Page 19 of The Wrong Heart

He just stares at it, unmoving.

I try again with the same result.

Nothing.

Totally unimpressed.

The ball rolls right up to his wet nose, but Walden ignores it, his only reaction being a long, heavy sigh. Annoyance, maybe. He probably thinks I’m a fucking idiot, tossing him this pathetic toy like it’s supposed to be exciting or something.

My dog looks at the red ball like I look at life.

My chest hums with resignation, and I abandon the ball and straighten my stance. I debate whether I want to finish the custom dining table I have partially assembled under the carport while there’s still daylight, considering it’s due to be delivered to a client in less than a week, but I’m honestly not feeling it right now. I kind of just want to go to bed.

It’s my favorite part of the day.

As I make up my mind and choose the latter, I can’t help but glance over at my open laptop before I disappear down the hallway. I have a new e-mail notification, and I already know who it’s from.

Magnolia.

The wilting widow who I found myself responding to one night when sleep wouldn’t come, my demons were aggressive, and an anonymous outlet sounded strangely appealing.

After years and years of unsuccessful therapy, a slew of doctors who considered me a lost cause, and no one, literallyno oneaside from Bree to care whether or not I took my next breath, this nameless, faceless stranger called to me somehow.

While I couldn’t relate to her grief, I could relate to her loneliness, so I finally wrote her back. And I actually slept that night.

I pause my steps, hesitating between the edge of the living room and the hallway, palm massaging the nape of my neck.

Fuck it.

A moment later, I’m seated in my computer chair, opening up the e-mail, my eyes scanning over the stranger’s words.

from:

Magnolia

to:

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