to get back on track. The truth is, I don’t want to screw up what we have right now because I genuinely like what we have. I don’t have to carry around my heavy armor and back-breaking baggage. I can be… free.
Taking our relationship in a sexual direction will only mess it all up, and I’ll lose that.
I’ve lost enough.
Me: You know we can’t do that.
Her disappointment radiates through the laptop before her words even appear.
Magnolia: I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry.
Me: My fault. I shouldn’t have said all that shit.
Magnolia: No, I’m glad you did.
Me: Are you going to take my advice?
Magnolia: I don’t know. There IS someone who makes me feel… something. But he’s emotionally unavailable. And possibly gay.
Me: Emotions are overrated. Can’t help you with the gay part, though.
Magnolia: Me and my complicated life. Thank you for listening.
I’m mid-response when another message pops up.
Magnolia: Zephyr?
Me: Yeah?
Magnolia: Did you see the sunrise this morning?
My thumb flicks along my bottom lip as I stare at the screen.
Her and the damn sunrise. She asks me this question all the time, but my answer is always the same. It won’t change.
Me: I did. But I don’t think I saw what you saw.
We say our goodbyes a few minutes later, and I shuffle off to bed with Walden at my heels, plugging my phone into the charging port as I climb beneath the slate gray bedsheets. I’m surprised when it bursts to life with a new text message, and even more surprised when I glance at the sender and discover Melody’s name. I swipe it open.
Melody: This is a long shot, and I understand if you don’t want to… but I’m going to the lake tomorrow after the group meeting. I’ve spent over a year of my life being scared. Scared to heal, scared to move forward, scared to be alone. I’m done being scared, so I’m going to dance instead. There’s nothing scary about dancing.
I’m going to dance until I can swim.
One more message follows, and I almost choke on my breath.
Melody: I thought maybe you would want to dance with me.
—EIGHTEEN—
“Peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
Ms. Katherine’s lips stretch into the sweetest smile, the rouge of her cheeks blossoming like pink peonies, and I consider adding it to my growing list of starting points. She’s a portly woman with a slightly crooked bob, dappled in brindle and silver streaks. A floral-print blouse adorns her ample frame, the fuchsia petals matching the nail polish on her fingers that are curled around a leather-bound journal.
“Did you know those were Elvis Presley’s favorite?”
A chuckle clears my lips as I duck my head. “My mom would always tell
me that when she’d make them for me.”
“You should try them with bacon sometime. It’s such an interesting flavor dynamic,” she encourages, shifting her weight on the folding chair.
Amelia pipes in. “That sounds nasty.”
“You’re a vegan, aren’t you, Amelia?” Ms. Katherine prompts tenderly.
“Yep, for almost a year now. Any time I look at meat, I just see Nutmeg’s little face.”
I quirk a smile, braving a glance to my left. Amelia scratches the back of her knuckles with short black nails, causing a cluster of blood dots to speckle her skin. “How is Nutmeg?” I ask her when the starting points shift down the circle.
“She’s good. I just knitted her little booties, but she doesn’t really like them.”
The mental image of a hamster in hand-knit booties sends a tickle to my heart. “Maybe she just needs to get used to them.”
“Or maybe she’s a hamster.” Parker adds his commentary with his arms folded across a well-worn t-shirt as he leans back, his body language oozing casual indifference. But his features look softer somehow, his eyes shimmering when they slide over to me, then back to Amelia. “That could be it.”
“She’s very domesticated and highly intelligent,” Amelia counters, lifting her chin. “I’ll bring her to a meeting some time. You’ll see.”
Parker offers a shoulder shrug, his disposition more playful than hostile. “I’m exploding with anticipation.”
“I can tell. You look like you might do something extreme—like smile.”
“I might.”
His eyes float back to me as he replies, and I look away, worrying my lip between my teeth. That evening in my basement stomps through my mind with angry steps and steel-toed boots, inciting me to cross my legs and fidget with the fringe along my jean shorts.
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand him.
He claims to not like women, yet he held me on his lap like a lover, fisting my hair and digging contradictory evidence to his claim into my thigh.
He’s never kissed anyone before, yet he allowed our lips to brush together through the cloak of darkness, his body trembling beneath my weight, his chaotic heart vibrating straight to my core.
He acts like he doesn’t care about anything, yet he stuck around to help me clean up the neighborhood, silent and stoic for the most part, looking wildly uncomfortable, but he stayed.
And then he ignored my text last night—he left me on read.
It’s not as if I expected him to accept the offer, but he ghosted me when I took a leap of faith and offered him a raw, unguarded piece of myself… and I hate admitting how much that hurt.
Parker’s eyes continue to dig into me from a few feet away, and my lungs feel tight, my skin warming beneath the heat of his gaze. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder what he sees when he watches me like this, so bold and unabashed.
My cheeks grow hot, but I refuse to turn my head towards him, instead focusing on a little string dangling from the hemline of my shorts, longer than all the others. I pretend it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen as I coil it around my pinky.
When the meeting wraps up, fellow members linger for chitchat, strengthening the bonds they’ve established with kindred survivors. Amelia fills me in on an anime series she’s been watching, and as her words trickle into my ears, my focus wanes, shifting over to Parker. He taps his foot against the shiny flooring, appearing twitchy and restless, hesitating for a few beats before rising from the chair.
Then he paces to the double doors and pushes through, disappearing from my sight.
I straighten, compelled to follow.
“Go ahead, you’re fine. We can talk another day.”
Amelia’s voice steals my attention, and I falter. “What?”
“You looked like you wanted to go after Parker. You can if you want. I don’t mind.”
“Oh, I…” Swallowing, I pick at the emblem on my handbag and clear my throat. “No, I’m sorry. I’m listening.”
“Were you?” she teases, nudging me with her bony shoulder.
“Definitely. The show with the nuts.”
“The nuts?”
“Macadamias.”
“It’s actually… My Hero Academia.”
I blink. “Oh.”
Amelia nearly doubles over with laughter, cupping a hand around her violet-lined lips. “Go, will you?” she orders, her giggles diffusing. “He’s probably waiting for you.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Why? It’s obvious he likes you.”
A shudder ripples through me. “No, it’s not.”
“Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?”
It feels like something gets stuck in my throat as I squeeze my purse between two clammy fists.
Amelia sends me a knowing smile, her pierced eyebrow arching. “He looks at you like he’s never seen anything like you before. Almost as if you’re one of those sacred relics perched behind tempered glass at a museum or a gallery, far too precious to touch. People stare in wonder, awestruck and tongue-tied, trying to unravel its mysteries, trying to imagine the rich history and compelling stories that hide behind the pretty exterior.” She sighs, her umber eyes glazing over with a sense of magic. “It must feel really good to have someone look at you like that—like they’re seeing you for the first time, every time, and they’re amazed all over again.”
My tongue slicks over my lips, and I inhale an uneven breath, her words bursting inside of me and dispersing like little sparklers, crackling and fizzing. “You should write poetry. That was really beautiful.”
Likely not accurate, but beautiful.
“I do, but it’s kind of morbid.” Amelia ducks her head, pushing a ribbon of inky hair behind her ear. “Pretty words for dark hearts.”
We share a smile before I rise from the chair, giving her arm a light squeeze as I say my goodbyes. When I move towards the exit, I waver, my feet stalling, and I twist back around to address Amelia. “You look better, by the way. Like you’re healing.”
“Healing?”
I nod.
Amelia crumples the fabric of her baggy t-shirt between her fingers, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips. “I’m accepting. I suppose there’s healing in acceptance.”
I’m uncertain of her meaning, but I don’t pry. I simply gift her a final smile, bob my head, and make my way out the doors, down the hall, then escape into the setting sun.
My heart jack-knifes when I spot Parker leaning against the trunk of my car, hands tucked into dark denim pockets.
What?
He straightens when he notices me approach. “Fuck, that took forever. Thought maybe Emo Chick put a spell on you.”
The breeze steals my hair, while he steals my breath. That playful edge is still in full swing, his demeanor more carefree than I’ve ever seen him. I swallow. “You were waiting for me?”
“Yeah. I thought we had plans.”
“Plans?”
Parker frowns, squinting his eyes at me through the hazy sunset. “The lake. There’s no way in hell I’m getting in the water, or dancing for that matter, but I’ll tag along if you want me to.”
My sandals clap against the pavement as I close in on him, the long, flowy sleeves of my ivory blouse catching a draft when I sweep shaky fingers through my hair. If he weren’t such a magnet, I’d probably still be frozen to the cement. “You’re coming?”
“I don’t have fuck-else to do.” Parker’s eyes slide over my bare legs when I reach him. His whole stance tautens, the muscles in his arms contracting as he pulls his focus back up to my face. “You asked me to, didn’t you?”
“You never replied.”
“Was I supposed to?”
Despite the heavy energy swirling between us, I can’t help but let out a quick laugh. “That’s generally the idea. Standard protocol.”
He sniffs, glancing down at his dirt-smudged sneakers. “I’m a bit atypical.”
“Yeah,” I smile.
“I think that’s why I like you.”
Parker’s gaze shoots back up. His eyes flame, flickering like emerald torches. “You like me?”
“Oh, um…” His question isn’t flirty or cocky—it’s genuine, almost as if he’s shocked to hear such a thing. I feel my face burn at the admission, and I hope the modest sunburn shading my cheekbones hides the evidence. “I figured the cupcakes gave me away.”
He studies me, wordless, a little frown appearing between his brows. The one he wears so well, so prominently. Parker looks as if he might respond in some way, run with my confession, but he doesn’t. He just glances to his left, clearing a hitch in his throat, and says, “Ready?”
“Okay.”
A buzz of anticipation shoots through me while I rummage around my purse for my car keys, then pace over to the driver’s side door. Parker follows suit, climbing in and throwing me a brief glance as he secures his seatbelt. His woodsy scent permeates the small space, smelling of hot springs, cedarwood, and freshly fallen leaves. It’s masculine and intoxicating, and it makes my skin flush to a feverish level.
God, this is crazy. This feeling—so familiar, yet so foreign. I’m desperately trying to move forward, I want to move forward, but every time my belly clenches and my heart gallops, it feels like a slap in the face to Charlie. A disloyalty.
Spit on his grave.
My hands curl around the steering wheel, gripping tightly, my teeth burrowing into my bottom lip. This trip to the lake is about letting go. It’s about progressing, forging ahead—healing.
The Wrong Heart Page 15
