The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  She’s shrinking in front of me, her weights lifting. She looks lighter somehow.

  I’m no expert on living, and I sure as fuck don’t have any advice for her, so I just listen.

  And I think that’s all she needs right now.

  “I’m not okay.” She keeps repeating it, making that sound again, and I think it’s a laugh this time—a delirious laugh. A bolt of lightning brightens the sky just as Melody begins to climb on top of the hood of her car, shouting, “I’m not okay!”

  Pacing closer, all I can do is watch while she pulls herself up straight, legs unstable, everything about her unstable, and throws her head back with another roar.

  “I’m not okay!”

  Melody laughs again, releasing all these feelings I don’t understand. She spins around in clunky circles, arms spread wide.

  I’m standing right in front of her now, nearly grazing the front end of the car. Watching. Still watching. I’ve been watching her since that very first day, and I haven’t figured out why.

  Her laughter quiets down, her arms dropping, and she whispers to the stars one more time, “I’m not okay.” Then she slides down to her butt, her shoes squeaking against the hood, and leans forward until we’re only a few inches apart. Words of resolution follow as she stares right at me. “But I will be. I’m not ready yet.”

  Despite the ice cold rain, I feel a current of heat travel up my neck. My eyes slide down her face and land on her drenched blouse, stuck to her skin, accentuating the swell of her breasts sheathed in a black bra. They heave with every drawn-out breath.

  And then I feel some kind of ancient stirring from down below.

  What the actual fuck?

  I don’t notice shit like nice tits, or a woman’s smile, or the way she smells like fucking lemonade. My biological attraction to women has always been trumped by my emotional resentment towards them. Sex isn’t a part of my life—I haven’t been with a woman in well over a decade, and even then, I never truly enjoyed it. It almost felt like something I had to do—a societal coercion.

  I don’t do intimacy, and sex is a breeding ground for intimacy. I much prefer my own hand whenever the itch arises, which isn’t very fucking often. I just don’t really care.

  But I feel the itch right now, standing beneath pale moonshine, breathing in her rain-soaked skin, and staring at her tits like a fucking asshole while she’s in the midst of a mental breakdown. I gnash my teeth together and back the hell up, returning my attention to her face.

  Her eyes glaze over when they meet with mine, maybe from the booze, or maybe because she noticed my brush with madness. Maybe she noticed me noticing her, and that makes it all the more irrefutable.

  Fuck.

  There must be something in the rain tonight.

  “Parker.” Melody pierces through my miserable thoughts, her voice rough like sandpaper, raw from her screams. “Why did you come?”

  I swallow, my jaw stiff. Everything stiff.

  Damn it.

  Dodging the question because I don’t fucking know, I counter with, “Why did you call me?”

  Her legs dangle over the edge of the hood, swinging in opposite time, occasionally grazing my wet pant legs. She gnaws at her bottom lip, glancing away. “Amelia didn’t answer.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  The rain slows as we face each other through the drizzle and humidity, soaking wet, beaten down, and watching each other with matching eyes, green and tired. Melody doesn’t respond to the question, just as I hadn’t, but her expression shifts slightly. Her eyebrows wrinkle with an air of scrutiny, like she’s trying to read me somehow—trying to piece together a puzzle. Unravel my mysteries.

  It’s almost as if her demons are interrogating mine and comparing notes.

  The look in her eyes, the probing, invasive look, causes my defenses to flare, and a surge of anger pumps through my veins. Cocking my head to the side, I say bitterly, “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

  Her brows dip further, confusion marring them. “Like what?”

  “Like I’m something you can fix.”

  Melody hesitates, my response soaking in like the late-spring rainfall. She worries her lip again before sliding off the hood and landing on her feet, until we’re nearly toe-to-toe. Her body sways and teeters, still unbalanced from the alcohol she poisoned herself with, and she tilts her head up to meet my steely gaze.

  And then she fucking smiles… because of course, she does.

  “All broken things can be fixed. The hard part is deciding that they’re worth fixing.”

  She makes a little sound after the words spill out, almost as if she surprised herself by them, caught herself off guard. Maybe she never thought to apply them to her own dents and cracks. Melody stares off over my shoulder, the ghost of her smile still lingering.

  But the moment is severed when a car engine roars up, lights flashing at us, and a juiced-up Land Rover slows to a stop a few feet away. Melody jumps back, moving out of my bubble that she had no business invading in the first place, and her whole body tenses when she spots the vehicle.

  She runs her fingers through her mess of matted hair. “Great,” she murmurs.

  The driver hops out, looking ready to kill something. “What the fuck, Melody?”

  I recognize him then as the headlights brighten his silhouette against the dark night. It’s her brother. He’s got fury in his gait and murder in his eyes. His sandy hair flies in a thousand different directions as he stalks over to us, and I inch backwards with my hands in my pockets, kind of wishing the storm would start up again, so maybe I could fall into that super low statistic of people who get struck by lightning.

  “What are you doing here, West?” Melody almost tips over when her left foot sinks into the spongy mud.

  “Tammy from O’Toole’s called me and said you walked out of the bar plastered. Then she saw your car speed out of the parking lot. Are you insane?” West suddenly seems to notice my existence and pulls his eyes from his sister, pinning them on me. A frown follows. “Aren’t you the contractor?”

  Awesome. I’m fucking soaked and miserable, my dick is acting up, and now we’re having conversations. I blink at him, hoping my face portrays the fact that I’d rather be eaten alive by ancient scarab beetles than be standing here right now. “Yeah.”

  West narrows his eyes at me like he’s trying to force pieces together that don’t fucking fit.

  “I called him,” Melody intervenes, taking her brother by the arm and trying to guide him back to his car. “It had to do with Loving Lifelines. It’s a thing.”

  He pulls his arm free. “Why didn’t you call me? Or Mom and Dad? Or Leah?”

  “Can we talk at home? I’m emotionally exhausted right now.”

  “Do you not trust us? Are you embarrassed that you’re still hurting? Jesus, Mel, we all love you. You don’t need to hide from us.”

  Melody seems to wither, like she is trying to hide from him, and glances my way before reaching for her brother’s arm again. “Just take me home. I’ll get my car in the morning.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, West reluctantly follows her lead with a harrowing sigh. They both climb into the vehicle while I watch from the ditch, up to my ass in muddy water. The engine rumbles to life as Melody fastens her seatbelt and wrings out her hair, her image hindered slightly by the rainy window. But she turns her head to look at me when the vehicle begins to pull away, tires tossing up mud and gravel, the stereo sounding through the glass with some kind of alternative rock bullshit.

  I stare right back at her, our unanswered questions still hovering between us. Still lurking.

  “Why did you come?”

  “Why did you call me?”

  I’ll reckon she called, and I came, for the same reason our eyes always seem to find one another’s, even when there’s a dozen other people in the room—but I don’t have a reason for that right now, so I bury those questions away with the rest of my ghosts and old bones.
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  And as the car peels off onto the dirt road, I catch the little smile on her face as our eyes hold tight and she mouths, “Thank you.”

  Walden lifts up when I trudge through my front door at nearly midnight, looking like a drowned rat. The dog appears confused as hell as he stands a few feet away from me, eyes bugged out and probably judging me. The red ball hasn’t moved from its place beside the couch, and his food bowl remains untouched, leading me to believe he enjoyed his night just as much as I did.

  My car keys clank against the little glass table as I pull off my soggy t-shirt and toss it into the heap of other stray shirts I still need to wash. Walden stares at me, unmoving, as I saunter into the living room, bare-chested and bad-tempered, but his eyes never stray from my face. They never dip any lower, and I appreciate that.

  He doesn’t notice my scars.

  Then I scold myself because he’s just a dumb dog that doesn’t know what scars are, and also, he’s probably going blind, so my thought process is being really fucking stupid.

  Shaking my head, I reach for a random banana sitting on the ottoman and peel it back, debating whether I want to head straight to bed or go jerk off in the shower because my dick is still restless and pissing me off. But I think handling that situation will piss me off even more since I know exactly what triggered it.

  And fuck that.

  Fuck giving anymore ammo to that absurdity.

  That fluke.

  I eat the banana in three bites and glance at my laptop before heading down the hallway. My unfinished response to Magnolia glares back at me, and I hesitate, finally sighing as I make a pit stop to the rolling chair and gather my train of thought.

  Words appear in the little Hangouts message box as my fingers type away, but I backspace and delete them at least five times before settling on something. As I’m reading over my reply, Walden lies down beside me with a little grumble, making his presence known, and I have to do a double-take because he always wanders back to his dog bed after greeting me. He rests his chin between his paws and looks up at me with only his eyes.

  I don’t smile, even though the thought crosses my mind, but I do soften my gaze.

  I see you, old mutt.

  Then I click “send.”

  Me: You asked about my heart, so here’s my answer… this heart is a burden. It’s a fraud. Most days I resent it and wish it had been given to a better man. A worthier man. And I know that sounds shitty because your husband is gone, and here I am complaining about my healthy, beating heart. Doesn’t seem fair. But it’s the truth, and I won’t ever lie to you.

  Before I rise from the chair and head to the bathroom, because I think I’m going to take that shower after all, I add one more thing:

  Me: Unless it’s about Cheese-Rolling. That never happened.

  —THIRTEEN—

  “August.”

  Melody sweeps her hair over to one side, crossing her legs at the knee. Her voice doesn’t crack or waver in detailing her starting point, and her eyes even sort of twinkle as I study her from one seat over.

  Wait… twinkle?

  No. Fuck, no.

  I don’t notice shit like eye twinkles. I don’t even fucking remember my own eye color half the time.

  “Growing up, all of my friends hated August—it’s hot, school was about to start, and summer was coming to an end. But I always felt like it was a new beginning,” Melody explains as the rest of the group listens fondly. “Fall has always been my favorite season, and August is kind of like a prelude to colorful leaves, apple cider, and bonfires. Plus, my birthday is in August… which also happens to be National Rum Day, so it all makes sense.”

  People laugh. I groan.

  August is the worst month. The sun is way too bright, fuck rum, mosquitoes are literally plotting their apocalyptic reign over humanity, and it’s hotter than Satan’s ball sack.

  August can suck it.

  Melody spares me the tiniest glance, lips curled up, cheeks pink, probably checking to see if I’m one of the people laughing.

  I make sure my face looks extra insufferable.

  When the meeting wraps up, I fucking book it, and my chair nearly tips backwards as I jump to my feet and make a hurried escape out the double doors. I don’t want to deal with her today. I don’t want to deal with her sunny smile, citrus shampoo, and goddamn eye twinkles.

  Sifting through my pockets for my keys, I half-jog to my truck, eager to get the hell out of here before anyone tries to talk to me—before she tries to talk to me. I don’t have many hobbies or interests, but if I had to put something at the top of that list, it would be avoiding people.

  As I squint my eyes against the setting sun, I tug open the door to my pick-up truck and attempt to dive in, but something stops me.

  There’s a container of a dozen cupcakes sitting on the driver’s seat with a cheery little note on pink paper attached.

  Of course there is.

  I’m not sure what it says because I don’t really bother to read it.

  Instead, I turn towards the front of the building just as Melody saunters out through the main entrance, her yellow sundress billowing as a quick breeze tries to lift the skirt. She fluffs it back down and pauses her steps, her chin tipping up to meet my stare from across the parking lot. It’s a brief pause, a fleeting moment of eye contact, before she resumes her pace and moves toward her Camry a few spots over—almost as if she didn’t just catch me discovering her futile gift.

  I follow her.

  “Hey,” I call out, gaining her attention before she slips inside the car. “What the hell?”

  Melody falters, her hand curling around the door frame. She watches as I storm over to her, a frown unfurling, then tucks her windswept hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why are there a dozen fucking cupcakes in my truck?”

  Her frown deepens. “You don’t like them?”

  “They look fantastic, but that’s not the point. Why are they there?” I stop right in front of her, maybe a few feet away, but it’s close enough to smell her shampoo when that breeze blows through again.

  “Did you read the note?”

  “No.”

  Melody’s lips part to speak, but only a little burst of laughter spills out. “I just wanted to thank you for… last week.” Her smile brightens with genuine gratitude as she glances at me. “And thank you for driving my car home that night. It was an unexpected surprise.”

  My fists clench at my sides, my teeth grinding together. “Yeah, well, you were an idiot and left the keys in the ignition. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  Her face falls, her smile fading, but I refuse to feel bad about it. This is better—this is so much better, this anger and resentment. It’s better than whatever the hell else has been simmering beneath the surface, trying to crawl its way inside, unwanted and unwelcome.

  Trespassing.

  “Well, I do appreciate it.”

  She’s still all sweetness and niceties, despite the fact that I just insulted her to her face.

  No, Melody, get mad. It’s easier that way.

  “I don’t need your appreciation. Or your cupcakes. Or your damn love notes,” I bark back, inching closer, so she can feel my anger. She can soak it up and throw it back at me, just like she did last week, beneath dark clouds and furious rainfall.

  I want her to throw punches, hurl her bitter words at me, get fucking mad.

  And she does raise her hand to me, she does, but it’s not a strike. There’s nothing violent in the way her hand elevates, and her fingers reach out, applying a soft pressure to my forearm. A gentle caress. Careful and delicate.

  I rip my arm away. “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m just—”

  “I don’t like to be touched.”

  She swallows, her eyelashes fanning across her cheekbones as she blinks up at me. “You don’t like it, or you’re not used to it?”

  How about this: the one person in the world who was supposed to care
for me, love me, protect me… abused the fuck out of me. Instead of hugs, I got hot cigarette butts to my skin, covering me in hideous scars. Instead of cuddles, I got a leather belt across my face. Instead of kisses, I got broken bones. And when I wasn’t being beaten down until I went numb, I was neglected. Locked inside a dark closet with only my imaginary friend to keep me company.

  I feared touch.

  But all I say is, “Both.”

  Melody reaches out again, to prove some kind of moot point, so I snatch her wrist before she makes contact. Her breath catches, her fingers relaxing in my grip.

  “Stop,” I tell her, my tone low and bordering on threatening. “You’re like a lost puppy, looking for a bone. But you’re barking up the wrong tree, sunshine, because I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck. So, whatever hand you’re trying to play, I suggest you fold now. You’re in the wrong game.”

  She’s quiet for a while, making me all too aware of the way her wrist feels tucked inside my palm. Again. She’s always trying to touch me somehow—playful, hostile, kind. She’s trying to get close and eradicate my walls. But I’ve been building these walls for a long, long time, and they were built to last.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job—at building things. I’ve had a lot of fucking practice.

  Melody doesn’t pull away from me, or fire back like I want her to. I’m begging for her wrath, but she only gives me warmth. “You said I look at you like I’m trying to fix you,” she says softly, her eyes scanning my face, searching for a crack. A hole. A way in. “You look at me like you’re trying to break me.”

  My scowl meets her soft gaze as I release her arm, but she doesn’t step back, and neither do I. It’s like we’re both standing at the brink of a battlefront, but I’m the only one ready to fight.

  “I’m done breaking, Parker,” she finishes, letting out a breath that sounds like surrender. “It’s time to rebuild.”