The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  The woman has been through enough grief and heartache to last a lifetime, and if tonight were any indication of how a possible tryst would unfold, it would be in her best interest to stay the fuck away from me. I’m only going to drag her down and drown her in my own ocean of misery.

  What kind of sexual relationship could we even have, anyway? How would she feel screwing a guy who detests intimacy and refuses to take his shirt off?

  It’s pointless; a dead end.

  Breakdown: I want to fuck Melody, but I won’t. Some women are okay. I like food.

  Final thoughts: This exercise sucked, and I’m no closer to feeling any better.

  My mind continues to stew, the black cloud hovering over me growing more aggressive than the rainclouds outside my window. It’s raining—again. It’s been the summer of rain, and I can’t help but wonder if Melody is still out there, maybe perched on the sandy beach, doused in rainwater and remorse.

  Fuck… she was so happy in that lake tonight, dancing and weightless, free as a bird.

  And then I ruined everything.

  My scars and old ghosts prevailed, snuffing out her spark and sending her right back into the darkness.

  I made her cry.

  I made her doubt.

  I made her stop dancing.

  And I hate that those thoughts are crawling beneath my skin and eating me alive. I’m not accustomed to regret or guilt. I don’t feel.

  But I’m feeling right now, and it feels like shit.

  Walden nudges my sock-covered foot, making a little grumpy sound as I grumble right back. We’re two peas in a pod, this old mutt and me.

  When I lean forward to scratch the scruff between his ears, my phone pings to life beside me on the sofa. My skin tingles, and my stomach lurches, thinking it might be Melody—wondering if she’s telling me to fuck off, or maybe she’s sending me a sweet, sympathetic message, which would be a billion times worse.

  I snatch the phone up, seeing Magnolia’s name instead. I open the message.

  Magnolia: I know I promised that things wouldn’t get personal. I’m sorry… I lied. I want to see you. I want to do a video call. I need to know that you’re real, that I’m real, and that you see me. Will you do this for me?

  What the fuck?

  My cheeks fill with air before I blow out a hard breath, scratching at my still damp mess of hair. She wants to do a video call? Shit… no. That sounds terrible.

  I like our arrangement as is. No strings attached. Magnolia is my anonymous outlet, the only one I have, and one that I’ve grown to genuinely crave.

  Magnolia lets me hide.

  Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I shoot her a response.

  Me: Where is this coming from? I like what we have. I’d prefer to keep it the way it is.

  Magnolia: I understand—I do. I like what we have, too, but I’m yearning for more.

  Me: Why? Because of your husband’s heart? Is that the basis of this connection?

  Maybe I’m being an ass, but I’m already on edge.

  I’ve lost Melody—I don’t want to lose Magnolia, too.

  And when her response doesn’t come through right away, I’m pretty sure I get my answer.

  Me: Thanks. Got it.

  Magnolia: Please don’t be that way. I thought you didn’t get offended?

  I grit my teeth.

  Me: Not offended. Just disappointed.

  Magnolia: If you’re disappointed, maybe that means you’re yearning for more, too. You feel the same connection I do.

  Me: The connection is rooted in what we have right now. I don’t want to shake that up.

  Magnolia: Are you afraid you won’t like what you see?

  Me: No. I’m afraid I will.

  Her silence spans over a few minutes, and I curse myself for saying that shit. Maybe it’s true, though. Maybe I’m worried she’ll be everything I never knew I wanted.

  And then I’ll be letting down two women I’ve come to care for.

  Magnolia’s response finally pops up.

  Magnolia: How about this: I don’t want to infringe on your privacy. I understand your hesitation, and I respect it. So… what if you only saw me? You can keep your camera off. Your identity will still remain a secret.

  Me: I can see you, but you can’t see me?

  Magnolia: Yes.

  The temptation seizes me.

  The curiosity.

  Leaning back in my rolling chair, I fold my arms across my chest and pivot side to side, my heart thumping with indecision. This would change everything. This would upset our dynamic, and nothing would ever be the same.

  But hell, why not?

  Why the fuck not?

  Hoping I don’t regret this, I send my reply.

  Me: Okay.

  Magnolia: Really?

  Me: Yeah. Set it up.

  A few moments later, a link pops up in the message box, causing my insides to spiral. It’s a Google Meet link. I’m pretty fucking terrible with technology, so there’s a chance I might screw this up, but I take the risk and click the link.

  Moving out of frame, I tinker with the settings to make damn sure my camera’s off, then I slide back up to the keyboard and inhale a giant breath of courage.

  Fuck, I’m nervous.

  I don’t know why, but I guess that means I kind of care.

  My foot taps against the carpeted floor as I wait for something to happen.

  Something happens.

  Her camera flickers on, pointing towards a rust-colored wall.

  I frown, prickled with a sense of familiarity. It’s an ugly fucking color that I don’t see too often—and I’ve been in a lot of houses.

  No. Impossible.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The sound of her voice sends more tingles of déjà vu down my spine, but there’s static, so I can’t be sure. I fiddle with the settings again, unsure if my microphone is on. It seems to be muted, so I use the chat feature to send my reply.

  Me: I hear you.

  My reply pops up on the screen, and Magnolia speaks again.

  “Okay… great. Are you ready?”

  Definitely not.

  Me: I’m ready.

  There’s a dramatic pause, and my pulse revs with anticipation as I wait for her to reveal her identity. I feel it in my ears, my temples, my throat. My hands are folded in my lap, fisted tightly, and my jaw aches as my teeth clench together.

  Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

  The camera jiggles, and a piece of white-blonde hair floats into the frame.

  My stomach sinks. My heart snares on a jagged beat.

  That wall.

  That voice.

  Widowed and wilting.

  Another beat passes, and Melody situates herself in front of the camera, timid and demure, rosy-cheeked and practically shaking.

  I blink. I blink again.

  No, no, no.

  Fuck. No.

  “Hi.”

  She says it in the sweetest, softest voice, her smile as bright as the sun, while everything else crumbles around me, an avalanche of wreckage and astoundment.

  Magnolia is Melody.

  Melody is Magnolia.

  And I should have known.

  I should have fucking known.

  This is supposed to be the point where I send her a hello, tell her she’s fucking beautiful, let her know she’s everything I never knew I wanted.

  But I don’t do that. I don’t do that at all.

  Instead, I slam my laptop shut, pick it up, and hurl it across the room with a violent growl, watching as it breaks into a million fractured pieces against my living room wall. Even my dog jumps up and shuffles over to his dog bed, rattled by my wrath.

  My chest heaves, my body tremors, my mind reels with impossibility.

  What are the odds? What are the goddamn odds?

  Another wave of raging disbelief ripples inside me, and I manifest it into a typhoon of self-destruction. I trash my whole house, pulling things off walls, smashing
dishes, clearing countertops, shouting obscenities, and then I collapse into a heap on the floor, my back flush with the kitchen wall.

  Magnolia is Melody.

  It makes fucking sense. There’s no way I would develop a connection with two separate women at the same time, after living my entire life despising them all.

  It could only be her.

  Fuck.

  Not allowing my anger to abate because it’s comforting somehow, I jump back to my feet and hunt down my shoes and the keys to my truck. I’m not sure what I’m doing, I’m not sure how I’m going to handle this, I’m not sure how I’m going to look Melody in the eyes anymore—but right now her eyes are the only thing I want to see.

  She needs to know.

  She needs to know the truth.

  —TWENTY—

  “Zephyr79 has left the meeting.”

  A burning ball of shame funnels through me, a cruel, wicked windstorm, stealing the breath from my lungs. My fingers curl into tight fists as I stay rooted to the couch cushion, desperately trying to hold the tears back before they burst through like a broken dam.

  Maybe he lost connection.

  Maybe his phone died.

  It could be the storm.

  I suck in a breath so hard, my chest aches. Standing from the sofa, I pace over to my propped-up cell phone and close out the video call, then send him a message to see what happened before I jump to conclusions and join a nunnery.

  Me: I’m going to choose to believe that your phone died, and that you didn’t voluntarily leave after seeing me.

  He doesn’t appear to be online, so I try to stay hopeful that it was a fluke and had nothing to do with my face.

  Shaking away the jitters and anxiety, I distract myself by scrubbing down my countertops twelve times like a psycho. I try not to think about Zephyr.

  I try not to think about Parker.

  I try really hard not to think about the way his hands felt on me, or the way his words sliced me down just as I was about to leap into something new and frighteningly intoxicating.

  Pushing through the weighty pit of dread in my stomach, I snatch my phone back up fifteen minutes later and check for a response.

  Nothing.

  But… it does say that Zephyr was active two minutes ago.

  Oh, my God.

  He saw my message.

  He saw my message, and he ignored it.

  He did voluntarily leave that chat after seeing me for the first time.

  Tears prickle my eyes like little rose thorns, and I feel sliced down all over again.

  That’s twice. Twice in one night I’ve been rejected and stomped on by two men I’ve grown to care about. Two men I’ve developed feelings for. Two men I’ve opened up to and become vulnerable with, despite the coil of guilt I’ve felt at betraying Charlie in some twisted way.

  I toss my phone onto the kitchen counter, then storm out my patio door in bare feet as the rain pours down, pelting the earth and masking the wretched meltdown that is brewing in the back of my throat. After spending an hour wilting in the shower when I returned home, washing away Parker and the stains he left behind, it seems I need another cleanse.

  My feet carry me out to the center of my spongy lawn, naked toes sinking into the grass. My loungewear is instantly soaked, the white tank top and cotton shorts sticking to my skin as I shiver beneath the cathartic rainfall.

  So much rain lately.

  So much to disinfect.

  The storm clouds release a mighty downpour as I tilt my chin up and face the sky, closing my eyes and whispering a desperate plea. “I’m lost, Charlie. Tell me what to do.”

  Thunder rumbles in the distance, vibrating right through me, and that’s when I hear it.

  The sound of a familiar engine rolls up to the front of my house as tires screech to a halt and a car door slams shut.

  No way.

  Frowning, I swiftly pace over to the side of the house, drawing to a stand when I see him stalking through my lawn towards the front door, his face masked with harsh intensity—like he’s on a mission.

  Parker nearly stumbles to a halt when he spots me standing in the backyard, staring at him with a healthy mix of confusion and hostility.

  Why is he here?

  I don’t want him here. He told me to stay away from him.

  I cross my arms over my chest with an air of defensiveness, and also to hide the fact that rain doesn’t mesh very well with thin, white cotton.

  Parker’s expression darkens, his features tightening as he shifts direction and charges toward me. “You’re fuckin’ soaked and half naked,” he grits out through the heavy rain showers, slicking his hair back as he approaches.

  My face twists with disdain, and I turn my back to him, stomping away like a petulant child.

  “Melody.”

  “Go home, Parker,” I order, throwing him a glare over my shoulder. “You’re not welcome here.”

  He catches my wrist to spin me around, and I almost slip on the wet grass.

  My arm pulls free like he just scalded me. “Don’t! Don’t touch me.”

  “Goddammit, will you stop?”

  “Why are you here?” I demand, chest heaving, outrage escalating. “You were pretty loud and clear at the lake tonight. I’m just a nuisance to you. A thorn in your side, a gnat in your ear. A fly in your fucking soup.”

  Parker opens his mouth to respond, to make his intentions known, but his tongue freezes and he hesitates. He just kind of stares at me for a moment, his brows pinching together like he’s trying to work through something, or maybe he’s just angry and agitated like he always is.

  I try again, forcing myself to soften. “Why are you here?”

  He swallows. “I…” Parker trails off, seemingly unable to get the words out. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his jaw ticking when his eyes dip down, raking over me and lingering on my partially exposed breasts plastered against the now see-through tank top. He flicks his attention back to my face, his gaze hot and stormy. “You drive me fucking mad.”

  My arms shoot up to block his view of my chest, my defenses flaring back to life. “If you came over to insult me, I’m not interested. I’ve had a really shitty day that you’ll be pleased to know you contributed to.”

  “You think that pleases me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Parker swipes dark, wet hair from his forehead, letting out a grunt of exasperation. “That doesn’t please me, Melody. You want to know what pleases me?” He advances on me like a hungry predator. “Not giving a shit. Not caring. Being alone, keeping to myself, and not giving a flying fuck about whether or not you’re still out in that lake, broken-hearted, or at home crying yourself to sleep, thinking you’re not good enough for an asshole like me.”

  I refuse to let his words chip away my armor. “You’re flattering yourself. I’m fine.”

  “You don't get it,” he shakes his head. “I'm supposed to hate you. I'm supposed to hate everything you stand for. Now, all I want to do is fuck you.” Parker yanks my arms apart, putting my breasts back on display for his eyes to drink me in. His voice lowers, the words cracking. “What the hell are you doing to me?"

  My body heats, my pulse throbbing as his fingers tighten their grip on my wrists. My angry breaths of indignation turn shaky and uneven. "I'm just being me.”

  "Yeah,” he mutters, hardly a whisper. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Parker inches closer to me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, my heartrate quickening.

  No.

  No, he doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to rip me open, then think he can be the one to stitch me back together again. That’s my job.

  Reining in my growing arousal, I tug my wrists free and move away, watching as his eyebrows dip once more. “Go home, Parker,” I tell him, hating the way my voice sways. “If you’re looking to scratch an itch, I’m sure you have plenty of options.”

  “Is that what you think?” His frown deepens, lips pursing together as
he studies me. “You think I’m out there chasing tail, and you just happen to be next on my long list of options?”

  I shrug, faking my way through indifference. “Maybe. Probably.”

  Parker slowly nods, stepping forward and closing the gap between us. His proximity is alarmingly potent as his eyes skim across my face, a green blaze of wildfire. “How about this: I haven’t had sex in eleven years—haven’t thought about it, haven’t wanted it. Haven’t even cared.” He leans down closer, until his lips graze my ear like a whispered kiss, and he breathes out, “Or how about this: I’ve jerked off more times in the last week thinking about you, than I have all goddamn year.”

  An electric jolt shoots through me, and my hands lift involuntarily, gripping the hard muscles of his arms to keep myself from teetering.

  Parker’s head raises slightly, pivoting until our eyes lock. “So, believe me when I say you’re more than just an itch. You’re a fucking revolution.”

  My fingernails claw into his tensing biceps, a little gasp escaping my throat. As my eyelids flutter right along with the colony of butterflies in my stomach, I lean into him, drawn to his words, his scent, his aura.

  But just as I’m about to give in to him—again—he pulls away.

  He steps back, leaving a chilly emptiness in his absence. My eyes pop open, spitting fire as he keeps trekking backwards through my yard. Leaving. “Good,” I seethe, sick of his mixed signals. Sick of the crumbs he throws me right before he steals them all away. “Go.”

  Parker holds my gaze for another moment before spinning on his heels and storming through my backyard.

  His dismissal infuriates me.

  What was the point of that?

  What the hell was the point?

  Fists clenched at my sides, I shout at his retreating back, “I hate you. You’re nothing like Charlie. You’re the opposite of him in every way, and it makes me sick that I…” Parker comes to an abrupt stop, his shoulders tautening as his head bows. I swallow. “It makes me sick that I…”