The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  His body heat is hardly enough to warm me as he moves in beside me on the front lawn. “What is that?”

  My eyes are wide and rooted to my front porch.

  It’s a hamster cage.

  A squeak of disbelief passes through my lips, and my feet take over, carrying me across the yard until I’m standing above a black wire cage, housing a chunky hamster, brindle and cream. My heart lurches when I spot the note attached with a piece of tape, billowing in the breeze.

  No.

  Please, no.

  Parker comes up behind me as I pluck the note off the cage with shaky fingers. “What the fuck? Is that…?”

  His words scatter as my eyes scan the small paper square.

  We’re storytellers, you and me.

  My story has come to an end, but yours is just beginning.

  I know you’ll take good care of Nutmeg.

  She doesn’t like her booties, but she loves the sun.

  —Amelia

  A sob rips through me.

  Parker catches me when my knees buckle, and I fall against his chest, stunned and sucker-punched. This can’t be. This can’t be.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, his arms wrapping me up in a tight hold. One arm releases me to fish through his pockets, and then his voice mingles with my grief, my wails of incredulity. “I need to report a possible death. A suicide, I think. I don’t fucking know…”

  His words trail off as I sink into a dark hole, my face and tears buried in his chest, and Parker’s fierce grip around my waist is the only thing that keeps me from drowning in the abyss. I weep and wilt while he strokes my hair, his nails gently dragging along my scalp, trying to melt the ice that is settling into my bones.

  We’re storytellers, you and me.

  Oh, Amelia.

  If only she knew… she had so many stories left to tell.

  —TWENTY-EIGHT—

  Finality has a particular way of making you see every small, precious thing. It opens your eyes with a newfound appreciation for everything that is present and tangible.

  My heartbeat even sounds louder, more alive.

  Pressing my fingertips to my breastbone, I revel in the thrumming vibrations.

  “You look like you haven’t slept.”

  West eyes me on our parents’ sofa, his fingers linked around his drawn-up knee as he faces me. My palms curl around the hot mug of tea I’ve been nursing since dinner ended. I turn to him, perched cross-legged on my favorite ugly couch. “I had a nightmare last night and couldn’t fall back to sleep.”

  It’s been forty-eight hours since Claudia Marks found her daughter, Amelia, swinging lifeless in the greenhouse, tethered to the rafters, hanging dead amongst the lively, cheerful crops and geraniums. By the time the police showed up to my house for questioning, the discovery had already been made.

  I’m glad she found her.

  Apparently, Claudia Marks is a well-known fashion designer with a sprawling waterfront mansion in Lake Geneva, so Amelia’s death has been headline news, while making the rounds on social media. I had no idea.

  I’m realizing there was so much I never knew about the young girl who spoke in riddles and rhymes, who had a troubled mind but a good heart. The fact that I didn’t take the time to get to know her better haunts me.

  Sipping at the tea, I spare my brother a glance. His ice blue eyes are narrowed at me in consideration. “What?”

  “Are you seeing that guy?”

  My grip on the mug tightens. West came by that night after I texted him about Amelia, and Parker was still there. There was a bit of uncomfortable tension between the two men, likely because of my brother’s loyalty to Shane, and also because, well, Parker’s people skills aren’t entirely impressive.

  Parker put some distance between us when West showed up, but I understood. And even though there wasn’t any obvious PDA, the fact that Parker was alone at my house not doing work or projects, painted a fairly clear picture of implication.

  Shifting on the couch, I look away from his probing, brotherly stare. “I’m not sure, West. It’s still new.”

  I suppose that’s true enough. Maybe I’m downplaying it because it doesn’t feel new—it feels raw, intense, visceral. It feels like it was always meant to be; like it’s always been.

  But we haven’t discussed titles or exclusivity, so I have no idea what Parker is thinking or feeling. All I know is what he’s shown me, and that’s his smile, his secrets, his first kiss, his effort, his trust. It’s the way he held me on my front lawn beneath sad stars and jaded moonlight, providing a quiet comfort I desperately needed in that moment. He stroked my hair, rubbed my back, silent, and yet his solace reverberated through me in remedying waves.

  He spoke with the police officer who showed up for questioning, he helped me carry Nutmeg into the house, filling her little water bottle attached to the grates, and then he sat with me on the couch, my head on his shoulder, tracing invisible designs on my bare shoulder with his index finger until my brother stopped by.

  So, yes, I suppose I’m seeing him.

  I’m finally, truly seeing him.

  West makes a sighing sound that reeks of disapproval. “Just be careful, Mel.”

  “I’m always careful,” I say, expecting this reaction from him, but feeling irritated, nonetheless. “You know I wouldn’t jump into anything lightly.”

  “I’m just not sure I trust the guy. He’s kind of a dick, and he’s so different from…” His words eclipse as he shifts his gaze over my shoulder. “Never mind.”

  “From whom? Charlie?”

  Silence.

  “You can say his name, West. The only thing worse than being reminded that he's gone is pretending that he never existed.”

  West’s crystal eyes flicker blue and melancholy as they find their way back to mine. “Yes. He’s different from Charlie. A lot different.”

  “Different means different—it doesn’t mean worse. And honestly, you should be happy for me. I’m trying here. I’m trying to move on and start over,” I explain, my tone gentle but firm. “You don’t even know him.”

  “Do you?”

  My words clip before they leave my mouth when Mom and Dad saunter into the living room with two pieces of homemade cheesecake. I stretch my legs and straighten, placing the ceramic mug etched with elves and snowflakes onto the side table beside me. Mom loves her Christmas mugs, even in July.

  “Mellie, my little Jelly Belly,” Dad sing-songs as he approaches with the dessert plate, grinning wide.

  I simultaneously cringe and smile at the childish nickname, reaching for the plate. Mom hands the other piece to West. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “There’s nothin’ that Ma’s cheesecake can’t fix.”

  Oh, how I wish that were true.

  The tines of my fork dig into the delicacy while our parents seat themselves on the opposite loveseat, Dad’s broad arm draping around our petite mother with that same affection he’s always shown her.

  Shamefully, that affection was the primary reason I stayed away for so many long, lonely months after Charlie passed—I couldn’t handle witnessing everything I’d lost.

  “How is it?” Mom inquires, adjusting a jeweled barrette clipped into her bob.

  West responds through a giant mouthful, “Divine.”

  We fall into easy conversation, and I watch my parents kiss and cuddle with new eyes of appreciation instead of envy. I drink in my mother’s permanent smile and my father’s baritone laugh that always rumbles straight to my core. My heart flutters with joy, with gratitude, with life, as I swallow down the love in the room and let it warm me up.

  My parents have never once allowed me to believe that my heart was wrong. Even on the bad days. Even when it was broken, weeping and bruised, they loved it anyway. They saw the beauty in it, flaws and all.

  And for that, I know I am truly blessed.

  Before I leave that night, I’m overcome with the need to do something. After I say my goodbyes to West and help my moth
er tidy the kitchen, I pull out my cell phone and open up my Hangouts app. My last message to Zephyr stares back at me, sent a few days after my disastrous video debut.

  Me: Zephyr, oh wise one, you’re so good at giving advice. I was wondering if you had any insight into rejection.

  He never responded.

  Sucking in a breath, I let my thumbs dance across the keypad with one final message to the anonymous man with Charlie’s heart.

  Me: I just wanted you to know that I’m doing okay. I realize you don’t care, because if you did, you would have checked in by now. You wouldn’t have left me doubting everything we shared together—doubting myself and my worth. I’ll never know what happened, or why you abandoned me, but I respect what we had enough to let you know that I’m okay. You were right when you said I stopped wilting a long time ago… but I think I’m finally blooming.

  I don’t expect him to reply, just as I don’t expect a new text message from Parker to light up my phone face after I return home that evening and climb into bed. Swiping open the screen, my eyes scan over his message.

  Parker: Hi

  Oh, jeez.

  An amused grin stretches my cheeks.

  Me: Hi :)

  I’m about to hook my phone up to the charger and go to sleep, not anticipating another reply, but a follow-up text buzzes through, causing my heart to stutter.

  Parker: Just wanted to say that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Goodnight.

  A breath sticks in my lungs, my eyes welling with stunned tears. The seconds tick by in slow motion as I re-read his words over and over.

  And over.

  Trembling fingers manage to put letters together to form something coherent, but nothing I say could possibly transmit the intensity of emotion swimming through my veins, shooting little shocks of happiness to my heart.

  Me: That means more to me than you’ll ever know. Thank you.

  Flipping off the bedside lamp and blinking away my tears, I fall into a peaceful sleep, nightmare-free, with my cell phone clutched against my chest.

  When I pull into the support meeting parking lot the following week, he is standing outside, leaning back against the brick siding with his hands in his pockets.

  Waiting for me?

  The image steals my breath as I cross over to him from my car, greeting him with a small smile, my side braid bouncing along my shoulder in time with my steps.

  Parker pulls up from the brick, tousling his hair with one hand as the other taps at the paint-smeared denim tapering his legs. “Hey.”

  “Were you waiting for me?” I stop just short of him, watching his eyes case me, from my strappy sandals to my messy braid.

  He swallows. “Yeah… I thought maybe you didn’t want to walk in alone. You know, after…” Parker heaves in a deep sigh, his attention shifting to the left, like he’s reining in his thoughts.

  My hand lifts to grasp his bicep, squeezing gently. “That was sweet. Thank you.”

  While I wouldn’t say I’m angry, I’m a little disappointed that he never contacted me after that heartfelt text last week. I messaged him the following day to see if he wanted to get together and grab lunch, but all I got was radio silence.

  Parker’s jaw ticks as he stares at me, eyebrows knitted together. And then his tension releases with a long exhale, his eyes closing. “I shouldn’t have sent you that text.”

  My heart sinks. “What? Why not?”

  “Because it was sappy as shit, and now that it’s out there, I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Parker, it wasn’t sappy. It was beautiful and sweet.”

  “It was embarrassing. You’re ruining me.”

  My knee-jerk reaction is to feel outrage, to unleash my claws and sink them into him. But I reel back my emotions and try to understand him instead. His eyes look tired—swimming with confliction, worn and flustered. There’s no animosity there.

  Parker genuinely has no idea what he’s doing.

  He’s never been here before; he’s never had a reason to care or feel.

  He’s never had a reason to say something like that, and I know that must be terrifying. Vulnerability is terrifying, especially if it’s something he’s not accustomed to.

  “Listen to me…” My fingers trail down his arm until his palm is linked with mine, and I watch as his gaze follows. “You’re not ruined. You’re evolving.”

  “Into a fucking pussy, apparently.”

  “No, into a three-dimensional human being with complex feelings and empathy. There’s no shame in that.”

  His head swings back and forth, as if he’s rejecting my claims, but his hand clamps around mine in a desperate, possessive hold. “This wasn’t supposed to be anything more than sex. I thought fucking you would get you out of my goddamn system, but all it did was bury you deeper. Bury me deeper. Now there’s no way out.”

  My insides twist. “Are you looking for a way out?”

  Parker’s eyes dance back to me, clouded with confusion, like he’s being pulled in two separate directions. It’s me versus the safety net of his lifelong complacency. “No,” he murmurs softly. Then a frown furrows. “I don’t know.”

  Inhaling a shuddering breath, I remove my hand from his hold and nod my head, soaking up his answer. His indecision. “I think maybe you should think about this before we take it any further,” I tell him, glancing down at the pavement beneath my shell pink toenails. “And I’m not saying that out of resentment, Parker, I’m really not. I’m saying it because I have to protect myself. I have to protect my heart. I’m not sure it will survive another loss.”

  When I look back up, his frown has deepened, his gaze tortured and searching. Parker’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat while he considers my words. “I’ll never intentionally hurt you, Melody.”

  “Intentional or not, it doesn’t hurt any less.”

  He clenches his jaw, teeth grinding together. His chin falls to his chest, a hard exhale following, and when he pulls his head back up, he’s closing the gap between us. Parker’s hands reach out to clasp my cheeks, fingertips digging into the skin and causing a gasp to escape my lips. And then his forehead is pressed against mine, our noses touching, as he rasps out, “I’m so fucked.”

  He plants a hard kiss to my hairline, then bolts.

  Parker leaves me there, just outside the entrance, and I watch in bafflement as he makes a hurried escape to his pick-up truck and hops inside, careening out of the parking lot with screeching tires.

  My eyes water. I needed him today—I needed him to get through this first meeting without Amelia. I can hardly stand the thought of two empty chairs beside me.

  Chest rattling, stomach spinning, I suck in a breath of courage and push through the main entrance, weaving down the hallway until I come across the familiar double doors.

  I’m the last to arrive. Everyone is sitting, stoic and silent, while heads turn to face me as I quietly enter.

  Alone.

  Without him.

  “Hello, Melody,” Ms. Katherine greets, and even her dazzling smile has dimmed. Mascara streaks paint her cheekbones, evidence of her grief, while plump fingers tighten around the journal in her lap. “Have a seat.”

  Realizing my shoes have frozen to the squeaky floor, I find my footing and glide over to one of the three empty chairs, all in a row. Agony grips my heart.

  “As most of you know, we lost a member of this community last week. A precious, valued member. A unique human being with a big heart and bright mind,” Ms. Katherine begins. Sweat dots her dark eyebrows as her focus lands on every one of us. “The one thing that brings us all together each week is the same thing that can easily tear us apart. I’d be lying if I said I felt no responsibility for what happened to Amelia—I was entrusted to help guide her, to keep her safe and protected from the ugly burden that weighs us all down. My duty is to show you the light through the dark tunnel we walk through together. To show you the beauty of life when the allure of death consumes you. It
’s hard not to feel like I failed.”

  My timid voice interrupts, unsteady and unplanned. “I was her Lifeline,” I squeak out.

  A heavy plume of guilt hovers in the air, so thick I could cut it with a knife.

  I wish I could. I wish I could slice it to shreds, cleave and carve it, sever it from my bones and bleeding heart.

  But guilt is a stubborn invader, and it can’t be forced out.

  Ms. Katherine’s expression is etched with tender compassion as her focus settles on me. “Lifelines are there for those who choose to use them, Melody. These meetings are a choice; this outlet of support is a choice. This weight is not yours to carry,” she says gently. Ducking her head with a sigh, she finishes, “Just as it’s not mine. It’s hard to see these things objectively when emotions overpower.”

  My eyes sting with fresh tears.

  “We are not responsible for the choices that others make. It’s human condition to latch onto the whys and what ifs because that gives us power when we feel like we have none. But we’re looking for power in the wrong place,” she explains. “The power is not in the past—it’s in the present. It’s in how we choose to move forward, and how we can mold our grief into something useful. Something beautiful.”

  I drink her words in like sustenance. I never thought to look for beauty in grief. How can there be any trace of goodness in something so ugly?

  At the end of the meeting, I stay rooted to my plastic chair as fellow members file out the double doors. I remain seated and still until the room is empty, save for only me and Ms. Katherine. She studies me fondly, almost as if she anticipated this engagement—this one-on-one interaction.

  Swallowing a biting breath, I whisper, “How did you mold your grief into something beautiful?”

  Ms. Katherine’s smile stretches her round, flushed cheeks, and she pats the leather-swathed journal that rests atop her thighs. “Can I tell you a story?” she wonders softly.