The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  After a week of stewing in my miserable guilt, overworking myself just to keep my mind distracted, re-reading her text, and missing the fuck out of her, I’ve reached a sickly point of desperation. Melody hasn’t even been to the meetings.

  She hasn’t been to the damn meetings, all because of me.

  She’s avoiding me, and I get it—I fucking get it—but I’ve lived my entire life remaining idle and inactive. Maybe it’s time to fucking fight.

  I’m just not sure how to fight for something so goddamn important. I don’t know what weapons to wield, or how much armor to possess. Do I go at her all bare bones and bleeding heart? On my knees, pleading and shaking, defenseless, with the blade of a dagger to my chest?

  Stick it in, Melody. Twist it deep. What’s one more scar?

  Or is fighting for her giving her the time and space she’s requested?

  But then again… how much time? Do I wait for her to reach out, putting more and more distance between us?

  Time is the greatest measure for healing, after all.

  It’s the greatest measure for forgetting, too.

  Fuck, I’m all over the place. I’m clueless and unprepared for how to deal with the consequences of my selfish fucking choices, so I’m throwing myself into work as a distraction. At least I have that. It’s more than I can say for this time last year.

  And luckily, my job today is a final project at the Jameson residence, finishing up painting and adding crown molding to one of their fifty-thousand extra rooms.

  Owen.

  I’m going to miss that kid when I’m officially done here.

  “Parker!”

  Owen comes barreling at me in the foyer, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a heartening contrast to the defeated little boy I discovered that first day. A smile lifts, despite my own inner turmoil, as Owen’s mother follows behind him with a mug of coffee, her silk robe trailing her feet. I nod my greeting, setting down my tub of primer. “Morning.”

  Long, salmon-colored talons click the ceramic as Mrs. Jameson flashes me her teeth, her lips hardly stretching through the obvious Botox. “Good morning, Mr. Denison. It’s a shame we’ll be saying goodbye after today.”

  Because I was such a happy little ray of sunshine while I was here.

  Palming the nape of my neck, I clear my throat, my mind calculating the number of times I told her to “fuck off” under my breath—pretty sure it was a lot. “Yeah, I appreciate the work. Hit me up if you need anything else.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Implication bleeds from her pretentious pores, and I cringe internally.

  And outwardly.

  Owen pipes up, rocking on the heels of his light-up Batman sneakers. “Maybe you can babysit me sometime, Parker. We could make model cars and watch movies.”

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Mrs. Jameson agrees.

  Shit. It’s a miracle I’ve kept my dog alive this long. I nod through a tight-lipped smile, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

  “Can I show you the new car I made? Before you start work?”

  I glance at Owen’s mother for approval, and she tips her head towards the winding staircase, causing Owen to squeal with elation, urging me to follow. When we reach his bedroom, he throws himself onto the bed where a new creation rests, the mattress bouncing with his weight. I linger in the doorway for a moment, a sentimental sort of feeling washing over me as I drink in his childlike glee and red, chubby cheeks.

  “Do you like it?” Owen holds up the neon orange car with little black wheels, zooming it through the air and making whooshing sounds. “I think it’s my favorite.”

  “Yeah, bud. It’s really good.”

  “I thought you’d like it. Friends usually like the same stuff.”

  My mouth twitches in reply.

  Sunlight scatters along the bedspread, illuminating Owen’s tangerine masterpiece like a spotlight, and I observe the time and care given to such a prized achievement. The meticulous paint lines. The perfectly placed wheels. The little tiger stripe design on the side, etched into the woodgrains with precision. My skin prickles with warmth. “You worked hard on that. I can tell.”

  Owen bobs his chin in agreement, his tawny eyes shimmering with pride. He swipes his matching bangs off his forehead, then wheels the toy car across the bed covers like it’s a race track. “Yep, it took me all month. It broke three times before I got it just right.”

  I swallow. “Yeah?”

  He nods, still focused on his task as he winds the car in circles, spinning around on his knobby knees. “I couldn’t give up. I knew it would be worth it if I just tried really hard to put it back together,” he tells me distractedly. “There were tons of little pieces, so it took a lot of work. I stayed up way past my bedtime some nights.”

  A surge of correlation unfurls beneath my ribs, causing me to fluster. I start to internalize the fuck out of his words, applying them to my own mess.

  “Do you think it’s worth it?”

  Blinking out of my haze, I glance up at the car that Owen holds up, high and mighty. A beloved trophy. A treasure. It twinkles in the glimmering streaks of daylight leaking in through partially-open blinds, and a sigh escapes me as I whisper back softly, “Yeah… it’s definitely worth it.”

  A few hours later, I’m packing up the last of my supplies and slipping into my boots after saying a final farewell to Owen. Mrs. Jameson prances into the grand foyer that gleams with tinsel and jewels, stopping me before I reach the door.

  “Mr. Denison,” she calls out, her bare feet scuffing along the hardwood floors. A champagne flute dangles from her manicured hand. “I just wanted to thank you.”

  “Uh, yeah, it’s not a problem.”

  Thanks for the huge ass tip.

  “No, I mean for the joy you’ve brought to my son during your time here.”

  My muscles cramp as I reach the front door, stalling my steps. I feel my heart clench at her words, but I’m not sure how to reply, so I just glance up, swallowing back the growing lump in my throat.

  She softens before me, her bristly exterior peeling away to reveal a caring mother beneath all the glamour and gimmicks. Light brown eyes dance golden beneath the glow of the chandelier, and she spears me with genuine gratitude. “Owen told me you helped stick up for him against the neighbor boy. I didn’t even know…” Mrs. Jameson sighs wearily, flipping a swathe of auburn hair over one shoulder. “My husband is always away on business, and I’m… distracted a lot. It opened my eyes to all the things I’ve been missing, you know? Anyway, not to get all sappy on you, but Owen has always been a sensitive, introverted child. He keeps to himself. It’s been difficult finding him friendships, and I thought Brody was a good influence… I didn’t realize my son was being bullied.”

  I drink in her words, my teeth gnashing together as I choke back the waves of sentiment. My eyes skim her face, searching for fakery, for guile, but all I see is a woman who wants to do better. There’s a noticeable hitch in my tone as I respond, “Sure. He’s a good kid.”

  “He is, truly. Thank you for seeing that,” she says. “Thank you for seeing him.”

  My tight, emotion-infused nod sees her off, but she stops me one more time before I can slip out.

  “One more thing, if you will… I’d love to have a way for my son to keep in touch if that’s not too much to ask. Letters or e-mails, perhaps? It would be a beneficial outlet for him, I think.”

  “Oh, uh…” Sifting through my pockets for a pen and paper that don’t exist, I find myself agreeing to the suggestion. “Yeah, why not?”

  Mrs. Jameson skips over to a decorative side table, snatching a pen and stationary pad from the drawer, then shuffles them over to me. “Wonderful. He’ll be so excited to have a pen pal.”

  A pen pal.

  I can’t help the grin from tipping my lips at the notion.

  Nothing could possibly go wrong there.

  “Sounds good,” I say, scribbling my information onto the floral notepad and handing it
back. I glance down at my handwriting before Mrs. Jameson plucks it from my fingertips and folds it in half, smiling her thanks.

  Zephyr79@gmail.com

  When the sun hovers low in the cloudless sky later that day, I pull up to the front of her house and kill the engine. Hesitation and doubt keep me rooted to the seat for a solid twenty minutes before I work up the courage to climb her front steps, and then it takes me another five minutes to actually knock.

  I’m goddamn clueless.

  Should I have flowers? Chocolates or some shit?

  An epic speech?

  Shit. I need an epic speech.

  But it’s too late, because my knuckles rap twice against the steel yellow door, a sunny contradiction to my thrumming anxiety, and her footsteps echo all around me.

  Melody opens the door, the remnants of a smile kissing her perfect mouth, and when she sees me standing here, her lips thin. Her smile fades. Her eyes flash with surprise, glinting a stormy shade of green beneath her porch light. “Parker,” she says in a startled breath.

  I observe the way she peeks over her shoulder, like she’s wary or nervous, then sneaks outside to join me on the porch. My eyes peer through the door crack with cautious curiosity. “You have company?”

  Laughter filters outside, pulling my head to the left. It’s only then I notice the extra car in the driveway.

  Melody clears her throat, her arms crossing over a blush blouse. “My brother and Leah stopped by. I’ve been kind of a hermit this past week.” She pulls her lip between her teeth, gaze darting everywhere but to me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  I wanted to see you, so I came to see you. See, Melody? I’m fucking trying here.

  But my eyes don’t manage to get my point across because she’s not fucking looking at me, and my voice evades me the longer we stand here on her stoop, inches apart, yet miles away from one another. My skin feels itchy, my lungs parched. My fingers yearn to reach out and touch her.

  Melody’s lips shape into a small O as she blows out a steadying breath. “Parker, I’m not sure why you came, but… I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

  A prickling heat stabs at my chest like a hot poker. I swallow hard. “Look at me, Melody.”

  She shakes her head through watery eyes.

  “Why? Why won’t you look at me?”

  “Please. I’m not ready.”

  Fuck.

  A growl of desperation sweeps through me, and I reach out, cupping her face between my palms and forcing her attention on me. Bending down, I drop my forehead to hers as she squeaks out a strained gasp. “Look at me. Fucking see me,” I rasp out, my fingers weaving through her soft hair. “I’m here, and I’m trying. I don’t have lavish gifts or words that will magically erase the stupid shit I did, and fuck if I know how to grovel, but I do have one thing… and that’s me. Right here, right now. Standing on your doorstep, asking you to give me another fucking chance. To look past my mistakes and see everything else. Look at the real me, Melody. The man you brought to life, who has no goddamn clue what he’s doing, but is doing it anyway because it fucking matters. You matter.”

  Her tears fall instantly, tiny little waterfalls cascading down flushed cheeks, and a hoarse whimper escapes her parted lips.

  My focus slips to her mouth, and my own lips tingle, aching to taste her. To reclaim all the things I know we had. The things we still have.

  I lean in, ever so slowly, so gently, giving her a chance to push me away… but she doesn’t move. Melody stands there on wobbly legs, clutching my wrists in two tight fists as I graze her mouth with mine. Our breaths beat hot and hurried, erratic, and I inch forward, pressing a featherlight kiss to her trembling lips. I can’t even prevent the moan that crawls up my throat when her warmth invades me, nearly incinerating me where I stand.

  Melody clings tighter, rising up on her tiptoes, kissing my bottom lip with a needy sigh. But her sigh manifests into a sob, and she pushes back, escaping my clutches. “No…” she whispers, tone cracking. “I’m not… I don’t…”

  She sways slightly, catching her balance on the adjacent pillar. My instincts flare, and I move in to scoop her up in my arms, smoothing her hair back and kissing her temple. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, I-I just feel lightheaded. Nauseous. The stress…”

  Jesus Christ, am I making her physically ill?

  Just then, the door pulls open, and Melody jumps back. Her brother glowers from the entryway, his icy stare pinning on me, his fists balling at his sides.

  “You have a lot of fucking nerve showing up here, man,” West snaps, shoving his way through the screen and beelining towards me. “Look at her—she’s about to pass out from the grief you’ve caused her.”

  My stomach pitches with regret. But I don’t have time to process his claims before his fingers are curled around my shirt collar, and he’s moving me backwards until I’m slammed up against the side of her house.

  I don’t move. I don’t react. I just stare into his clear blue eyes, my breathing heavy, my muscles locked up.

  “West!” Melody shrieks. “Let him go. God, you’re acting like a barbarian.”

  Leah meets Melody on the lawn, reaching for her hand and adding, “Ease up, you brute. You’re just making this worse for your sister.”

  West slackens his hold on me, shaking his head through gritted teeth. His sigh of resignation carries over to me before he finally lets go and paces back. “Just go. Stay away from my sister,” he orders, frigid warning lacing his words. “She’s been through enough.”

  Swallowing, I peer over his shoulder at Melody, who still looks ashen, who still looks winded, wilting, and Christ… it’s my fucking fault. I thought I could come here and sweep her off her feet with a poignant look or an apologetic word. I thought I could right my wrongs with a kiss. And I felt her crumbling, I felt it, but it’s too soon.

  She’s not ready, and I can’t force it.

  I drop my chin to my chest, my eyes closing as I draw in a lowly breath, and before I make my exit, I move around West and head towards the woman I love.

  Her eyes widen as I close in, her green depths reflecting the golden haze of the setting sun, and when I stall before her, drenched in defeat, Melody forces the smallest smile.

  After everything, she’s still smiling.

  Fuck.

  I kind of want to ask her why, and I really want to kiss her, but the only thing I do is reach for her hand, splaying her fingers until her palm is outstretched. Fishing through my pocket, I pull out a folded-up note and place it in her hand, curling her fingers around it. “Don’t ask me how I got this.”

  She frowns. “What?” Melody blinks with bewilderment, glancing down at the hidden treasure, then back up to me.

  With a hard swallow and a frazzled breath, I hold her hand in mine and lean in, my words tickling the shell of her ear. “Zachary Adler,” I murmur gingerly, brushing a calloused thumb over her knuckles. “Thirty-six, recently divorced, works in finance. Father of two. More importantly… he has something you’re looking for.”

  Lifting my head to meet her eyes, I see the realization flicker to life, her pupils dilating as we hold our stare for one long, powerful beat. And with a final kiss to the top of her head, I inhale her scent, sweetness and citrus, and I let her go.

  I traipse through the front yard and hop into my truck, starting the engine and gripping the steering wheel in a firm clutch. Running shaky fingers through my hair, I spare a glance out the passenger window at Melody, who is hugging herself through spilling tears with the little piece of paper tucked inside her fist.

  I speed away.

  Then… I drive.

  I drive in circles, around town, into different towns, backwards, forward—for hours.

  Hours.

  I drive and drive and drive, aimlessly, with no destination in mind, and with only my racing thoughts as a bleak passenger.

  And that’s how I wind up on that fucking bridg
e.

  —THIRTY-SIX—

  “Mellie!”

  A muffled familiarity finds its way to my ear, and I glance up through the dusky window, spotting my father standing on the front porch, his arm waving animatedly, encouraging me inside. When I glance at the time, I’m surprised to discover I’ve been sitting in my parents’ driveway for over fifteen minutes, lost in idle thoughts and haunting unknowns.

  My eyes scan the crinkled note lying atop my dashboard with the name and address of a complete stranger in every way—except for one.

  Charlie’s true heart recipient.

  Shaking myself back to reality, I turn off the car and force myself inside the house. The scent of Italian herbs and spices assaults my senses as I join my father in the entryway, causing my belly to churn with a new wave of nausea.

  So much stress.

  “You fall asleep out there, kiddo?” he chuckles, giving my shoulder a squeeze after I discard my purse.

  His salt-and-pepper scruff has grown out from the last time I visited, matching the silvery streaks in his recent crew cut. Tall and distinguished, my father has always had an intimidating look about him, but on the inside, he’s nothing but softness and syrup—the sweetest man I know. I smile through my queasiness. “I was just thinking.”

  “Thinkin’ about Ma’s cheesecake, I hope. It’s fresh out of the oven, blueberry and lemon.”

  My nose crinkles at the thought of ingesting anything, but I nod agreeably, giving a small wave to my mother when we pass through the kitchen.

  Looking up from the stovetop, she beams at my presence. “Melody, I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

  For whatever reason, my eyes mist. “I wanted to see you guys,” I murmur back, my voice sounding thin and papery. “I’ve missed you.”

  Dad wraps a hulky arm around me, tugging me to him. He places a kiss to my hair, quick and light, but the gesture triggers a torrent of emotions to flood me, and I collapse against his chest, unplanned. I feel the worry in his embrace, the unconditional love, and it only makes me cry harder. The course of the last two weeks ripples through me in waves and shudders, and before I know it, the three of us are huddled on the couch as I inhale quieting breaths and wait for my breakdown to ebb.