He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Perfection is right now, this very moment, sitting on my favorite beach with Parker Denison as he siphons every last drop of remorse and fear, every lingering shadow, from my wildly beating heart.
The sun rises inside me again.
He only lasts another thirty seconds before a final self-deprecating laugh spills from his lips, and he grits out, “Fuck it.”
In a flash, Parker sets the violin aside and pulls me up by the wrist while the song still echoes from the speaker. Walden watches with a cocked head as I squeak in surprise, finding my footing and skipping through the sand towards the water, Parker leading the way. “What are you doing?” I question through a stretched grin.
Parker kicks his shoes off, one by one, then yanks a white sock from each foot. “Your starting point was dancing in the lake, not sitting in the sand. Come on.”
“You… you’re going in the water?”
“Why do you think I wore shorts?”
Our smiles match as we face each other for a fleeting, poignant moment, causing my lungs to burn with adoration. A new wave of tears flood me. The sun hovers low in the sky, casting an ambient orange glow along the surface of the water, bathing us in half-light, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt more ablaze.
With my toes in the sand, our hands entwined, my favorite song serenading us, and a sweet old dog as our witness, Parker tugs me towards the water’s edge. I let out an onslaught of delirious giggles when my bare feet hit the icy lake with a splash.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” Parker bites outs, dragging me through the sludge until I’m flush against his chest. His arms snake around me, holding tight. “But you’re not.”
My nose kisses the front of his t-shirt. “Because I’m the sun, right?”
There’s a lengthy pause, a considerable silence, as Parker digests my question while the water licks our thighs. He breathes a tapered sigh into my hair. “You’re the moon.”
The moon?
I pivot my face until my cheek is pressed up against his heart. The beats are loud and songful, a worthy harmony to the melodies drifting over to us from the beach. My eyes close with contentment. “Why am I the moon?”
“You’re the guiding light in a dark sky,” Parker murmurs, his breath tickling the top of my head. “You shine strong when the rest of the world is asleep… when no one is even looking.”
A strained gasp of impossible emotion is swallowed by his shirt. Muffled by his heartbeats. I almost choke on my own voice as I repeat raggedly, “I’m the moon.”
I’m Charlie’s sun, and I’m Parker’s moon.
I can be both.
I’m an eclipse.
We sway lightly beneath the horizon as Unchained Melody plays on loop across the shore. Parker’s arms wrap tighter around me, holding me like a lover, while we dance quietly in the stillness of the water. I’m transported back to my living room as a little girl, my tiny feet perched atop my father’s shoes as we danced to this song, and it’s a moment that has always stayed with me. I felt so loved in that moment, utterly adored, and those same feelings sweep through me right now as I cling to Parker beneath a sky of orange and gold.
Is this… love?
It feels so profound—so fundamental.
Does Parker love me? Is he capable?
Am I?
His arms unlink from behind my back, then he grazes his fingers up my own arms until he’s pulling me free of the embrace. I’m startled at first, confused, but his touch is gentle and careful. Parker takes one of my hands in his, and I note how much mine is trembling—either from the cold water, or from the flurry of questions funneling through me.
Our eyes lock as he guides my hand to the hem of his t-shirt and inches my fingers underneath the fabric. My breath catches.
His scars.
He’s letting me feel his scars.
Parker goes rigid, his body rejecting the intrusion, but his eyes remain soft and steadfast. His palm curls around my wrist as he maintains control of my exploration, and I hold that same breath when the pads of my fingertips touch the cemetery of old wounds, of grisly trauma, he’s kept hidden from me all this time.
The tissue feels puckered and worn as my fingers dance from one scar to the next. Parker keeps my reach low, level with his abdomen, and I watch his face twist with quandary as his innate need to push me away battles with these new feelings of vulnerability. He’s letting me in. He wants to let me in.
I graze a finger along the edges of a larger scar, soft yet jagged, and Parker inhales a sharp breath. His grip on my wrist is deathlike, his eyes closing tight.
He’s fighting. He’s fighting so hard to keep this connection—to break through this final wall, the one that’s most resilient.
It’s painful to watch.
My heart falls faster than my tears, my hands tremoring even harder as I splay my fingers along his beautifully marred skin. “You’re perfect.”
“No…” Parker hisses through his teeth. “You don’t need to lie to me.”
Another cry breaks loose, broken and mournful. My lungs feel strangled. “I’m not lying, Parker. The cruel things you tell yourself, your toxic beliefs—those are the lies. They’re ugly and poisonous, not you.”
His muscles clench, resisting my truths. “Seventy-nine scars, Melody. I’m a fucking monster.”
“No. You’re a man,” I bite back. “You’re the man I’ve fallen head over heels for, scars and all.”
Parker lets go of my wrist, then curves his hand behind my head until he’s palming my skull, fingertips digging into my scalp. He crashes his mouth against mine, his tongue tearing through my lips until I cry out with a moan.
I grip his shirt between my fists, my back arcing as he devours me with his kiss. It’s laced with fire and embers, everything we are, everything we’ll always be.
But as our tongues duel and fight for dominance, my mind rewinds, pausing on his words. Shivers race down my spine, curling my toes into the murky lake floor.
Déjà vu. An alarming sense of familiarity.
With my favorite song in my ears, his lips on mine, and an insatiable fullness in my heart, everything is perfect.
Everything is perfect, except for the pulsing in my temple and the goosebumps on my skin.
Seventy-nine.
… Zephyr79?
—THIRTY-ONE—
Walden and I stroll in through my front door well past ten P.M., and the goofy fucking smile on my face hasn’t faded since I drove out of that parking lot.
Is this happiness?
Am I happy?
It’s almost an impossible notion. Goddamn preposterous, honestly. But this floaty feeling coursing through me, making my legs feel weightless, keeping this stupid ass grin on my face, feels like it might be happiness.
I swear my damn dog even feels it.
Walden follows me to the couch as I collapse onto the cushions, sighing deeply. The animal paces over to me with slow, cautious steps, wavering once or twice before bridging the gap between us. His eyes are wide and curious, his head tilting to the side as if he’s trying to read me somehow. Like he’s trying to process this brand new version of his caretaker.
As I close my own eyes, I feel a warm presence hop up beside me, a furry little face sniffing my jaw and giving me a quick lick. Walden curls into my thigh, resting his chin atop my knee, and I link my arm around his bony body. His sigh is long and content, matching mine, and we sit there together amidst the comfortable silence.
I realize then that this is the very first time he’s ever licked me. Ever laid upon me in this way. Ever showed affection.
I’m not sure why he’s coming around now, after all these years.
Glancing down at the ball of black and white nuzzled against me, a contemplative frown furrows between my eyes. Bree had mentioned she thought his hair was growing in, but… holy shit. It really is. Thick, shiny tufts of healthy fur have filled in the mottled patches of his skin. He looks li
ke an entirely new dog, thriving and restored.
He looks cared for.
Happy.
Loved.
A burning swallow claims my throat, my chest tightening with revelation. I’m thrown back in time, reminded of a dreary day in the foster house with Bree, when she snuck into my bedroom with a potted plant. The leaves were vibrant and green, fragrant with earthy musk. The soil was damp from a fresh watering, and my sister cupped the terra cotta pot between her palms like it was a precious thing.
Setting it beside me on my nightstand, which was nothing but one of those individual folding tables, Bree said to me, “Living things thrive on other living things. The energy you give off will be the energy received. Give this little plant the very best version of you, and you can grow together.”
I recall thinking it was silly at the time, but I was only ten or eleven, so fantasies still appealed to me then. I spent the following week forcing myself to smile, trying to conjure up the tiniest pocket of happiness, so the plant would bloom and grow. So it would want to be my friend.
I watered it. I talked to it.
I even named it “Leafy.”
But the fucking thing died anyway. It wilted before my eyes, withering away to brown leaves and sad soil. It was a little pot of death.
A mirror image to myself.
I knew then that I couldn’t fake happiness. I couldn’t fight for joy that didn’t exist. Even the goddamn plant knew I was a hopeless case.
But Walden… he’s changing right before my eyes, a striking parallel to my own metamorphosis. And it’s real this time, it’s not an act or a ruse.
It’s real.
I’m happy.
Riding out the emotional waves, I pull Walden closer to me and stroke his soft, newly grown-in mane of fur. He makes a wispy little sighing sound, something peaceful, and snuggles in farther to the crook of my hip. He knows the truth.
He knows it, and I know it.
I’m fucking in love.
I don’t hear from Melody at all the next day, which throws me a little. It’s already late, dusk fading into dark. After the night we shared together—the gift I gave her, and the gift she gave me—I expected a message. A phone call, even. Maybe a surprise visit. It felt like we had bridged a final gap somehow, and all the scattered pieces were falling into place.
We’d ended the evening in my truck, with her in my lap, riding me as the sun set beyond the horizon, and I clung to her tighter than ever before. I’d invited her back to my place, thinking I’d finally bring her into my bed and make love to her until dawn, but Melody had declined, telling me she had an order of cupcakes she needed to fulfill.
After climbing out of the shower an hour ago, I finally gave in and texted her. Maybe that’s what she’s been waiting for—effort on my end. Better communication.
And hell, that’s fair.
Palming the cell phone in my hand, I realize I keep checking it every few minutes or so, anxious to see her name light up my screen.
I’m not used to this feeling of expectancy, this antsy yearning.
I toss the phone to the other side of the couch, internally glowering at myself for acting like a lovesick fool. But just as I pull up from the cushions to go search for a distraction, I hear the telltale ping.
Pathetically, I dive back to the sofa at record speed and dig my hand between the cracks where my phone slipped through. Snapping my arm up, I swipe at the screen, unlocking her response.
Only… it’s from Magnolia.
Magnolia: I wasn’t going to contact you again, but here I am. Something is nagging at me, and I can’t let it go.
What the fuck?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I settle back down onto the couch, my insides twisting. I was so fucking close to deleting this entire goddamn account after she messaged me the last time, telling me that I left her doubting her own worth.
Fuck, that hurt. That hurt like hell.
But I thought it was over. I thought Zephyr would finally disappear, become a distant memory, and Melody would never have to know we were one and the same.
Or, more importantly, that I’ve known that fact since the night in her backyard, when I fucked her against her shed instead of telling her the truth—the whole reason I went over there in the first place.
Coward.
But I knew she would see me differently once she knew, everything would change, and I couldn’t lose that.
Holding my breath, I wince when another message comes through.
Goddammit, Melody… message me. Respond to me.
Magnolia: What does the number stand for in your screen name?
My mind stutters.
Why is she asking me this now?
After all these months. After all this silence.
Magnolia: Is it your birth year? Your address? Maybe it’s your favorite number?
I clench my jaw as her messages continue to ambush me.
Magnolia: Your jersey number in high school? The amount of coins in your change jar? Your ideal temperature outside?
My grip tightens on the phone case as one more question pops up.
I blanch.
Magnolia: Is it the number of scars on your body?
What. The. Fuck.
My brain starts spinning, going into overdrive, but it doesn’t take long for me to remember. To realize my slip-up.
“Seventy-nine scars, Melody. I’m a fucking monster.”
Shit, shit, shit.
It’s over.
She knows I’ve deceived her.
Only a minute passes by before she messages me again, only this time, there are no words.
It’s a Google Meet link.
A fucking video chat.
Blowing out a hard breath, I drop my head against the back of the couch, my heart nearly detonating inside my chest. My skin hums with dissolution. My insides churn with loss.
But I’m done playing this game, so I click the damn link, then fiddle with the settings, trying to figure out the camera feature. Melody’s camera remains off. I stare at a black screen, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. She already knows; she just wants to see it for herself.
My camera flickers on.
Fuck.
I sit idle on my couch, holding my phone out while my guilty expression stares back at me from the phone screen. I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.
All I do is wait.
I wait for her inevitable scorn, her furious disbelief.
Her anger. Her betrayal.
But all I get is a knock on my front door.
What?
I spare a final, knowing look to the camera before standing from the sofa and making the short trek to the door.
Melody stands on my front stoop, clutching her own phone in a trembling fist, her eyes pooled with tears, her mouth parted, lips quivering along with her hands. She sucks in a sharp breath, like she’s seeing me for the very first time.
But she’s not.
She’s seeing him. Her husband.
I swallow, staring at her through gritted teeth and balled-up fists. Closing out the video on my phone, I shove it into my pocket and step backwards, allowing her entry. Melody moves in with slow, purposeful steps, her eyes locked on mine, circling around me. It’s almost as if we’re predator and prey, but I’m not sure who the predator is. Who will pounce, and who will flee.
Melody paces toward me until we’re toe-to-toe, misty-eyed and flushed.
I can’t read her—I can’t fucking read her.
Is she pissed? She should be.
Is she hurt? Probably.
But her eyes shimmer with something akin to wonder, enchantment, and that feels so much fucking worse. My limbs go taut as anxiety grips me. “Jesus, Melody, say something.”
She opens her mouth to speak, and a little gasp breaks through. She’s tongue-tied.
Fuck.
“Damn it, listen to me—”
Melody’s mouth silences my words, cutting them o
ff with her eager tongue. Her kiss is punishing, desperate, merciless, one hand fisted in my hair, while the other…
The other goes straight to my chest. My heart.
She pulls back for a breath, her tears spilling out, glistening her cheekbones, and she whispers two words before crashing her lips into mine once more. “My Zephyr…”
—THIRTY-TWO—
It’s him.
I know I should be outraged, indignant, boiling mad—and I was.
I was.
Until I saw him.
Parker discovered who I was during that fateful video call, and instead of unveiling his true identity, he came to my house and had sex with me. He allowed me to believe that his alter ego had found me unappealing when he could have tempered my insecurities with the truth.
I had every intention of battering him with my bruised heart, assaulting him with the tears of my betrayal, but then his eyes locked on mine, and all I felt was…
Relief.
It’s him.
Parker is Zephyr.
Parker has Charlie’s beating heart inside his chest, functioning and strong.
Alive.
And the moment he opened his front door, I understood—I knew why he couldn’t tell me. He said to me once that he didn’t feel worthy, that his heart was a burden.
He was ashamed.
He felt like his scars and dark past made him an unfit candidate for such a precious thing.
“My Zephyr…” I breathe against his lips before stealing another violent kiss. I’m starved and achy. I need him. “I should have known it was you.”
Parker envelops me in a fierce embrace, dragging his lips from my mouth to my neck, then whispering in my ear, “I’m sorry. Let me expl—”
“No… I understand.” Clasping his face between my palms, I redirect him to my mouth, melting when our tongues collide. My right hand lowers back to his chest, relishing in the sweet vibrations of his heartbeats. Of their heartbeats. “Make love to me.”
The Wrong Heart Page 28