Page 115 of The Wrong Heart

She stands with me, tucking an inky tress of hair behind her ear. “What do you think is in there?” Amelia nods over to Ms. Katherine, who is flipping through her journal pages. “Do you think it’s a secret diary?”

The curiosity grips me. “I’m not sure. I figured it was probably class notes. Ideas for the meetings. Projects or homework assignments.”

“Maybe.” Her dark eyes narrow thoughtfully before she blinks back over to me. “I’m going to make a coffee for the road. Come on.”

My eyes move over her shoulder to Parker. He still remains seated, watching our interactions with his legs outstretched. He nods his head, just slightly, a fleeting gesture to reassure me that he’ll wait.

I follow Amelia over to the table with coffee and snacks, clearing my throat. “I like your dress,” I tell her, making conversation. I do like it. It’s long and lacy, black as per usual. Kind of witchy. “Where did you get it?”

“I made it,” she perks up. Amelia’s obsidian eyes glide over to me when we reach the table, glowing with a purple hue beneath the recessed lighting. “I like your dress, too. It matches your personality.”

“How so?”

“It’s sunny and warm. Inviting. Beautiful.”

A smile blooms with gratitude.

Amelia flicks her finger at my mouth, her nose crinkling. “Just like your smile. I used to think it was too cold for you here… in this sterile space with all these ghosts.” She returns her attention to the coffee selections, fiddling with the flavors. “I was afraid we’d haunt you. Scare you away. But you stayed, and you’re exactly what we needed.”

I watch as she twists around in place, her gaze darting to Parker before landing back on me. Swallowing, I wonder, “And what’s that?”

“Sunshine, of course. You make these eternal winters so much more bearable.”

My heart soars with affection. Amelia sends a crooked smile my way, then pops her vanilla coffee into the Keurig and turns on the machine. I observe her thin frame, collarbones protruding through the sheer fabric, while a spattering of jagged scars poke out beneath her three-quarter length sleeves. She wears her pain with pride, and it’s a peculiar thing. This young woman is far too young to be so riddled with trauma and terrible stains. I swallow. “You have a beautiful heart, you know.”

A chuckle greets me, almost self-deprecating. “That’s sweet of you to say, but my heart is all wrong.”

“What?” My brows pinch together with alarm. “Why do you think that?”

“My mother told me. She said she wished for a princess daughter with fairy wings and a heart made of sugar and spice, but she got me instead. A shadow. A funeral.” Amelia lifts dark-tipped fingers to her breastbone, inching down the low-hanging collar of her dress. “I got this tattoo when I turned eighteen.”

With eyes glistening with unshed tears, I dip my gaze to her chest, pale and skeletal. A broken heart tattoo stares back at me, placed right above her own perfect heart. My head sways side to side with disbelief. “No… your mother didn’t mean that, and if she did, she’s sick. She’s unworthy of a daughter like you.”

“You’re sweet, Melody. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I insist, fingers curling at my sides. “Nobody’s heart is wrong. We’re given the heart that is meant for us, and if someone else doesn’t see the beauty in it, it’s not meant for them.”

Something flashes in her eyes, something brief yet poignant. It’s like she’s drinking in my words and soaking them up, absorbing their truth. But then it flickers, fades away, replaced by something else. Defeat, maybe.

I’m angry in that moment. Violently angry. I’m furious at every unfit woman in the world who claims the title of “mother” when they are anything but. They are not a guidance or warmth or nurturing hug. They’re a disease. They infect vulnerable, innocent children, poisoning them with untruths and cruel delusions, branding them with scars they will carry forever.

Parker’s mother.

Amelia’s mother.

Even Charlie’s mother, with her wicked words and sharp tongue, after she had once told me thatIwas like a daughter to her.

I’m angry in that moment, I’m so angry at mothers like that, but I’m alsograteful.

I’m immensely grateful for mine.

Amelia reaches out her hand, giving my upper arm a gentle squeeze as her coffee dings with readiness. “I’m really glad to know you, Melody.”

A tear slips out just as Parker saunters up to our twosome, his attention shared between the both of us. “You okay?”

I’m not sure which one of us he’s asking, but I respond with a tight nod.

“I’ll leave you two alone now,” Amelia says, securing the plastic lid on her Styrofoam cup, her violet gaze assessing us, a slim trace of joy sparkling through the sadness. “Have a nice evening.”

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