Page 141 of The Wrong Heart

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 methrough 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, moredeceived. 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?”

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