Page 34 of The Wrong Heart

My eyes pop open over my shoulder, issuing Leah a glare of admonishment, but she only waggles her eyebrows in return. West shakes his head, bringing his coffee to his lips.

Leading Parker up the staircase to the second floor, I glance back at him with a floaty chuckle. “Sorry. That was my brother and best friend.”

I’m met with another grunt-huff.

Cranky.

When we reach the top of the stairs, Parker drifts to the left, so I instinctually reach out and curl my fingers around his upper arm, guiding him to the right. His bicep ticks beneath my touch, his gaze zoning in on the contact, then flicking back up to my face before he pulls his arm free and moves around me, trudging towards the master bedroom. The pads of my fingertips tingle with warmth, so I swipe them along my thigh as I trail him.

I gave Parker the basic rundown of my renovation needs at our last group meeting, saving his number into my phone and texting him a few pictures of the unfinished job. Most of the hideous pink wall tiling has already been removed by my father, the new boxes of subway tile stacked along the wall, ready to go. White, clean, a little sterile.

Nothing that will remind me of Charlie and his bright personality, or the way we would take bubble baths together in the soaking tub and make love beneath the shower jets.

Slipping my hands into my pockets, I linger in front of the bathroom, watching Parker assess the workload. “Do you think it’ll look good?”

His eyes skim the space before he pins them on me. “Can’t go wrong with subway tile.”

“I agree. I wanted something simple… understated.”

A few beats pass between us, gazes still locked, and I wonder how he always manages to say so much without saying anything at all. While I can’t decipher what he’s trying to tell me, I feel the vibrations of his unsaid words beneath my ribs, in my throat, and low, low in my belly.

Fidgeting under his jade stare, I’m unsure of what to say, so I just smile, bright and happy. I get the feeling that people don’t smile at him often. Or at all.

Parker’s jaw clenches at the sentiment. “You do that a lot.”

“What?” I slink back, a little self-conscious. “Smile?”

“Yeah.” His eyes narrow with a semblance of scrutiny, brows furrowing. “People smile too much. I never understood it. Smiles should be saved for things that bring us real joy, and we give them away so easily, so carelessly. To strangers on the street—to people we don’t even like.”

I’m not certain if I’m more taken aback by the fact that he just strung together more than three words, or by the words themselves.

Or… that he’s noticed me. My smile.

Parker seems to share in my surprise and quickly averts his eyes, scratching at his hair. He looks frustrated with himself—with his brief burst of vulnerability.

I blink myself from the stupor. “I don’t see it like that at all. I think—”

“I’m going to get started. I’ll have it done in a couple of days.”

Parker disappears into the bathroom without another word, successfully shutting me down. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, making a hissing sound, observing the way he gets right to work, kneeling down with his t-shirt riding up his back to reveal a small stretch of bronzed skin. Shaking my head, I shuffle backwards until I’m moving out of the bedroom, and I can’t help but wonder what his story is. What broke him. I wonder if his pieces are scattered like Zephyr’s—how far they’ve traveled, how long he’s been walking around with cracks and missing parts.

But what I’ve learned about broken things is that they can always be put back together. It’s just a matter of how much time you’re willing to put into making the pieces fit. How much patience. How much diligence.

I finally head back down the stairs, unsurprised to find Leah sprawled across my brother’s lap, head perched on the decorative pillow atop his thighs.

She shoots upright when she spots me. “Girl.”

Here we go.

I fiddle with the long sleeve of my flowy white tunic. “There’s no point, Leah.”

“You don’t think he’d be into me?”

“I don’t think he’s into… anyone. Or anything.”

“Okay, okay,” Leah breezes, nodding with consideration. “The tortured silent type. I can work with that.”

West scoffs. “That was your takeaway?”

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