Page 49 of The Wrong Heart

To lose is to have loved.

It’s when we have nothing left to lose that we truly know suffering.

Melody runs both hands through her hair, smoothing back the wet strands. She’s illuminated by the headlights of her car and the glow of the moon, shadows carved into all of her curves and crevices. Laying claim to her darker parts. “He fucking left me here alone to sift through the debris of everything we had together. And I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with his mother calling me wicked and blaming me for his death when I was a victim, too. I’m not okay with the color of the living room becausehepicked it out, and every time I stare at those rust-colored walls, I cry. I’m not okay with sleeping alone, or mowing the lawn, or peach pie. I’m not okay with that look my mother gets when I zone out of a conversation because I thought I heard his laugh.”

She’s shrinking in front of me, her weights lifting. She looks lighter somehow.

I’m no expert on living, and I sure as fuck don’t have any advice for her, so I just listen.

And I think that’s all she needs right now.

“I’m not okay.” She keeps repeating it, making that sound again, and I think it’s a laugh this time—a delirious laugh. A bolt of lightning brightens the sky just as Melody begins to climb on top of the hood of her car, shouting, “I’m not okay!”

Pacing closer, all I can do is watch while she pulls herself up straight, legs unstable, everything about her unstable, and throws her head back with another roar.

“I’m not okay!”

Melody laughs again, releasing all these feelings I don’t understand. She spins around in clunky circles, arms spread wide.

I’m standing right in front of her now, nearly grazing the front end of the car. Watching. Still watching. I’ve been watching her since that very first day, and I haven’t figured out why.

Her laughter quiets down, her arms dropping, and she whispers to the stars one more time, “I’m not okay.” Then she slides down to her butt, her shoes squeaking against the hood, and leans forward until we’re only a few inches apart. Words of resolution follow as she stares right at me. “But I will be. I’m not ready yet.”

Despite the ice cold rain, I feel a current of heat travel up my neck. My eyes slide down her face and land on her drenched blouse, stuck to her skin, accentuating the swell of her breasts sheathed in a black bra. They heave with every drawn-out breath.

And then I feel some kind of ancient stirring from down below.

What the actual fuck?

I don’t notice shit like nice tits, or a woman’s smile, or the way she smells like fucking lemonade. My biological attraction to women has always been trumped by my emotional resentment towards them. Sex isn’t a part of my life—I haven’t been with a woman in well over a decade, and even then, I never truly enjoyed it. It almost felt like something Ihadto do—a societal coercion.

I don’t do intimacy, and sex is a breeding ground for intimacy. I much prefer my own hand whenever the itch arises, which isn’t very fucking often. I just don’t really care.

But I feel the itch right now, standing beneath pale moonshine, breathing in her rain-soaked skin, and staring at her tits like a fucking asshole while she’s in the midst of a mental breakdown. I gnash my teeth together and back the hell up, returning my attention to her face.

Her eyes glaze over when they meet with mine, maybe from the booze, or maybe because she noticed my brush with madness. Maybe she noticed me noticingher, and that makes it all the more irrefutable.

Fuck.

There must be something in the rain tonight.

“Parker.” Melody pierces through my miserable thoughts, her voice rough like sandpaper, raw from her screams. “Why did you come?”

I swallow, my jaw stiff. Everything stiff.

Damn it.

Dodging the question because I don’t fucking know, I counter with, “Why did you call me?”

Her legs dangle over the edge of the hood, swinging in opposite time, occasionally grazing my wet pant legs. She gnaws at her bottom lip, glancing away. “Amelia didn’t answer.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The rain slows as we face each other through the drizzle and humidity, soaking wet, beaten down, and watching each other with matching eyes, green and tired. Melody doesn’t respond to the question, just as I hadn’t, but her expression shifts slightly. Her eyebrows wrinkle with an air of scrutiny, like she’s trying to read me somehow—trying to piece together a puzzle. Unravel my mysteries.

It’s almost as if her demons are interrogating mine and comparing notes.

The look in her eyes, the probing, invasive look, causes my defenses to flare, and a surge of anger pumps through my veins. Cocking my head to the side, I say bitterly, “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

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