The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  Parker stands from his chair, and my eyes trail him as he saunters over to the little snack table, stocked with a Keurig, along with packaged crackers and cookies. He flips through the coffee flavors while I make a quick decision to join him. I’m not sure why. He’s not at all approachable—in fact, he hasn’t said a word this entire meeting. Parker doesn’t participate in any discussions or offer his starting points. He never smiles.

  I’m pretty sure I even caught him sleeping.

  But something pulls me to my feet and guides me over to him, an invisible force, an insatiable curiosity. I’m desperate to learn how he’s tempered his pain.

  Parker is fiddling with the Keurig machine when I come up beside him, lacing my fingers together in front of me and gnawing at my lip. I clear the hitch in my throat. “Hey.”

  He ignores my greeting, pressing an assortment of buttons until the coffee maker roars to life. His hair is a mess of unruly waves and curls, longer up top and short in the back. It’s a dark, dark brown, almost black, which makes his light green eyes all the more striking.

  Those eyes flicker over to me, skimming down my body, then back up in a quick sweep until he returns his attention to the table.

  “You were watching me,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady as I take in the way he sifts through the basket of assorted crackers.

  “Was I?”

  He doesn’t spare me a glance as he replies, his focus pinned on the little bag of Wheat Thins. Parker pulls it open, eyeing the contents, and I drum my fingers along the floral tablecloth. His dark denim looks worn, his t-shirt faded. He’s put no effort into his outward appearance, and yet he still commands attention somehow. I swallow. “Yes.”

  Shaking the bag around, he takes a cracker out between two fingers and pops it into his mouth. Then, he finally turns to look at me, slipping his unoccupied hand into the pocket of his jeans while he chews. “And you want to know why?”

  “No. I want to know what you saw.”

  Parker hesitates mid-chew, his jaw ticking, almost as if I’ve taken him off guard by my answer. But he recovers quickly, his expression turning stoic. “I saw what I always see when I look at your kind.”

  My kind?

  The broken? The grieving?

  I’m about to ask him to clarify, but the car salesman, Robert, pushes his way between us to sort through the snack basket, and the moment is severed. Parker doesn’t elaborate, and instead, pushes off the table and makes his way back to his chair, leaving me frowning and confused.

  And oddly, more intrigued.

  When I’m stressed, I bake.

  When I’m restless, I bake.

  When I’m on the verge of an emotional breakdown… I bake.

  Some people exercise or read, or take hot baths with scented candles and mood music. I knead batter, weigh flour, and play with fondant like I’m a toddler with Play-Doh. It sedates my inner demons in a way nothing else can, and I think it’s because I feel close to him when I’m in the kitchen, mixing and blending and measuring.

  It’s my vice. My escape.

  My cell phone pings from the kitchen table, so I swipe both of my white-dusted palms along my apron and fetch it, letting a smile lift when I see Leah’s name light up the screen.

  Leah: LOVE YOU SO MUCH. Miss your face. And that cute ass of yours. Has anyone told you what a nice butt you have? Seriously. It’s fantastic. I’m sure you already know. Am I making this weird? Fuck. I always do this. It’s totally weird now. But you still love me, right? Muahhh.

  God, I adore her.

  I shoot her a quick text back, taking a seat.

  Me: It’s always weird. That’s why I love us. Coffee talk on Saturday?

  While I await her response, I scroll through my unopened texts and nibble my lip when I notice a missed message from my mother.

  Mom: Give me a call when you can, sweetie. Dad threw out his back and won’t be able to finish the remodel on your bathroom. He’s okay, don’t worry. I will try to see if Al is able to give you a good price.

  A lump forms in the back of my throat as I attempt to call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail, which means she’s probably in bed already.

  The bathroom.

  It was one of the last things Charlie and I discussed before…

  Before winter rolled in.

  We bought this house together three years ago, and it was a fixer-upper to say the least. Drab carpeting, funky wallpaper, a mauve master bathroom. Mauve. It was a running joke between us for years, but it was always pushed to the bottom of the to-do list, trumped by other projects and financial commitments. But Charlie had received quite a large pay raise at the beginning of the year, giving us the opportunity to finally tackle the bathroom.

  It was one of many things left undone, and one I finally decided to pull the trigger on after an entire year of crying myself to sleep on those mulberry tiles, begging the decorative, floral wallpaper to bring him back to me.

  I send my mother a reply, licking a dab of lemon batter from my index finger.

  Me: Give Dad a big hug for me. Don’t worry about the bathroom. I’ll stop by for dinner this week. xoxo

  There’s a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach when I set my phone down. A tumor. And it’s the malignant kind, that I know, invasive and deadly, spreading rapidly and infecting all the parts of me I try to keep from its reach—from its stems and hungry roots.

  But I’m stronger than my sickness.

  I have to be.

  Heaving in a calming breath, I pluck my phone from the tabletop and open up my e-mail app. An unsent draft stares back at me, riddled with clumsy words and ill-defined thoughts.

  What does one say to the man who holds her husband’s beloved heart in his chest?

  What am I supposed to say to this person, this faceless man, who is by all accounts a complete stranger, but who feels closer to me than anyone else in this world?

  He has what I want. He has what I crave.

  He has a piece of my heart inside of him.

  I enlarge the little window that hosts my response, worrying my lip between my teeth as my brain scrambles to assemble words and coherent thoughts. And then my thumbs start swiping at the digital keypad, transmitting a frenzy of feelings.

  from:

  Magnolia

  to:

  Zephyr79@gmail.com

  date:

  Apr 25, 2021, 10:33 PM

  subject:

  Unperfect

  Zephyr,

  I’m sorry it took me so long to reply. I was trying to find the perfect words, until I realized… you’re right. There’s no such thing as perfect. There are only words and what we take from them. So, here are the unperfect words I have for you today.

  Grief is a mechanical bull.

  You can hold on as tight as you can with white-knuckled fists, clenched teeth, and tears biting at your eyes, but you’re destined to lose your grip. You’re going to get thrown.

  And when you hit the ground, it’s going to hurt like hell.

  People will try to help you up, tell you it’s okay, encourage you to hop back on and try again.

  So, you’ll try again, expecting a different result, or at the very least, hope that you can hold on a little tighter this time—stay on a little longer.

  But you’ll still get thrown. And it will still hurt.

  I think the key to healing is accepting that your grief isn’t going anywhere, then getting back on the bull anyway. One day, you’ll start to enjoy the ride more than you’ll fear the anticipation of the inevitable fall.

  I can’t wait for that day.

  — Magnolia

  I hold my breath, squeezing the phone in my hand as I click “send.”

  And then my heart starts to thump erratically when I notice the little dot by his name turn green, alerting me that he’s online. He’s probably reading my e-mail right now.

  Something about that feels so… intimate.

  My feet tap the wood pl
anks beneath my kitchen table as I wait for him to respond, my palms sweaty, my chest rattling with suspense. I wait a few minutes, then a few more, almost ready to turn off my phone and call it a night, when a little message box pops up, and my breath catches.

  Zephyr: I think you meant “imperfect.”

  I blink at the response, frozen. Mentally tongue-tied. Those five words hang between us, nearly palpable, something I can almost reach out and touch. With the e-mail correspondence, there was a bit of a disconnect—room to pretend.

  The imaginary Zephyr and his make-believe heart.

  But this, this instant messaging, this live conversation… it all feels too real.

  There’s a bitter sting in the back of my throat, and I notice that my hands are trembling as I hold the phone face a few inches from mine.

  Think, think, think.

  Words.

  I need words.

  I swallow back the sting and the residue it leaves behind, then type out a rambling reply.

  Me: I didn’t. Unperfect and imperfect are both accurate and carry the same meaning, but unperfect is less recognized. It’s overshadowed by its prettier, shinier counterpart, and I can’t help but relate to that. Everything deserves a chance to make a comeback, you know?

  A heartbeat skips by before his response comes through.

  Zephyr: Touché.

  It only takes one more heartbeat for me to realize that I’m smiling.

  —SEVEN—

  “Dancing in the lake.”

  I find myself watching her again, elbow to knee, my chin propped up by the heel of my hand. Her heartbreak is tangible, engraved into her voice, carved into her skin, and coiled around every piece of her like barbed wire.

  But something about her looks different today, and it pisses me off that I even notice.

  It pisses me off because that means I’ve been paying attention to something other than my own hollow misery. Something other than my cemetery of scars.

  Her spine is straighter, her eyes brighter. There’s color in her cheeks.

  It’s almost as if she’s getting something out of this charade.

  Ms. Katherine offers a simulated smile, head bobbing slowly. “That sounds wonderful, Melody.”

  Melody.

  Honestly, her name irritates the fuck out of me. No woman should have a name like music and a face like poetry. She’s a walking contradiction.

  I pull my eyes off her when it registers that I just compared her face to poetry.

  What the fuck?

  Leaning back in the chair, my teeth grind together so hard, I’m pretty sure I might pop my carotid artery. But I can’t help my gaze from trailing back to the curious blonde when she continues to speak.

  “My father used to take me down to Delavan Lake when I was little. The water would frighten me, and I wasn’t a very strong swimmer. I would just kind of tread along the shallow end, wishing I were brave enough to join my brother and his friends,” Melody explains, the hint of a smile tugging on her lips. She pauses for a moment, lost in some kind of idyllic reverie. “One day, I had this mini meltdown in the sand, frustrated, angry at myself for being too scared to swim. So, my father told me to dance instead. He said there was nothing scary about dancing.”

  My eyes flick over her face, my jaw still rigid, molars aching. She fists the hem of her tunic between tight fingers, a conflicting mix of liberated and timid, as the members of the circle watch with interested stares. Some even have tears in their eyes.

  Dumb.

  “Did you dance?” the shrew probes.

  Melody finishes with a soft nod, clearing her throat. “I danced. I danced for a long time, until the sun started to set over the lake and the water turned orange. I danced until I could swim.”

  “I think that’s a pretty incredible metaphor for life, don’t you think?” Ms. Katherine offers with a soothing lull to her tone. “I really love that, Melody.”

  Gag me.

  I’m inclined to say something, to poke holes in that foolish metaphor, but the words are cut short when Melody twists her head to the left and our eyes meet.

  And then she fucking smiles at me.

  The gesture procures a frown to unfurl between my eyebrows, confused as to why she’s smiling at me, confused as to why she’s smiling at all. But even my scowl doesn’t hamper the way her lips curl up, the way her nose crinkles slightly, or the way the green flecks in her eyes spark to life with something akin to benevolence.

  It’s not pity. Pity I’m used to—pity I can do. It’s not any kind of come-hither advance either.

  I can easily manifest those things into more bitterness and hostility.

  I’m accustomed to vapid, brainless women trying to stick their claws in me, trying to lure me with their coy words and flirtation, just because my physical appearance exceeds social standards. They have no idea the ugliness that dwells inside, or what lurks within the shadows.

  I look down at the floor, breaking contact and running my tongue along my top teeth as I mentally retreat from the unfamiliar exchange. Refusing to humor her with any more attention, I remain zoned out and focused on the wall in front of me for the remainder of the meeting.

  “I want to remind you of the importance of Lifelines,” Ms. Katherine announces before wrapping up this ridiculous waste of time. “If you haven’t connected with anyone yet, I encourage you to take the opportunity to get to know your fellow survivors. It’s advised that you seek out a same-gender Lifeline. Build that connection, create that link. You never know when you might need it.”

  Ah, yes. Lifelines. It’s similar to having a sponsor, like in A. A., only no one is more progressed or further along in the healing process than the other. It’s an arranged, mutual commitment between two complete strangers, where they are expected to reach out to one another if any suicidal tendencies emerge. If the desire to die becomes too tempting.

  It’s utter bullshit.

  If you can’t decide for yourself that you want to wake up the next morning, Robert at the car dealership sure as fuck isn’t going to convince you to step away from the edge of the tall cliff.

  People begin to disperse, and I bestow a quick glance to my right and catch Emo Chick conversing with the new girl, discussing Lifelines and hamsters and a bunch of shit that is of zero interest to me. Taking that as my cue, I lift from my seat and stalk towards the exit, eager to get the fuck out of this special level of Hell.

  “Parker.”

  A soft voice meets my back, giving me pause, causing my legs to still before I reach the double doors. I’m not used to hearing the sound of my own name, mostly because no one is ever around to say it.

  Just Bree.

  I don’t turn around right away, but I feel her body heat closing in. Radiating into me like fucking sunshine.

  I hate sunshine.

  “Sorry,” she says, coming up beside me until I finally pivot towards her and we’re face-to-face. “I brought you something.”

  The fuck?

  That frown is back, that frosty scowl that would send most people running in the other direction but doesn’t seem to have the same effect on her. “What?” I say the word like I didn’t hear her. Maybe I didn’t.

  “I brought you something,” she repeats, blinking as she looks up at me, her petite frame hardly coming up to my chest. Melody falters briefly, almost as if her eyes are stuck to me, then clears her throat and glances down at a little gift bag in her hand. “Here.”

  The offering is just a blur in my peripheral as she holds it up. I don’t look at it. I don’t say anything either, which always makes things nice and awkward.

  Melody gnaws on the underside of her bottom lip as the silence envelops us, and the gesture captures my attention for a moment before my eyes slide back up in haste as if they were scolded.

  “Here, take it,” she insists, shoving the bag at me.

  I release a stoical sigh and snap my wrist up, curling my fingers around the drawstrings. A cupcake sits inside the decorativ
e sack, encased within a plastic container. “What’s this?”

  “A cupcake.” Her subsequent frown replies with, “Duh, you moron.”

  “A cupcake,” I parrot.

  “Yes, a cupcake. It’s lemon-flavored cake with meringue filling and raspberry cream frosting.”

  Shit. That sounds kind of fucking delicious.

  Luckily, I’ve perfected the art of indifference, so I just stare at her, the little bag dangling from one finger. “Have I mistakenly given you the impression that I like handouts? Or people?”

  Melody flinches ever so slightly. “I mean, I brought one for Amelia, too, so you don’t need to feel special or anything. I’m a baker. It’s what I do.”

  “A baker? You do this for a living?”

  “Yes.” She dips her eyes to my chest, scanning the lettering across my t-shirt, the one I didn’t have time to change out of before coming to this shitshow. “Are you in construction?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Um…” Melody squints her eyes, still focused on the Denison Demos & Designs logo across my dirt-smudged shirt. “I need some work done, actually. My dad was renovating our bathr—” Something steals her words, and she drops her chin to her chest. “My bathroom. I need someone to finish it.”

  It takes a moment for her eyes to trail back up to me, and when they do, there’s a shift. The light dims, and the green dulls. “You’re looking to hire me?”

  “I think so. Sure. If you’re available.”

  “You’re not going to pay me in cupcakes, are you?” It wasn’t meant to be funny. I’m not a funny person. But Melody fucking smiles again, causing my glower to reappear, an overcast sky to her sunshine, and I shuffle backwards, gaze lowering to my sawdust-speckled work boots. “Fine, okay. I’m pretty busy right now, but I’ll take a look at the schedule.”