The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  A grumble escapes me. “You can’t build something from nothing.”

  “No one has nothing.”

  “That’s a bullshit, privileged answer.”

  She surprises me by reaching for my own wrist and tugging it to her chest, and I’m too startled by her boldness to pull away at first.

  Then I’m too curious.

  Her heartbeat thumps beneath my palm as she presses it to her breastbone, making her point. It feels warm, like her skin. Like the color of her eyes.

  Like the way the sunlight plays with her hair in a way that is gravely captivating.

  It’s evident insanity has possessed me once again because I make zero fucking effort to move away or tell her to back the hell off. I just stand there like a fool, my hand a centimeter away from groping her tit, while we stare at each other in the suicide support parking lot.

  Why am I not moving?

  Why is her heartrate quickening?

  Why is my dick getting hard?

  Fucking hell.

  I think the only thing that pisses me off more right now is the fact that she pulls back first. A look comes over her, something almost panicked, and she flees, fumbling for her car door and leaving me rattled.

  “I hope you like the cupcakes,” she mutters, her voice unsteady, her eyes avoiding mine. “They’re chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and a caramel drizzle.”

  Pretty sure my dick gets harder.

  Melody spares me a final glance, her cheeks flushed pink, then escapes into her Camry. “See you next week.”

  The slam of her car door makes me flinch, but I still just stand there as she reverses and pulls out of the parking lot with squealing tires. I don’t even have time to process that fuckery when a familiar voice has me spinning around in place.

  “You like her.”

  Amelia hovers beside her own car, all creepy-like, probably getting ready to go haunt something, and I hold back an eye-roll. “I like her as much as I like Ms. Katherine’s hairy forehead mole that resembles the state of Rhode Island.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” she snickers, her teeth almost looking yellow against her snow white skin. Then she sighs, leaning back against the trunk. “You must really like that mole.”

  “Don’t you have something better to do? Occult rituals? Blood sacrifices?”

  “Way to stereotype. I actually enjoy crocheting and listening to Fleetwood Mac.”

  “Cool. Go do that. Send my love to Pumpkin Spice.”

  “Nutmeg,” she corrects.

  I raise my hand in a “fuck off” kind of a wave and whirl around, heading towards my truck.

  “You know, Parker… you don’t have to be here.”

  My eyes roll up again when her voice meets my back. “There’s someone who wants me to be here.”

  “Yeah,” Amelia replies softly. “But I don’t think that someone is who you think it is.”

  Her response has me turning around, my eyebrows raised in question.

  She finishes with, “Hint: it’s the same person who is keeping you from jumping off that bridge or swallowing a whole bottle of Valium. Think about it.” Amelia sends me her own wave—one far more amiable—and disappears into her car.

  It doesn’t take long for me to think about it, and while all I want to do is contest that theory because I like to believe that I don’t give a fuck about anything, she kind of has a point.

  Well played, Emo Chick.

  Owen.

  I’m working on the third floor reno at the Jameson property the next day, covered head to toe in sweat and sawdust, when I hear a little voice from behind me.

  “Hey, Parker.”

  I twist around from my place on the newly installed Brazilian walnut flooring and see Owen shuffling in the doorway, his hands tucked into denim shorts. “Hey.”

  “You’ve been here a lot this week.”

  “I have a lot of work to do.”

  The little boy with auburn bangs inches forward, making footprints in the sawdust. “The floor looks nice.”

  Falling back on my haunches, I shrug. “It’s okay. Not really my style.”

  “Yeah. These are the kind of floors I’ll get yelled at for scratching with my race cars. I build them, you know.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, want to see?”

  Normally, I’d say no. Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap about model cars or random kids I meet at jobs… but I’m compelled to say yes, so I do. “Sure.”

  Owen leads me to his bedroom, the same room I discovered him crying in my first day here. The bed is made up, decorated in a red and blue race car pattern, and the bordering along his navy walls matches the theme. I try to think back to my own childhood room, my real childhood room, before she stole everything away from me, but the images are so hazy now. All I remember is a sports lamp beside my bed. It had a baseball, bat, football, and a soccer ball attached to a green base, and sometimes my father would switch the lightbulb out to make it shine different colors. It would be orange during October and green in December.

  Pushing aside the vague memories, I follow Owen across the room and pause beside his work desk, bestrewn with all kinds of wooden creations on wheels.

  It’s actually really… impressive.

  I clear my throat, crossing my arms. “You made all these?”

  “Yep. Do you like them?” His face lights up as he reaches for a car painted red with yellow lightning bolts. “This is the Kamikaze. He’s the fastest.”

  Owen makes a few zoomy sounds through his teeth, and I feel myself relaxing. Softening. “I do like them. You’re talented.”

  A smile washes over his innocent face, his cheeks round and pink, his nose spattered in freckles. “Thanks. My neighbor thinks they’re dumb.”

  “Your neighbor?”

  “Yeah… Brody. He thinks I should be playing video games like the other kids, but I’m not any good at that.”

  “I don’t care much for those either.”

  I’ve never really liked video games or watching television because my mind always wanders. Mindless activities are a cesspool for unwanted flashbacks and overthinking. That’s why I work with my hands—I need to keep busy. Focused on a task.

  Owen’s smile broadens. “You’re really cool, Parker. I bet you have a lot of friends.”

  My body tenses, wondering how he came to that conclusion. It couldn’t possibly be my dazzling smile or charming personality. “I don’t.”

  “You don’t have friends?”

  “No.”

  “Not one?”

  “Not one.”

  Bree doesn’t count. She’s just stuck with me.

  Owen considers this, worrying his brows together, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “I don’t either. Maybe… maybe we can be friends?”

  This fucking kid might actually raise my cold, decrepit heart from the dead. I swallow, shifting from one foot to the other. “Yeah, okay. You can be my very first friend.”

  Jesus, who am I?

  It must be the cupcakes. She laced them with her happy sunshine juice.

  “Cool,” Owen beams, setting down his car with an extra bounce in his step. “I think my mom wants to be your friend, too. She was watching you paint the other day.”

  Yikes.

  “Was she?”

  “Yeah, and I heard her talking about you to her lady friend. She said she wanted to take out a second mortgage on the house just to hire you as a live-in contractor. Then she did that weird giggle she does sometimes.”

  I almost laugh. “You remember all that? Those are big words.”

  “Yep. I like to listen.”

  Nodding, I take a quick step back and click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Hey, wait here. I have something for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later, I traipse back up the staircase with the container of cupcakes from Melody—minus one. I devoured it in my truck the second
I hopped in, and goddamn, I have no fucking regrets.

  Owen is sitting on the edge of his bedspread when I return, kicking his legs forward and back. His big chocolate eyes light up, only, he hasn’t even noticed the cupcakes yet. He’s just smiling up at me, overjoyed. “You came back.”

  “Of course I did. You thought I wouldn’t?”

  He shrugs, and it’s a little dagger to my chest. I wonder what this kid has been through.

  “What are those?” he wonders, his attention finally landing on the treats. His irises sparkle with excitement when he makes the discovery. “Are those for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wow… thanks, Parker!”

  Owen jumps off the bed and reaches for the confections, and when he takes them from me, I feel something shift. A little weight lifting. It makes me uncomfortable, unsettled even, but it also prompts me to snatch the sticky note off the top of the plastic container and stuff it into my pocket before I trudge out of the room. “I need to finish up, but I’ll see you around, okay?”

  He bobs his head, his lips already dusted in peanut butter frosting. “Okay!”

  Once I’m alone again, about to finish up my paint job, I reach into my back pocket and uncrumple the pink paper square, then scan the girly handwriting staring up at me:

  Parker—

  I have my starting points.

  Now, I have my turning point.

  I think you saved my life that night.

  —Melody

  —FOURTEEN—

  This cannot be happening.

  I’m standing in my kitchen, ankle-deep in water and drywall, with a caved-in ceiling and a screaming Leah.

  Actually, she’s kind of squawking. Her arms are flapping, and she’s hopping up and down, shaking insulation out of her hair while her voice shrieks in a way that does not sound human. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  I just stand there numbly, staring up at the giant hole that used to be a ceiling, wondering if this is some kind of twisted metaphor for my life.

  Twenty minutes later, West is beside me whistling his condolences as Leah recovers on my living room couch with an oversized blanket and leftover cupcakes.

  “Leaky pipe,” my brother says, shaking his head. “Not good.”

  “Not good?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Thanks, West. A startling revelation.”

  He fills his cheeks with air and blows out a hard breath, planting his hands on his hips and gazing up. “My buddy, Shane, is a plumber. The best. I can probably get him out here by tomorrow.”

  “Does he fix ceilings, too?”

  “Doubt it, but I’ll check. You might have to call your guy for that.”

  I blink. “My guy?”

  “Yeah, the douchey one.”

  Oh. Parker.

  Fidgeting, I cross my arms and pick remnants of my ceiling off my shirt sleeve. “Maybe.”

  West throws me a probing glance before wading through the two inches of water in my kitchen and bending down to the lower cabinets for pots. Then he asks casually, “You sleeping with him?”

  “What?” My head jerks up, my cheeks instantly flaring red. “No!”

  “So, what you mean is… not yet.”

  Leah pipes up from the couch. “Don’t be a dickhole, Westley.”

  “I can’t believe you asked me that,” I snap.

  “Why? You guys looked like… I don’t know, like there was something.”

  “Something?”

  “Yeah, something. Don’t know, Mel—that’s why I asked.”

  My arms tighten defiantly across my chest. “Loathing and disgust are probably what you saw.”

  West straightens, seemingly considering my response, then quips, “Nope. Wasn’t that.”

  “It was called: none of your business,” Leah adds, gliding off the couch and strolling over to us, licking peanut butter frosting off her fingertips and making little popping noises.

  “Put the claws away, Tiger.” West gives her a blatant once-over, then shoots her a wink. “For the time being, anyway.”

  “Gross.”

  “Can we stop with the sexual innuendos while we’re standing in my flooded kitchen?”

  West demonstrates his maturity by stepping into the living room with a sly grin. “I’m just saying, if you’re looking to start dating again, you should let Shane take you out. He’s divorced, stable, pays his taxes. No felonies at the moment.”

  “I’m not looking to date.”

  It’s the truth—I’m not. The thought of dinner dates, hand-holding, inside jokes, all with someone who isn’t Charlie, makes my insides twist with dread. It makes me ache.

  I have no idea what my brother thinks he saw with Parker. The man is an emotionally-stunted bully, void of feelings, lacking in empathy, zero sense of humor.

  He’s nothing like Charlie.

  And I think that’s why I feel so disgusted with the way my body has been reacting to him lately—all tingly and starved, like it’s craving something only he can give. The way he looks at me sometimes, dark and heated, penetrative, sends my heart into a tailspin and my lungs into overdrive.

  It’s confusing. Maddening.

  Parker is the opposite of me in every way, the antithesis to my very soul, and yet I’m drawn to him somehow. There’s a darkness inside of him that speaks to my light. He was right when he said I wanted to fix him because I do. My nurturing heart wants to glue his pieces back together until he’s whole again. I’m yearning to see him smile. Laugh.

  To let go and feel free, even for just a moment.

  And then there’s a part of me that wonders if I’m just lonely, and I’m latching on to the first attractive man who walks into my life because I miss having a warm body wrapped around me. I miss strong arms holding me tight, keeping me safe and protected.

  I miss intimacy.

  I miss bear hugs and grand kisses.

  I miss sex.

  Charlie is the only man I’ve ever been with. I gave him my virginity and my heart beneath a starless August sky, and I never looked back.

  But now I’m forced to look forward without him, and it’s daunting. Terrifying. I don’t know which way to turn because every direction feels like it drags me farther and farther away from him.

  I’m jolted out of my musings when Leah leans in and throws an arm around me, tugging me to her. “Don’t listen to him, babygirl. He’s still single for a reason.”

  “I’m holding out for you, Leah.”

  My sigh is heavy with annoyance. “West, I don’t want to date anyone. I’m not ready for that yet. Parker is just… a friend. Sort of.”

  Parker’s words echo in my mind, harsh and haunting: I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck.

  His words hurt, I’ll give him that, but I refused to give him a reaction. I refused to give myself a reaction. I’m done being angry.

  “Whatever you say, Mel,” West says, wringing out water from the saturated towels into metal pots. “I’ll call Shane and send him over to look at the pipes. If you can’t get a hold of your “sort-of-friend,” I’ll see if Dad has some referrals to get your ceiling fixed.”

  I swallow. “Thanks.”

  West takes off an hour later after helping us unflood the kitchen, only getting into two water fights with Leah, and Leah stays behind to help me finish up. I’m shoveling drywall and insulation into garbage bags when my backside vibrates from a cell phone notification.

  I can’t help the organic smile from blooming on my lips when his message pops up.

  Zephyr.

  Zephyr: Did you know the hashtag symbol is actually called an “octothorpe?” It means “eight mystery.” I feel like this needs to catch on. Regardless, it would make a pretty epic band name. This concludes my random fact of the day.

  Oh, Zephyr.

  My faceless friend. My anonymous confidant.

  The final link to the man I love.

  Nibbling my lip, I whip out a quick response.
>
  Me: Are you saying we should start a band? I’m so in. With that name, I feel like we would need eight members.

  Zephyr: Agreed. And our music would need to be super mysterious. I call drums because they’re loud and obnoxious.

  Me: I’ll take violin.

  There’s a pause before his reply comes through.

  Zephyr: Popular instrument these days.

  Me: It’s so underrated. Like nitrogen.

  Zephyr: Nitrogen? Explain.

  Me: Oxygen gets all the cred. Nitrogen takes up three-quarters of our atmosphere, but when do you ever hear, “Nice job today, nitrogen. Well done.”? Never. #teamnitrogen

  Zephyr: To be fair, I’ve literally never heard anyone say, “Nice job today, oxygen. Well done.” either. People just don’t talk like that. Nice use of an octothorpe, by the way.

  Leah suddenly appears over my shoulder, and I nearly hit the ceiling.

  Or… what’s left of my ceiling.

  “Is that the heart guy?”

  I quickly close out the app and stuff my phone back into my pocket. “Yes. His name is Zephyr.”

  “Like, that’s his birth-given name?”

  “No, obviously. We don’t know anything about each other.”

  “Bummer. Sexy name.” Leah leans back against my kitchen island, her fingers curling around the edge of the countertop. She tilts her head in the way that she does when she’s trying to get a read on me. “What do you think it means?”

  “Zephyr?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pursing my lips together, I twist my hair over my left shoulder, fiddling with the split ends I need to trim. “Do you think it’s an acronym for something?”

  “Ooh.” Her golden eyes glow brighter, widening as her mind tries to conjure up something amazing. “Zombies Eating People’s Hearts Year-Round. He’s a zombie.”

  “That took a very dark turn.”

  Leah waggles her perfectly shaped eyebrows at me. “Maybe he just likes Madonna.”

  “Or maybe it’s a code word.”