Page 42 of The Wrong Heart

Parker squints his eyes, taking one more step back. “Intrusive.”

He levels me with a final glare, then spins around and walks out of the meeting, abandoning his coffee. Abandoning whatever the hell just happened.

I let out the breath I was holding onto and turn to face the center of the room, where the meeting is about to resume.

But my feet halt before they can move because I notice… all eyes are on me.

Watching. Observing.

With flushed cheeks and my eyes to the floor, I slink back over to my chair and sit down. I send a quick glance over to Parker’s empty seat, and I wonder.

I can’t help but wonder…

What did they see?

—ELEVEN—

Later that night, I’m lying on my parent’s rose-patterned sofa, my belly full and my thoughts scattered.

I love this couch. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen, but I love it anyway. It reminds me of tickle fights and drippy popsicles and sick days from school, where I’d spend the whole day lounging and watching Nickelodeon.

“I’m so glad you came by,” Mom says, hovering at the edge of the living room as I smile over to her. She dries her hands on a dish towel, returning the sentiment. “We haven’t seen you in weeks.”

My heart aches. “I’m sorry.”

My mother, Claire Dahlberg, is petite and pretty, the laugh lines and wrinkles around her mouth a testament to her perky disposition and a clear indicator that I’m her daughter. I look just like her with our matching smiles, green eyes, and light, light hair, our skin pearly and sallow. West looks more like our father, Lucas, his Swedish descent evident in his crystal blue eyes and tall stature. Dad had to work late tonight and won’t be home until close to midnight, so I make a mental note to swing by for another dinner date this week.

Mom props her shoulder against the wall, studying me with motherly worry. “West says you’ve been doing better.”

My hands are perched beneath my cheek as I rest atop a decorative pillow. Our dog, Marley, an old Dachshund, lies curled up at my feet. “I am doing better.”

I’m notgreat. I’m notthriving.

But I’m better.

And better is better.

“How are the meetings going?” she wonders after a thoughtful sigh.

My cheeks grow hot when the first thing that pops into my mind is Parker and our strange altercation this evening. I should be thinking about the starting points, or Ms. Katherine’s kind smile, or Amelia’s sad stories, or Robert’s brush with death when someone lost control of a Civic and almost flattened him.

But all I see are Parker’s flaming green eyes and the feel of his fingers curled around my biceps. All I smell is his earthy shampoo and body soap. All I hear are the thunderous heartbeats in my chest when I felt it.

The tingle.

Swallowing, I shift on the sofa and avert my gaze. I can’t tell my mother any of that. I don’t even understand it myself.

Parker is a jerk. A closed-off, emotionally-stunted jerk who probably spits on my cupcakes before tossing them to the ground and smashing them beneath his dirty boot.

It was just a fluke.

“They’re going good.”

So lame, but so safe.

Mom sighs again, a smile lifting—also safe—and shuffles back into the kitchen with a nod. Restlessness claims me within moments, and I pull out my cell phone. I’m prepared to Facebook scroll when I notice the little green dot by Zephyr’s name as I do a quick check of my e-mail.

He’s active.

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