Like she didn’t deserve that.
Melody turns to leave, her scent a cruel reminder of her existence, and my body finally relaxes when she’s out of sight. I close my eyes, trying to regain my wits, trying to calm the pressure in my chest. But I’m not calm, I’m never calm, and when I glance back at the little paper bag with a girly heart sticker fixed to the front that says, “Thank You”, that tension instantly reappears.
I already know what it is.
Snatching the bag and blowing out a hard breath, I unravel the rumpled top and peek inside. Another cupcake stares back at me, looking just as appealing as the last one.
This one has a cherry on top.
And motherfucking sprinkles.
I toss it back onto the countertop, knowing damn well I’m going to eat the hell out of it later, and collapse onto the toilet seat, ruffling my hair with one hand.
My tools lie strewn about the new tile flooring, beckoning me to get back to work, but all I can think about is sitting all alone in that foster house, rooted to a flimsy mattress that reeked of mildew. I didn’t even have a pillow. All I had were my dark thoughts and a hell of a lot of scars.
I swallow, thinking back to my years in that house.
There was so much noise, so much chaos, so many kids running round, screaming and laughing.
Nobody ever noticed I was there.
Nobody except for Bree.
As I lose myself in old memories and bleak thoughts, my eyes land on the cupcake bag again, and I grit my teeth, knowing exactly what it means.
She sees me.
—TEN—
“The song, Unchained Melody.”
I fist the hem of my blush blouse between my fingers, sinking into sweet memories. I love discussing starting points. I love acknowledging the power of simple things—things we don’t even realize are important to us.
Ms. Katherine offers her kind smile, clutching the leather-bound journal to her chest. I’m not sure if she’s ever even used it, but she brings it to every meeting. “The Righteous Brothers. One of my favorites.”
“It’s kind of old school, I know, but my parents named me after that song. It was their song.”
“And now it’s your song,” she concludes, her grin broadening.
“Yes. I guess so.” A warmth sweeps through me as I recall standing on my father’s loafers and slow-dancing to the classic ballad in our living room while Mom made dinner in the kitchen. The savory scents of garlic, butter, and sauteed onions would always beckon us to the table before the song was over, but Dad would wave his silverware in the air, mimicking the epic crescendo at the end, and I would laugh, while Mom would just shake her head at him.
I decide in that moment that I’ll go visit them tonight after the meeting.
“I don’t think I know that song,” Amelia adds, leaning back in her chair with crossed legs. She’s wearing all black like she always does, and her eyeliner is winged and purple, matching the streaks in her hair. “I’ll have to listen to it.”
I turn to my left, gifting her a smile. It’s impossible not to notice Parker on the other side of her, bent over with his elbows to his knees, watching me. He always watches me when I give my starting points, almost as if he’s soaking up every word. It’s confusing.
He doesn’t watch anyone else.
“You should,” I tell Amelia. “It’s a little dated for your generation, but it’s really beautiful.”
She nods, lowering her eyes and picking at her fingernails.
Amelia and I became Lifelines at a recent meeting, exchanging phone numbers and addresses. While I can’t imagine ever feeling the way I did on that dark, dark night, knife in my hand, heart in my throat, I feel safer with Amelia’s number saved into my phone. Desperation seeps in unplanned sometimes, blackening our veins until all we feel is… done.
I never want to feel done.
I’m not ready.
I know I’m not ready yet.
We take our fifteen-minute break, and Amelia leans over to me, holding out the underside of her arm. “Do you ever compare scars?” she wonders aloud, her arm twisting side to side, a spattering of scars illuminated by the recessed lighting.
Amelia’s arms are usually covered by black sleeves, so I’ve never noticed the puckered marks underneath, alarmingly striking against her porcelain skin. I pull my lips between my teeth and shake my head. “No. That’s like comparing tragedies. Pain is pain.”
She smiles softly. “Can I see yours?”
“Oh, um…” Tinkering with my sleeve, I fidget in place, gripped by a wave of insecurity. I’m not proud of my scar. It’s not a noble battle wound or honorable trophy. It’s evidence of my weakness—my lowest point. But I nod anyway, lifting the fabric until my own scar is revealed, a jagged, ugly blemish carved into my skin by my own design. I gulp, looking away. “I’m embarrassed by it.”
“You are? I think it’s beautiful.”
My head jerks toward her, my brows knitting together. “It’s horrifying. It’s… sad.”
“Sad things can be beautiful,” she counters. Amelia’s eyes case over the ghastly scar that travels midway up my arm. “Scars tell a story. We’re storytellers, you and me.”
The lump in my throat swells. “You did that to yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m a cutter. Most cutters try to hide their scars, but not me. Every one of these little scars tells a story,” Amelia explains, her smile still etched upon her amethyst-tinged lips. “They’re kind of like tattoos, you know? Only, I’m the artist. And no one really knows what they mean except for me.” Her grin broadens, almost eerily. “I’m decorated in beautiful secrets.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Parker shakes his head with a miserable groan that he can’t quite hide. He’s slouched down in his seat, legs sprawled out in front of him like usual, matching his “I don’t give a crap” attitude. His eyes are closed now, but his ears are clearly taking in our conversation.
Amelia notices, wondering, “You don’t agree, Parker?”
One eye opens, then the other, and he stares straight ahead and sighs. “I think anyone who finds pleasure in carving themselves up needs therapy far more advanced than this three-ring circus that has nearly enticed me to jump off the nearest bridge a lot more frequently than my own misery, which is literally the opposite of its purpose.”
If she’s offended by his tirade, it doesn’t show. “Maybe cutting is my therapy,” Amelia tells him, her inflection still soft and amiable. “Not everyone heals in the same way.”
“That’s not healing,” he mumbles. “That’s an excuse. That’s a justification to remain stunted and stagnant because you’re too lazy to put in the actual work to get better.”
Amelia finally flinches back, as if his words physically slapped her.
Parker rises from the chair, his gaze flicking to me, then back to Amelia. “There’s nothing beautiful about pain and suffering. Anyone who thinks otherwise never truly experienced it.”
My chest constricts with labored breaths, my throat tightening at his words. Amelia remains silent, scuffing her knee-high boots against the linoleum and avoiding my stare. “I’ll be right back,” I croak out, instinctually standing from my own seat and following Parker over to the snack table, where he’s aimlessly spinning the little carousel of coffee selections.
“That wasn’t helpful,” I say, my words sharp, but my tone gentle.
“No?” Parker uses one finger to sort through the different flavors, not bothering to look over. “I disagree.”
“It was harsh.”
His eyes finally fall on me. “Harsh or honest?”
The question gives me pause.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe some people need the kind of honesty that sucker-punches you in the gut and steals your breath. The kind that enrages you. Offends you, even.
Until you put aside your ego and truly listen.
I nibble my lip, arms folding across my chest, our gazes locked for another beat before he pulls away and c
hooses a coffee flavor. “I was thinking about what you said the other day. About smiling.”
Parker wavers, then pops open the top of the Keurig. “Yeah? I bet you were thinking about how right I was.”
I’m almost certain there was a trace of levity in his tone. Something sort of … playful. But the thought alone seems preposterous, so I convince myself it was only wishful thinking. “The opposite, actually. I was coming up with a thousand different reasons to counter your theory.”
“A thousand,” he breezes. “I’ll wait.”
“But I only need one.”
Parker gives me his half-hearted attention, only a side-eye, but I know he’s all ears. He leans forward on his palms, waiting for the coffee to dispense.
Waiting for my reason.
“You noticed it,” I finally say.
Parker’s shoulders tense, his head bowing briefly as his jaw clenches, then he lifts his gaze back to mine. I have his full attention now. “What does that mean?”
“You noticed my smile,” I explain. “And you don’t notice much of anything. You said I smiled too much—you twisted it into something negative, but you only did that because you didn’t like that you noticed it. It made you uncomfortable. You hated the way it pierced through your heavy armor and warmed you up inside.” My words and thoughts spill out completely unrestrained, and I only stop to take a quick breath. “It means I’ll give away all the smiles. I’ll smile at strangers on the street, at people I don’t even like. I’ll smile all damn day, even if only one person notices, because maybe it’s all they need to feel better that day. Maybe it’s what they secretly crave. Maybe it will give them a reason to smile… and I think that’s pretty powerful.”
My cheeks heat as my unfiltered truth bomb detonates between us, and Parker only stares at me, he just stares in that way that he does, where I feel utterly naked and exposed, my skeletons on full display.
But then his lips twitch, and he says, “I think that was more than one reason.”
I’m not expecting that response, or for that almost-playful tone to reappear, so I stand there frozen for one long moment before I manage a head shake. “It wasn’t.”
“It was a lot of words.”
Well, crap. Now I’m pretty positive he’s teasing.
And I have no clue how to handle it.
I don’t know what to say. I’m all out of words.
So… I smile.
Because that’s what I do best.
Parker’s eyes dip to my mouth, and his gaze lingers there for a beat longer than expected. When he finds my eyes again, all remnants of humor disintegrate. “Stop doing that.”
I smile bigger. “Nope.”
“It’s obnoxious.”
“It’s contagious.”
“Hardly.” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow, causing him to reel back with a frown. “Ow.”
“Smile.”
“What? No.”
“You know you want to.”
“Actually… no.”
My smile blooms even brighter. “Please?”
“No.”
When I go to bop him with my elbow again, I’m startled when Parker reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders. His hands slide lower, fingers curling around my upper arms—not too hard, but enough to cause my lungs to expel a stunned breath, my lips parting with a tiny gasp.
Parker’s eyes go straight to those lips as he whispers, “Stop.”
He feels so close, closer than he actually is, and I’m suffocating on his scent. Clean and crisp. My skin warms beneath his fingers, the heat traveling up my chest, my neck, and settling in the apples of my cheeks.
And then I feel it.
Something familiar yet obsolete.
A tingle.
Coiling deep down, sparking to life, and rising from the dead.
There’s a séance going on inside of me.
And I think it should be a good thing, this feeling.
But I’m a little bit horrified, mostly confused, and I’m wondering why the hell he’s still so focused on my mouth when my smile is long gone.
Parker blinks, his eyes skimming back up my face, eyebrows furrowing into his usual scowl, the lines in his face hardening. He releases me like I just burned him.
But I’m honestly not sure who burned who.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he steps away, far away, a vein in his neck bulging. “You’re like the goddamn sun,” he spits out.
The analogy all but stops my heart.
“You’re the sun, Melody March.”
My blood freezes, a winter draft whispering along my skin and burrowing into my bones.
It’s strange. It’s strange how something so precious, so romantic coming from Charlie, can sound so hostile on Parker’s tongue.
It’s an insult.
Gathering my wits, I inhale a rickety breath and wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to subdue the chill. “Bright? Happy?” I offer, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
Parker squints his eyes, taking one more step back. “Intrusive.”
He levels me with a final glare, then spins around and walks out of the meeting, abandoning his coffee. Abandoning whatever the hell just happened.
I let out the breath I was holding onto and turn to face the center of the room, where the meeting is about to resume.
But my feet halt before they can move because I notice… all eyes are on me.
Watching. Observing.
With flushed cheeks and my eyes to the floor, I slink back over to my chair and sit down. I send a quick glance over to Parker’s empty seat, and I wonder.
I can’t help but wonder…
What did they see?
—ELEVEN—
Later that night, I’m lying on my parent’s rose-patterned sofa, my belly full and my thoughts scattered.
I love this couch. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen, but I love it anyway. It reminds me of tickle fights and drippy popsicles and sick days from school, where I’d spend the whole day lounging and watching Nickelodeon.
“I’m so glad you came by,” Mom says, hovering at the edge of the living room as I smile over to her. She dries her hands on a dish towel, returning the sentiment. “We haven’t seen you in weeks.”
My heart aches. “I’m sorry.”
My mother, Claire Dahlberg, is petite and pretty, the laugh lines and wrinkles around her mouth a testament to her perky disposition and a clear indicator that I’m her daughter. I look just like her with our matching smiles, green eyes, and light, light hair, our skin pearly and sallow. West looks more like our father, Lucas, his Swedish descent evident in his crystal blue eyes and tall stature. Dad had to work late tonight and won’t be home until close to midnight, so I make a mental note to swing by for another dinner date this week.
Mom props her shoulder against the wall, studying me with motherly worry. “West says you’ve been doing better.”
My hands are perched beneath my cheek as I rest atop a decorative pillow. Our dog, Marley, an old Dachshund, lies curled up at my feet. “I am doing better.”
I’m not great. I’m not thriving.
But I’m better.
And better is better.
“How are the meetings going?” she wonders after a thoughtful sigh.
My cheeks grow hot when the first thing that pops into my mind is Parker and our strange altercation this evening. I should be thinking about the starting points, or Ms. Katherine’s kind smile, or Amelia’s sad stories, or Robert’s brush with death when someone lost control of a Civic and almost flattened him.
But all I see are Parker’s flaming green eyes and the feel of his fingers curled around my biceps. All I smell is his earthy shampoo and body soap. All I hear are the thunderous heartbeats in my chest when I felt it.
The tingle.
Swallowing, I shift on the sofa and avert my gaze. I can’t tell my mother any of that. I don’t even understand it myself.
Parker is a jerk. A closed-off
, emotionally-stunted jerk who probably spits on my cupcakes before tossing them to the ground and smashing them beneath his dirty boot.
It was just a fluke.
“They’re going good.”
So lame, but so safe.
Mom sighs again, a smile lifting—also safe—and shuffles back into the kitchen with a nod. Restlessness claims me within moments, and I pull out my cell phone. I’m prepared to Facebook scroll when I notice the little green dot by Zephyr’s name as I do a quick check of my e-mail.
He’s active.
I’ll take that as a sign.
Me: What are you doing tonight? Nothing too specific, obviously, but I need to know you’re out there killing it—unlike me, who is wallowing on her parents’ ultra-90s couch with food regret, mismatched socks, and an overwhelming desire to watch Are You Afraid of the Dark? reruns.
Not thinking he’s going to see my message right away, I set my phone down on the little side table next to the couch—the same old oak table I remember picking up at a garage sale when I was seven or eight.
There are rooster drawer handles.
Smiling to myself, I ponder whether or not Zephyr will even know what television show I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to figure out what the seventy-nine in his e-mail address alludes to, and birth year is statistically the most probable. That would make him… forty-two.
I’m startled when my phone instantly vibrates, and I snatch it up, my eyes scanning the reply.
Zephyr: I’ll sound a lot cooler if I lie to you.
A grin pulls at my lips.
Me: Fair enough. I’m expecting gold now, though… no pressure.
Zephyr: I’m fantastic under pressure. Picture this: Gloucestershire, England, UK.
Me: Fancy.
Zephyr: I know. But it gets better… there’s cheese.
Me: Cheese?
Zephyr: Yeah. A nine-pound wheel of double Gloucester cheese.
Me: The mental image is a bit unclear, and also bizarre. Go on.
The Wrong Heart Page 8