The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  My nod is instant. Eager.

  “I used to be a fourth-grade teacher,” she begins, dusting a patch of dark bangs from her eyes. “My students were my entire world. My saving grace. My friends and family called me Katy, but nothing sounded sweeter than Ms. Katherine.” Her eyes glint, turning wistful. “It’s against the rules to have a favorite student… but there was one. A boy. His name was Daniel Augustine, and he was a quiet little boy. He kept to himself most of the time, stoic and introverted. Invisible to most, but to me… his spirit shined bright.”

  Goosebumps prickle my skin, my instincts already telling me where this story is going. My lungs burn, stinging my chest.

  “Daniel came to me on the last day of class with a gift. He told me I was important to him—that my lessons were valuable, and my classroom was an escape.”

  “What was the gift?”

  She holds up the journal. “This.”

  My eyes case the worn leather, a somber smile lifting on my mouth. “How thoughtful.”

  “Yes,” she says, her gaze drifting to the floor, posture stiffening. “When I returned to the classroom that fall, I was given terrible news. Daniel had passed away over the summer. He’d found his father’s handgun and had taken his own life.”

  A gasp breaks through, and tears slide down my cheeks. “He was so young…”

  “He was. It was a horrible blow that threatened to take me down. I hardly slept for months, wondering how I missed the signs, wondering what I could have done to help him… to change his grisly fate.” Ms. Katherine’s eyes glisten beneath the recessed lighting, her voice wavering. “I finished out the year, and then I quit teaching altogether. I didn’t see the point.”

  I swipe away the gathering tears with my wrist as I await the rest of her story.

  “Eventually, I began to see things differently. I knew I could stew in my guilt, my regret, my grief, knowing the outcome would never change… or I could manifest those feelings into something good. Something commendable.”

  “Something beautiful,” I finish with a sniffle.

  She nods. “I created this group so I could reach other troubled souls. So I could make a difference. Even if I only touched one person—if I could only change one person’s fate, if I could help them see the good in life, the beauty in living and surviving, then it would all be worth it. Daniel’s death would not be in vain.”

  Hot tears continue to fall, and I feel her words as much as I hear them. Glancing at the journal still clutched between her fingers, I lick my lips and inquire, “Can I ask what’s inside your journal? You bring it to every meeting, but I’ve never seen you open it.”

  Ms. Katherine’s smile breaches her sadness. “It’s my starting points.”

  “Your starting points?”

  “Yes.” She rises from her chair, hesitating for a moment before she hobbles over to me on shaky knees. Taking her place beside me, where Amelia used to sit, she hands me the journal. “Here. Have a look.”

  Faltering at first, I blink at the offering, eyeing her outstretched palms holding the beloved journal. It feels invasive somehow, like I’d be intruding on her privacy. On her secrets. But Ms. Katherine doesn’t appear apprehensive, and she continues to hold it out with assurance. With a hard swallow, I take the heavy booklet made of leather and paper, and bring it to my lap. Tracing curious fingers down the spine and over the front covering, I inhale sharply.

  Then, I open it.

  I’m startled at first, taking in the names at the top of each crinkled page. Familiar names. Robert, Jane, Nancy, Kevin, Stacy… Amelia.

  My eyes widen, a breath lodging in the back of my throat. I glance to my left.

  Ms. Katherine greets me with a knowing smile. “My starting points are your starting points.”

  More tears rush to my eyes, and I can hardly see the pages. The ink and pencil sketches become a blur as I frantically wipe my eyes with trembling fingers, not wanting to stain the entries. Collecting myself, I sift through, eyeing the scrapbook of our sessions—of our lives. Each member has pages dedicated to them, riddled with quotes and hand-drawn pictures of our starting points.

  Robert pushing his young daughter on the swings.

  Stacy picking strawberries with her grandmother.

  Kevin playing the piano.

  A small cry breaks free when I discover Amelia’s page subtitled, “The Storyteller.” A lifelike drawing of Nutmeg is shaded in pencil as a beautiful girl with ribbons of dark hair clutches the animal between her hands.

  I feel Ms. Katherine’s warm palm glide up my spine, an offering of solace. It’s enough to keep me turning the pages until I find my own dedication.

  Melody.

  I’m dancing in the lake beneath a picturesque sunset, my hair flying free, my arms spread wide. I’m smiling. I’m living.

  I’m not ready.

  My emotions twist into dread when I continue to flip the pages, unprepared to see Parker’s sad, blank pages. He never gave his starting points—not once.

  Anxiety grips me, and I close my eyes, my heart thrumming with mournful beats. My chest aches. My skin turns clammy.

  I don’t want to see… I don’t want to see his empty pages.

  But I force myself to continue until I land upon his entry.

  Parker.

  It’s one page, and it’s not blank.

  My stomach pitches when my eyes land on the drawing. It’s a sketch. Carved in pencil, shaded with color, brimming with detail.

  Looking back at me is a woman with straw blonde hair, irises spun green, and a smile as bright as the summer sun.

  It’s me.

  Quiet tears manifest into a heart-rending sob as I break down, falling sideways into Ms. Katherine’s welcoming arms.

  Parker’s starting point is me.

  —TWENTY-NINE—

  The violin in the downtown store window catches my eye.

  Faltering, I can’t help but slow my feet, coming to a complete stop as my sister rams into me from behind, her nose in her cell phone.

  “Shit, Parker.” Bree follows my thoughtful stare, her acorn eyes thinning. Long, thick eyelashes flutter, fanning freckled cheekbones. “It’s a music store. You don’t like music.”

  She’s right, in a way. I never really cared for music because its purpose never aligned with my own. Evocative, emotion-laced, riddled with feeling and lyrical prose.

  I’m a deadened ice block. A glacier.

  Well… I was.

  Now there’s music filtering through my blood, pumping anthems and lullabies straight to my heart, causing the calloused organ to dance and sing.

  Melodies.

  Pursing my lips, I blink at the instrument, an idea unraveling as Bree slurps a berry-infused smoothie through a wide straw. I shrug. “Violins are kind of fucking cool, right?”

  “Cool?”

  “Yeah. The music they make… I mean, I get the appeal. Like vibrating ocean waves.” Braving a glance in her direction, I clear my throat and add, “Or some shit.”

  She gawks at me, rising to her tiptoes and placing the underside of her palm against my forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

  Fuck yes, I have a fever.

  I’m sweating, burning up, possibly hallucinating. I have been for months.

  I swat her hand away and turn from the glass window display. “Never mind.”

  “No, Parker. Not never mind.” Bree races to catch up to my long strides when I storm down the sidewalk. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Her. She’s all over me, infecting my blood.

  And I’m addicted.

  My gait quickens, a feeble attempt to outrun her questions and probing. It’s been years since my sister has gotten me out of the house to do aimless sibling shit, like take an afternoon walk and drink pretentious smoothies together.

  My smoothie tastes like asparagus, so I toss the plastic cup of green sludge into an approaching garbage can as Bree strolls up beside me. Stuffing my hands into my worn out jeans, I arch an ey
ebrow, pretending to have no idea what she’s talking about. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s my point. Is this about the woman you’re not sleeping with?”

  I waver. “Things may have changed since we last spoke about it.”

  “What?”

  Her eyes bug out as she snatches my wrist, dragging me over to a bench we’ve conveniently stumbled across. “It’s not…” My words evaporate into the midday August haze, and the ensuing draft steals the lie from my tongue.

  It’s not a big deal.

  Yeah-fucking-right.

  Bree pulls me down to the bench, her knees twisting towards me as she lassos my attention with her wide, questioning pools of light brown. “Parker.”

  “Bree.”

  Her eyes shimmer beneath the sunless sky, a dainty hand clasping my knee with a tender squeeze. “Are you in love, little brother?”

  What the fuck?

  Her question sends my insides into a spiral, and my heart pinwheels out of control. “That escalated.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” My fingers curl into tight fists atop my lap. “I have no fucking clue what love is. We both know that.”

  My sister strengthens her grip on my knee, dark chocolate curls swinging along with the shake of her head. Her lips toy with a smile as she tries to connect the dots somehow. But she doesn’t know the dots. The dots hold no context.

  Fuck the dots. The only thing they lead to is annihilation.

  Regrouping, I shift back against the bench and scrub a palm down my jaw. “I’m just fucking her, okay? Jesus. You make it sound like a damn historical event.”

  Bree’s smile turns watery as wetness springs to her eyes.

  I lurch back, horrified. “Don’t you dare fucking cry. I’m serious, Bree.”

  “I’m just so happy.”

  About my dick finally getting action. Awkward.

  But I know that’s not the real reason, because Bree has always had a way of seeing right through me. Seeing straight down to my deep, dark center—materializing every little brush with emotion, every taste of humanity, hoping she could drag those crumbs to the surface and build a new home for me.

  She’s always held out hope. She’s always wished the very best for me, and for the longest time, my best was simply surviving. My heart would beat with sleet and snow, with icy disdain for life itself, but it was still beating.

  Because she wanted it to. She needed it to.

  And shit… maybe that’s love right there. Maybe that’s the way I’ve loved for all these years without even realizing it. I’ve prided myself on my unwavering indifference. I’ve relished in my apathy. I liked to tell myself that I didn’t give a flying fuck about anything, that death would be a welcome reprieve to this meatsuit, this coffin—but if that were the case, I’d be dead.

  Bree has kept me alive.

  And now, Melody is showing me what it’s like to truly live.

  My eyes glaze, drifting beside me on the bench and watching as streams of tears slip down my sister’s cheeks while she processes this revelation with me. She feels it in the same way I feel it. She’s always been in tune.

  Bree uncoils my fingers until our palms are latched and squeezing tight. “Fight for her, Parker,” she breathes out, inhaling a frayed breath. “Whoever she is, fight for her in the same way I’ve never stopped fighting for you.”

  I close my eyes, just as the sun peeks out behind a sky of white clouds.

  This war might end in bloodshed, but for the very first time, I’m inclined to draw my sword.

  Melody March is my true starting point. My reason for finally wanting… more.

  And that’s something worth fucking fighting for.

  I’m hard at work that night, sweating beneath my covered carport—my makeshift work station during the milder months. I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing or how long it’s going to take, but I’m compelled to do it anyway.

  My carving is interrupted by two blaring headlights, accompanied by the sound of crunching gravel. Using the back of my wrist to swipe the line of sweat casing my brow, I squint my eyes into the intense beams. When they flicker off, I instantly recognize Melody’s car.

  Shit.

  I toss a stray tarp over my work in progress just as she slips from the vehicle and closes the door, her sneakers kicking up pebbles and rocks as she approaches me through the dim-lit drive. My legs are pulled in her direction, meeting her halfway. “What are you doing here?”

  Melody bites her lip, the endearing habit illuminated by my work lamps. Nervous fingers slip into the pockets of her denim shorts when we’re face-to-face. “I wanted to see you.”

  I repeat her words, as if I didn’t hear them loud and clear. “You wanted to see me.”

  What a simple, straightforward concept. Melody wanted to see me, so she came over to see me. At nine o’clock on a muggy Saturday night after six days of no contact.

  After I left her all alone at that meeting, even though I’d told her we could walk inside together. The image of her in my rearview mirror, standing in front of the building entrance, still haunts me, her eyes wide and wounded, her long braid dancing with the breeze.

  I wanted to wrap it around my neck like a noose and let myself choke.

  My heart twists with guilt. I was a fucking coward, a real asshole, deciding that running from my problems was a better solution than fighting for the possibility that this might not end with the both of us defeated, gutted and bleeding out.

  “Yes,” she says softly.

  She’s not pissed off. She’s not even a little bit mad.

  I swallow. “Why?”

  Why isn’t she going off on me? Clawing at me with sharp nails, or cursing me out with even sharper words?

  Why isn’t she… done?

  Melody continues to fight for something I’ve given her little reason to fight for.

  So damn intrusive.

  And fuck if it’s not exactly what I need.

  Taking another tentative step forward, Melody’s emerald eyes blaze with purpose as she keeps them locked on mine. The swell of her milky breasts heave with every breath, stealing my attention before I slowly rake my gaze back up, stalling at her mouth.

  Those full, parted lips stare back at me, teasing me with memories of them wrapped around my cock, sucking me off until I saw stars.

  Fuck, now I’m hard.

  Fighting the urge to strip her stark naked in my front yard, I pull my focus off her pink lips, and ask again, “Why are you here, Melody?”

  My voice cracks with weakness.

  Or… maybe not. Maybe it’s strength.

  Strength to keep standing here, facing her, because I know I’m not fucking running this time.

  “I wanted to know if you’ve thought about it,” Melody murmurs, her tone braided with emotion and a touch of lust. She’s feeling everything I’m feeling. “About taking this further.”

  I told her this wouldn’t end well, but the one-fucking-percent chance that it could, compels me to dive right in headfirst.

  Lifting my hand to her jaw, I dust a rough thumb along her cheekbone, my gaze skimming the perfect curve of her face, drinking in her doe-eyed expression. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

  “Y-You have?” Her voice shakes with a yearning for more. “What have you decided?”

  My thumb slides to her mouth, tugging down her bottom lip as my entire body warms and thrums with need. With potential. Melody surprises me by poking her tongue out and tasting the pad of my thumb, laving it gently around the tip and making me shiver. My reply is temporarily seized by her fucking mouth as I’m blasted with more images of her between my legs.

  A low growl rattles my chest, and I press forward until our torsos touch. Her breasts tease the front of my shirt, her nipples pebbling beneath her braless halter top. Both of my hands reach out to grasp her cheeks in the same way I did last week in the parking lot, only this time, I’m not letting her go. I’m going to fire my burning truths at her, an
d if they cremate me in the process, torch me into cinders and soot, then so-fucking-be-it. “You’re mine,” I grit out, my heart thundering, my soul alight. “You’re what I’ve been waiting for. You’re what I’ve been searching for my whole life, and I didn’t even know it.” Her gasp only makes me hold her tighter, and I swear I see tears glinting back at me, ready to fall. “Melody… you’re my starting point. You’re my turning point.” Pulling her forehead against mine, a strangled sound escapes her, and I finish with conviction, “You’re the whole damn point.”

  Our mouths crash together, a collision of surrender, and Melody grips my shirt in her fists for support as I walk her backwards to the hood of her car. Our lips don’t part. Our hearts don’t waver. Tongues hungry, souls hungrier, I reach under her thighs and hoist her up until she’s seated on the hood. Her arms snake around my neck to hold me closer, and I moan into her mouth when our groins meld together. My erection throbs between my thighs, aching to be inside her again.

  “I’m taking you right here,” I rasp, kissing down the side of her neck as my fingers weave through her hair. “Just like I wanted to that night in the rain when you danced on the hood of your car, soaked to the bone and fucking gorgeous.”

  My fingers find the button to her shorts, and I unfasten them in record time, yanking down the zipper and discarding the denim from her hips.

  Melody kicks them free with a needy whimper. “Yes. Please.”

  “Please what?” A flimsy piece of red lace she calls underwear keeps me from the heat between her legs. “Tell me what you want.”

  “You.”

  “Be specific, Melody. Tell me how you want me.”

  Jesus… for a guy who never gave much of a fuck about sex or talking, I seem to have progressed into dirty talk pretty effortlessly.

  It’s her.

  She brings out a side of me I never knew existed—possessive, dominant, savagely protective. I want to own every inch of her. Brand her with my scent, my essence.

  Melody drags her fingertips to my hair, tugging at the strands. Then she shoves my face between her thighs until my nose collides with the damp fabric of her panties. “I want you there. Taste me.”