The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  Her eyes glimmer green and wary.

  Sucking in a frayed breath, I approach the bed, my heart contracting painfully when she inches back on reflex.

  I’m losing her. Every solemn second that passes by with the evidence of my deceit on display before her eyes, only thickens the barrier between us. I rub a hand over my face, cupping my jaw as I try not to lose myself right along with her. “Melody… please, try to see this from my side. Try to see me.”

  “That’s just it.” She gathers the bedsheet, pulling it with her as she rises to her feet and steps toward me. Her tearstained cheeks are illuminated by the sunshine pooling in from the cracked curtains, a jarring contrast to the dark cloud hovering over us. “I’ve always seen you, Parker. You. You should have trusted me with the truth.”

  My muscles stiffen when her fingertips reach out to graze along my scarred abdomen, her hand quivering when she presses it to my skin.

  “You trusted me with this…” she murmurs, her voice raw. Her index finger traces along a small scar, then skims up the expanse of my torso, her palm landing on my chest—my swiftly beating heart. “But not this.”

  My eyelids flutter closed, my veins pulsing with wayward emotion. I soak up the feel of her warm touch, knowing another long winter is about to roll in. “I thought it was the wrong heart.”

  “No,” she sniffles, pulling away and inhaling a tremoring breath. “It wasn’t.”

  Melody drags the sheet with her as she spins away, exiting the bedroom and leaving me to stew in my impossible grief and shitty, selfish decisions.

  It wasn’t.

  Past tense.

  She’s fucking leaving me.

  Panic boils my blood, strangling my lungs, and I chase after her, catching her as she pulls up the straps to her sundress and slips into her sandals. “Melody, wait. Fuck… please.”

  Hesitation claims her for a breathtaking second before she continues her task and fetches her purse.

  I swoop in to block her escape, a desperate, final appeal. My hands stretch out, cradling her jaw, my thumbs brushing away the remnants of her tears. Kissing her forehead, I linger there, then breathe out, “I’m so fucking sorry. Don’t go.” I pepper her face in fervent kisses until I reach her mouth. Melody doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t kiss me back either. She remains still, frigid. “Let me fix this. Tell me what I have to do.”

  “It’s out of your hands now. Please, let me go.”

  Fucking hell.

  My forehead drops to hers, my grip tightening. Devastation infects me like a disease, a disease far more lethal, more venomous than apathy. It weakens me. My legs shake, and my heart shrivels up, like a flower trying to bloom during the frost-killing hour. “I’ve never fought for anything before,” I grit out, my grief palpable. “Don’t tell me this is over. Give me a reason to keep fighting.”

  She blinks slowly, lifting her chin. Her gaze lingers on my mouth before she brings her eyes to mine, releasing a shuddering sigh. “You have a reason, Parker.” Melody places her palm to my chest once more, absorbing every penitent beat that seeps through her fingertips. “It’s not me.”

  My hold on her slackens, and Melody slips free of my embrace, moving around me to the front door. She doesn’t waver. She doesn’t say another word or spare me one last glance before she disappears, evaporating like she was never here at all.

  Another ghost to haunt me.

  Melody told me that night in the rain, the night she hopped onto the hood of her car, drenched in new purpose, her soul cleansing and purging before my eyes—she told me that all broken things can be fixed. The hard part is deciding that they’re worth fixing.

  As the thick silence settles over me, an old friend turned enemy, the truth is evident with every minute that ticks by in her absence.

  We’re not worth fixing.

  Numbly moving into the living room, I collapse onto the couch, feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt before. And in that moment, I miss my apathy. I miss my cold, dead heart. I spent years of my life feeling envious of those who felt grief, who were crushed by the heavy boulder of loss. It meant they had something to love.

  But maybe I had it right all along.

  This sickness feels so much worse.

  Resigning myself to my misery, I heave out a deep breath, my eyes only lifting when I feel a little wet nose tickle my bare knee.

  Walden.

  He stands there, staring at me with his cloudy, wide eyes, his head tilted to one side. Trying to read me. Or maybe he’s trying to tell me something.

  I get my answer when he hobbles back, bending his neck down and pushing at something with his snout. Frowning, I sit up, my gaze shifting to the floor.

  My heart skips.

  There, sitting at my feet, is the red ball.

  —THIRTY-FOUR—

  Incensed feet carry me through the carousel doors, marching me straight to the check-in desk. I’m greeted with a quick glance before the receptionist continues tapping away at her keyboard. “How can I help you?”

  My limbs are still twitching with adrenaline and disbelief. “I’m here to see Dr. Whitley.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Oh… well, is she expecting you?”

  An indignant lump climbs up my throat. “She should be.”

  The flaxen-haired woman’s eyes flicker with dubiety as hospital noise clamors around us. After a long pause, she inquires, “Can I have your name, please?”

  “Melody March,” I say, my chin trembling as I watch the woman send a page over the intercom.

  “It could be a while if she’s with a patient. Have a seat in the waiting area.”

  My anger simmers to low-boiling anxiety while I make my way to one of the vacant chairs across the lobby. I fold my hands in my lap in an attempt to quell the incessant shaking.

  It’s only been thirty minutes since I pulled out of Parker’s driveway, my ugly-cry meltdown instantaneous the moment I climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Sobs racked my body as my fingers coiled around the steering wheel, my forehead smashed against it, tears pouring out of me in angry, turbulent waves.

  He wants me to understand, but how can I?

  I’ve never felt more betrayed, more deceived. My heart feels like it’s been put through a blender, shredded and pureed. The roller coaster of emotions over the last thirty-six hours has left me reeling and drained—from Parker’s incredible, thoughtful gift at the lake, to the slow build realization that Parker was Zephyr, to the actual discovery and subsequent elation that Parker had Charlie’s heart… and to the magical, intimate night we shared together when I felt with utmost certainty that I was in love.

  I was in love again.

  Then, everything unraveled—crumbled at my feet, ashes and dust. The bitter residue clings to my skin.

  Parker deceived me, regardless of intention. Trust is a fragile thing, and he tampered with it. I opened my heart to another man when I was at my most vulnerable, and he made a charade out of it.

  I feel violated.

  “Mrs. March?”

  My breath catches when her voice carries over to me, and I straighten in the chair, turning my head to meet her wide acorn eyes.

  Bree.

  Dr. Whitley.

  The Grim Reaper.

  Flashbacks of that day claim me for a striking, painful moment, rendering me speechless. I’m flooded with memories of her words, her remorseful embrace, the way her curls tickled my temple as I collapsed into her arms, and even the smell of her sweet, powdery perfume—a paradox to the pungency of death, hovering heavy in the air.

  Garnering my strength, I lift up from the seat, still shaking. Bree’s dark eyebrows furrow into a perplexed frown as she studies me, while donning hospital scrubs and a giant corkscrew bun.

  “How could you?” My words are a jaded whisper, laced with venom. I’m not prepared for this confrontation, not in the least. Nothing was planned. I simply started driving, somehow
finding my way into the hospital parking lot. “How could you do this to me?”

  Bree’s frown deepens, her head swaying side to side. “I… I’m sorry, but I’m not following. What is this about?”

  “It’s about your brother. It’s about the heart he doesn’t have.”

  A charged beat passes, and then her brown eyes flash with awareness. She swallows. “Let’s discuss this in my office. Please, come with me.”

  I follow blindly, wordlessly. Everything around me is a blur as we make our way to the opposite end of the hospital, and she ushers me inside a cheery, sunlit room. Bright and happy. The antithesis to the turmoil funneling through me.

  When she closes the door, Bree pauses, fingers lingering on the doorknob as she collects her thoughts. Lips pursed together and eyes glazed with apology, she spins around to face me. “It’s… you? You’re the one he’s been falling for?”

  I refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse revs at her words. “I’m the one he’s been lying to, yes.”

  “Melody, please… have a seat.” Bree signals me to a chair, but my arms cross with defiance. She nods through a sigh, pacing in front of me as she processes this development. “My God, I never thought…” Her words dissipate, and her shoulders sag. “You have to understand, this wasn’t a set-up or a wicked plot to hurt you. I had no idea it would go this far.”

  “You asked your brother to pose as the recipient of my dead husband’s heart,” I exclaim, my emotions climbing. “That is not okay. Why would you do that? I trusted you… I never once thought you’d mislead me.”

  Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “My heart ached for you,” she replies softly. “I felt your pain. My compassion makes me a good doctor, but it’s also a curse sometimes. The line between professionalism and humanity becomes blurred.”

  The month following Charlie’s death filters through my memories, blindsiding me. My eyes squeeze shut as I recall the way I’d fallen at Dr. Whitley’s feet, a weeping mess on my knees, and begged her for a phone number, an e-mail address, anything.

  I was desperate for a way back to Charlie, and I would take anything I could get.

  “Please, please,” I pleaded, broken down and hysterical. “Give me something. I promise I’ll respect his privacy and keep everything anonymous. I swear it. He’s all I have left of him.”

  Dr. Whitley refused at first. “The recipient has requested anonymity. That information is confidential—I could be stripped of my medical license, Mrs. March.”

  No, no, no.

  I remained on my knees, rooted to the hospital floor, much like the night of his death when I’d collapsed in the hallway. Dr. Whitley had picked up the scattered remains of my purse, placing them back inside with gentle care, and then she’d held me while the horrified shudders spiraled through me, until I’d struggled for air and required an oxygen mask.

  I felt the hyperventilative state closing in again.

  “I want to help you,” she said delicately. “If there was something I could do, I would. I’m so sorry.”

  But my pain eventually broke her. I rose to my feet with puffy eyes and red cheeks, utterly dismantled, and as our gazes locked and held for a few potent heartbeats, I saw her resolve weaken. I felt her acquiesce.

  Glancing away, Dr. Whitley released a hard, conflicted breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It took me two more months to finally find the courage to e-mail him.

  Zephyr79@gmail.com

  Parker Denison.

  Bree’s words puncture through my thick wall of resentment, causing me to soften. I know I put her in a difficult position, but I didn’t care at the time—nothing mattered in that moment. Nothing mattered when the one thing that mattered most was ripped from my hands. “Why him?” I breathe out, tightening my arms around myself. “Why not you? If you had no intention of giving me the real recipient, why not pretend to be him yourself?”

  Certainly, that would have made the most sense.

  Why bring Parker into this?

  She falters, biting her lip and tucking her chin to her chest. Bree mimics my stance by crossing her arms, wrapping herself in a hug while she considers her response. It feels like lightyears pass us by before she replies. “I thought I could help him by helping you,” she murmurs to the floor. “Give him something to care about. A connection. I thought maybe…” Her voice wavers as fresh tears fall free, tracking down her freckled cheeks. “I thought you both could find healing in one another and work through your pain together. I never intended to manipulate anyone’s emotions… I didn’t think it would go this far.”

  I stare at her through watery eyes, my heart being pulled in two directions.

  I feel angry. Betrayed.

  I feel compassion. Understanding.

  Bree sees my struggle, so she moves in, clinging to it. Taking my hands in hers, she squeezes me gently, a silent plea registering through her touch. “Melody, listen to me. If you need someone to blame, blame me. Don’t blame Parker. I take full responsibility.”

  The bitterness crawls back up my throat. “He’s known the truth for months and didn’t tell me,” I bite out, pulling my hands away. “I could have gotten past it then, if he had just been honest with me, but now…”

  Her sigh is deep, her eyes closing. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were the woman he’d developed feelings for,” she explains. “I thought nothing ever came of it. I followed up a few times that month, but Parker told me you never got in touch.”

  “It took me months to finally reach out. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “God…” Bree brings her fingertips to her temples, stepping back, her expression full of anguish. “I’m so sorry, Melody. I never meant to add to your pain. And for all of Parker’s flaws, he’s not a vicious person… I’m sure he was scared to tell you.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t make it right.”

  “No, but it makes him human.” She paces forward again, gripping my shoulders with taut fingers. “Parker has never had feelings like this before. There’s never been anyone like you. And I’m not trying to justify it, I promise, I’m just trying to paint a picture, so maybe you can see things from a different perspective.” Bree dusts her thumb over my collarbone, her copper-tinged eyes glistening with remnants of her tears. “My brother has been through hell. He’s suffered the worst out of life, truly, and I’ve done everything in my power to keep his head above water. And maybe I’ve kept him afloat all these years, but it’s you who has finally taught him how to swim. I’ve seen the difference you’ve made. I’ve seen a light in his eyes that has never been there before.”

  My throat stings with sentiment, and I’m flooded with confliction. Parker’s desperate, candid plea for forgiveness flashes to my mind, cutting deep, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. My soul feels conned, but my heart still beats with yearning and empathy.

  I realize now why Parker didn’t want me to pronounce my love to him last night.

  He didn’t want to take possession of such a cherished thing under false pretenses.

  “I fucking love you. Just… know that.”

  Tears burn my eyes until I’m unable to hold them in any longer. They trail down my face, one after the other, adding to my rising pool of mixed emotions.

  Bree brushes the tearstains from my cheekbones, a solemn smile pulling at her lips. She continues. “You’re special, Melody. You’re special to him. And maybe I’m a little biased, but Parker is special, too, and maybe… maybe this all worked out exactly how it was meant to.”

  My eyes lift to hers, my insides spiking with a new surge of gall. I take her words to heart, perhaps more than I should, but my mind is spinning, and my feelings are all over the place. I latch on to what I can. “Meant to?” I repeat, pushing her hands off of me, my tone dripping with quiet outrage. “My husband’s death, this deceptive matchmaking ploy for your brother, toying with my emotions when I was at my most vulnerable, was all… meant to be?”

  Bree’s h
ead swings back and forth, her eyes widening, lashes fluttering. “No, God… that’s not what I meant. I’m not trying to minimize any of this. I’m just trying to find the good in it all.”

  “There’s no good in lies and broken trust.”

  She nods, soaking up my truth. “No, you’re right. I’m so sorry for putting this all in motion.”

  I inhale a rickety breath, the tears still spilling. Everything is too fresh, and my emotions are raw and heightened. I need time, space. I need to calm down and look at this rationally. “I-I should go,” I whisper, darting around her towards the door.

  “Melody… please.”

  Hesitation seizes my steps, my hand curling around the doorknob.

  Bree’s voice cracks as she urges, “Please forgive him. He loves you.”

  Her final plea meets my back as a harrowing cry breaks loose, and I race out of the office.

  He loves me.

  Parker loves me.

  And I think that’s why this hurts so much.

  —THIRTY-FIVE—

  Ten days.

  Ten fucking days without her, and I’m going out of my mind. Bree has been breathing down my neck ever since Melody confronted her at the hospital, checking in on me, bringing me food, bringing me even more food, and making sure I don’t go off the deep end.

  But this isn’t like last year, after my injury that sent me into a black, depressive hole, inciting my sister to enroll me in the suicide support group.

  No, this is different… I’m different.

  Melody fixed me, and I’m determined as hell to fix us.

  My initial, pathetic text message to her shortly after she’d left my house that day, broken down and hollowed out, went unanswered for forty-eight hours.

  Me: I fix shit for a living… I can fix this, too. Tell me what to do, Melody.

  Then, she finally responded.

  Melody: I need time and space to process everything. I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s just what I need.