Nothing that will remind me of Charlie and his bright personality, or the way we would take bubble baths together in the soaking tub and make love beneath the shower jets.
Slipping my hands into my pockets, I linger in front of the bathroom, watching Parker assess the workload. “Do you think it’ll look good?”
His eyes skim the space before he pins them on me. “Can’t go wrong with subway tile.”
“I agree. I wanted something simple… understated.”
A few beats pass between us, gazes still locked, and I wonder how he always manages to say so much without saying anything at all. While I can’t decipher what he’s trying to tell me, I feel the vibrations of his unsaid words beneath my ribs, in my throat, and low, low in my belly.
Fidgeting under his jade stare, I’m unsure of what to say, so I just smile, bright and happy. I get the feeling that people don’t smile at him often. Or at all.
Parker’s jaw clenches at the sentiment. “You do that a lot.”
“What?” I slink back, a little self-conscious. “Smile?”
“Yeah.” His eyes narrow with a semblance of scrutiny, brows furrowing. “People smile too much. I never understood it. Smiles should be saved for things that bring us real joy, and we give them away so easily, so carelessly. To strangers on the street—to people we don’t even like.”
I’m not certain if I’m more taken aback by the fact that he just strung together more than three words, or by the words themselves.
Or… that he’s noticed me. My smile.
Parker seems to share in my surprise and quickly averts his eyes, scratching at his hair. He looks frustrated with himself—with his brief burst of vulnerability.
I blink myself from the stupor. “I don’t see it like that at all. I think—”
“I’m going to get started. I’ll have it done in a couple of days.”
Parker disappears into the bathroom without another word, successfully shutting me down. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, making a hissing sound, observing the way he gets right to work, kneeling down with his t-shirt riding up his back to reveal a small stretch of bronzed skin. Shaking my head, I shuffle backwards until I’m moving out of the bedroom, and I can’t help but wonder what his story is. What broke him. I wonder if his pieces are scattered like Zephyr’s—how far they’ve traveled, how long he’s been walking around with cracks and missing parts.
But what I’ve learned about broken things is that they can always be put back together. It’s just a matter of how much time you’re willing to put into making the pieces fit. How much patience. How much diligence.
I finally head back down the stairs, unsurprised to find Leah sprawled across my brother’s lap, head perched on the decorative pillow atop his thighs.
She shoots upright when she spots me. “Girl.”
Here we go.
I fiddle with the long sleeve of my flowy white tunic. “There’s no point, Leah.”
“You don’t think he’d be into me?”
“I don’t think he’s into… anyone. Or anything.”
“Okay, okay,” Leah breezes, nodding with consideration. “The tortured silent type. I can work with that.”
West scoffs. “That was your takeaway?”
“Yes, Westley, that was my takeaway. Not everyone can pull off the “drooling and desperate” angle like you can.”
He tosses the pillow at her.
My eye roll is automatic as I saunter over to the couch, plopping down beside my friend. “I didn’t want to say it in front of him, but I met him at Loving Lifelines. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t share. I think something bad happened to him.”
“Shit.” Leah’s eyes soften as she turns to look at me. “Maybe he needs a friend. You should invite him out for a beer with us tonight. Sometimes people just need that little push, you know? To feel included. Noticed.”
“I don’t think he wants to be noticed.”
My response spills out unsought and candid, and it’s a sad declaration.
Sad and relatable.
And then I think…
Some people don’t want to be noticed, but maybe that’s exactly what they need.
Charlie thought I looked sexy in red.
“It’s a striking contrast to your skin, like holly berries sprinkled into a winter snowfall,” he told me once, always the poet. Always the romantic.
I’d wear red as often as possible because it made him happy. Cocktail dresses, high heels, barrettes, lipstick. Crimson, scarlet, roses, and wine.
The tube of lipstick slides along my lower lip, butter soft, complementing my matching maxi dress. I press my lips together, then pucker my mouth, noting how my fingers are trembling as I pop the cap back on. The reflection staring back at me is one I haven’t witnessed in well over a year—face decorated in makeup, lightly curled hair, a pretty dress.
Effort.
With a quick smile at myself in the mirror, I reach for a small bag resting on the counter and make my way out of the hall bathroom. The trek towards my bedroom feels longer than usual as the sound of a power drill welcomes me like a musical score for my grand entrance. I clench the little paper bag between nervous fingers, shuffling my bare feet when Parker comes into view on the floor, installing the new bathtub.
“Hi.” He doesn’t hear me over the shrieking drill, so I clear my throat. “Hi,” I say louder, until he lifts up on his knees and twists to face me, silencing the drill. There’s a smear of pewter paint along the side of his jawline and a sheen of sweat glistening his forehead.
Parker frowns slightly, eyeing me from toes to top. “Did you need something?”
The bag crinkles as I grip it tighter. “I, um… well, I just wanted to see if you…” I trail off, biting on my lip. Parker’s eyes narrow as my thoughts race, almost like he’s trying to read them before I can spit them out. “I was wondering if you wanted to go—”
“Don’t. You’re just going to embarrass yourself.”
His unexpected words cut me off, rendering me silent, save for the tiny gasp that escapes and joins the heaviness now hovering between us. I’m certain my cheeks are flushed as red as my dress. “Excuse me?”
“If you’re about to ask me out, I’m saving you the trouble. Just don’t. I’m not interested.”
“I wasn’t…” I’m stunned, my legs starting to quiver, my tongue tying into knots. Is he for real? What an asshole. “I wasn’t coming on to you.”
“No?” Parker stands slowly, flicking wood shavings from his work pants. He sighs, a little exasperated, his eyes skipping around the bathroom before they finally land on me. “You’re standing in front of me all made up, wearing some kind of “fuck me” dress, looking nervous as shit. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not interested.”
I feel myself shutting down, inundated by the cruelty of his words and the acidity in his tone. Bitter and venomous. His light green eyes are swimming with something… repugnant. An eerie juxtaposition to the beauty of them.
A fuck me dress? What the hell?
I’m torn between being outraged and throwing this bag at his face, and bursting into tears. “That’s bold of you to assume. You must have a very high opinion of yourself.”
“Not really.”
“So, you just enjoy being mean, then? Tearing people down when they’re trying to be nice?”
Parker hesitates before glancing my way. “Just people like you.”
“People like me,” I echo softly.
I can’t help but study him through brimming tears, desperate to expose what lies beneath the anger and the rough foundation. I’ve never responded well to negative people—I gravitate towards kindness, smiles, positive lights. People like Charlie.
And when my own light dimmed and my smile waned, it only intensified my increasing feelings of despair. My grief was turning me into something I loathed.
I was that negative person. I was the thing people like me avoided.
My eyes dip down to the carpet when
his sharp stare becomes too overbearing, and I determine his walls are far too hardened for me to poke through. “I wasn’t making a pass at you,” I mutter gently, swallowing down my own anger. “I assure you I wouldn’t be trying to seduce a man I just met in the bedroom I shared with my deceased husband.”
Parker’s silence has me glancing up, catching the wrinkle that creases his brows, the tiniest indication that he’s listening. He’s waiting for more words.
“I was inviting you out to the brewery tonight,” I continue, the paper bag now clutched between two hands, crumpled tight. “There’s a group of us going. Nobody you would know, of course, but I wanted to extend the offer. I thought maybe… maybe you could use a friend.”
His frown deepens, his grip on the drill tightening. Tension rolls off him in waves. “I don’t need any friends. I like being alone.”
“Do you? Or are you just more comfortable with it?”
“What does that matter?”
I force a smile, the smile that seems to irritate him somehow. The smile I offer so easily—so carelessly. Then I step forward, pushing through the bathroom threshold and setting the little bag beside him on the sink. “People like me might not be so different from people like you.”
Something flashes in his eyes, something fleeting, and he stiffens, his gaze drifting to the bag, then back to my face. We’re only inches apart now, and I feel his warmth, I feel his heat. He’s not as cold as he appears to be.
Parker remains silent.
Unmoving.
He’s watching me—waiting for what I’ll say next, what I’ll do.
So, I do what I do best.
I leave him with another smile and exit the bedroom.
—NINE—
9 Years Old
I don’t like it here.
I think I’m supposed to. I think I’m supposed to feel grateful and happy that they rescued me from her. That they found me curled up in that closet one day, so thirsty and weak, and saved me from my brush with death.
But… have I really been saved?
Is being transferred from one horrible place to another actually being saved, or is it just a different kind of pain?
I don’t get burned anymore, so that’s good. I’m happy for that. I don’t have to worry about the cherries of a cigarette scalding my belly and chest, making me squirm and scream until I almost faint.
My mother would always laugh at me. She’d say I sounded like a squealing pig, and then she’d hit me to shut me up when I wouldn’t stop crying.
The memories are still fresh, still vivid in my mind.
I sit on my creaky mattress on the floor with only a thin blanket to keep me warm. It’s itchy, and I wonder if there are bedbugs crawling all over it. Dipping dirty fingers underneath my t-shirt and lifting it up, I inspect the marred flesh that lies beneath. Some of my burns are still fresh—still red and swollen. Some are faded scars, only a memory.
I remember every one of them.
“Ewww! You look gross!”
A young girl named Gwen pokes her head into the room and points at me. I drop my shirt quickly, embarrassed that she saw my wounds. My horrible truth.
“You look like a gargoyle,” she snickers, covering her mouth with her hand to hold back more giggles. “You should never take your shirt off.”
Tears prickle my eyes as I watch her skip away.
There’s so much noise on the other side of that cracked door. So many kids chasing each other through long hallways, tattling and bickering. Laughter and friendships. I can’t relate to any of it. I have seven foster siblings, and no one really talks to me. No one notices me. I arrived at this house over a week ago, and not one person cares about me—not even my foster mother.
Her name is Wendy, and she reminds me of my own mother. Her hair is a reddish color, cut short and cropped, her gangly frame somehow powerful and intimidating. I don’t think she drinks a lot of vodka like my mother did, but she’s still cruel. She banished me to this room all by myself, saying I was trouble.
All I did was try to eat a cookie. I was hungry. My mother hardly fed me anything.
Anger boils inside me when I think about the woman who birthed me, who gained custody of me when my father passed away four years ago.
I was only five years old when my life turned into a terrible nightmare.
The only time I’m at peace is when I’m sleeping. I dream about him sometimes—my father. He was a good man, a wise man, and he taught me a lot of things before he died. He loved history and Greek mythology. My favorite memories are listening to his stories on the front porch and watching the daylilies bloom while the breeze rolled through, as our pup, Roscoe, chased his tail in the center of the lawn.
I wish he didn’t die. I wish he didn’t die and leave me with her.
A trail of tears inch down my cheeks, a feeling I’m used to. I cried a lot, especially when she’d lock me in that dark closet without food or water for hours, sometimes days. She forgot about me all the time. Mostly when she drank the vodka.
Everyone here forgot about me, too.
I guess I’m just forgettable.
Swiping at the tearstains, I sniffle and lift my chin when there’s a soft knock at the big wood door. I blink, wondering if it’s Gwen playing a prank on me. She’s so nasty—always making fun of me and calling me names.
But the person doesn’t come inside, so I wait another minute before standing up on skinny legs and trekking over to the door. I’m cautious as I pull it open, afraid Wendy might see me and punish me with whips or burns.
I don’t see anyone at first. And when I dip my eyes down to the floor, there’s a special treat waiting for me. A cookie.
A cookie!
There, on a white paper plate, rests a yummy chocolate chip cookie.
I bend over to snatch it up, my mouth already watering. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, so my belly is singing extra loud.
But… who was here? Who left the cookie?
It certainly couldn’t have been Wendy. And it definitely wasn’t Gwen. As for all the others, I don’t think they even know I exist.
Wondering if I’ll ever know, I stand up straight, backing up into the room with the cookie clutched to my chest. Before I shut the door, my sights land on a figure at the opposite end of the hallway, poking her head around the corner. My eyes pop.
It’s a girl. She looks a little older than me, maybe eleven or twelve. Her hair is a mess of crazy brown curls, and she offers me a little wave as I watch in curious wonder.
My entire body warms in response. My heart skips a beat. I’m not sure how to react to this, how to thank this mysterious girl for her kindness.
But she doesn’t wait for an offering of gratitude. She doesn’t expect anything in return.
She just smiles at me.
She smiles.
And I think it fills me up more than the cookie ever could.
The girl disappears then, moving out of sight behind the wall, and I stand there frozen for a moment, wondering if I’ll make a friend in this scary place after all.
The thought is a comfort to me as I traipse back to the mattress and sit down, taking hungry bites out of the sweet treat, still warm from the oven.
It’s so good!
I can’t help but let my own smile slip out, and I don’t even remember the last time I did that. Maybe with my father. Maybe it was when Roscoe was licking cherry juice off my chin as we toppled over beside the fruit tree in the backyard, then joined my father on the porch to watch the rising sun.
I used to love the sunrise. It made me feel fuzzy inside, like something magical was about to happen.
I have that same feeling right now, only it’s not the sunrise. It’s not even the cookie.
It’s the girl. It’s the girl with curly hair and a crooked smile who did a nice thing for me when nobody else cared.
Swallowing down the last bite of cookie and savoring the chocolatey taste, I let out a thankful sigh and lie down, pulling
the itchy blanket up to my chin.
She sees me.
“People like me might not be so different from people like you.”
I feel my limbs stiffen at her words and close proximity. She sets a paper bag next to me on the new marble sink, and I spare it a glance before returning my attention to her.
Her fluffed hair and painted lips. Her citrus scent made of lemons and sunshine. Her dress that would have most men itching to know what’s underneath it.
But I’m not that man, so my attention settles on her eyes.
Not the interesting shape, of course, or the deep emerald color, or the way her long lashes flutter with a conflicting mix of timidity and surety.
I’m struck by the vulnerability. The softness in her gaze.
It baffles me because I just insulted her, speared her with my hate and pent-up bitterness, leveled her with my scorn against the female species… and yet, she’s standing in front of me, only inches away, all sweetness and light. Any other woman would have likely fired me on the spot, told me to get lost—possibly slapped me. I would have deserved it all, but I wouldn’t have given two-shits about it. I have enough jobs to keep food on my table for a long time.
Fuck, I was goddamn sure she was coming on to me. The amount of pathetic housewives who have hit on me during a job, gawked at me with their googly eyes, and thrown themselves at me with no shame because their corporate-pieces-of-shit-husbands don’t know how to get them off is astounding.
What would make Melody any different?
She sends me another smile, prompting my fingers to curl into fists at my sides because I’m really goddamn irritated that she keeps doing that. I want her to leave me alone with her soft edges and sunshine smiles. I never asked for any of that shit.
I’m irritated, because for the first fucking time in my life, I almost feel a little bit… guilty.
The Wrong Heart Page 7