Page 54 of The Wrong Heart

Her response has me turning around, my eyebrows raised in question.

She finishes with, “Hint: it’s the same person who is keeping you from jumping off that bridge or swallowing a whole bottle of Valium. Think about it.” Amelia sends me her own wave—one far more amiable—and disappears into her car.

It doesn’t take long for me to think about it, and while all I want to do is contest that theory because I like to believe that I don’t give a fuck about anything, she kind of has a point.

Well played, Emo Chick.

Owen.

I’m working on the third floor reno at the Jameson property the next day, covered head to toe in sweat and sawdust, when I hear a little voice from behind me.

“Hey, Parker.”

I twist around from my place on the newly installed Brazilian walnut flooring and see Owen shuffling in the doorway, his hands tucked into denim shorts. “Hey.”

“You’ve been here a lot this week.”

“I have a lot of work to do.”

The little boy with auburn bangs inches forward, making footprints in the sawdust. “The floor looks nice.”

Falling back on my haunches, I shrug. “It’s okay. Not really my style.”

“Yeah. These are the kind of floors I’ll get yelled at for scratching with my race cars. I build them, you know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, want to see?”

Normally, I’d say no. Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap about model cars or random kids I meet at jobs… but I’m compelled to say yes, so I do. “Sure.”

Owen leads me to his bedroom, the same room I discovered him crying in my first day here. The bed is made up, decorated in a red and blue race car pattern, and the bordering along his navy walls matches the theme. I try to think back to my own childhood room, myrealchildhood room, before she stole everything away from me, but the images are so hazy now. All I remember is a sports lamp beside my bed. It had a baseball, bat, football, and a soccer ball attached to a green base, and sometimes my father would switch the lightbulb out to make it shine different colors. It would be orange during October and green in December.

Pushing aside the vague memories, I follow Owen across the room and pause beside his work desk, bestrewn with all kinds of wooden creations on wheels.

It’s actually really… impressive.

I clear my throat, crossing my arms. “You made all these?”

“Yep. Do you like them?” His face lights up as he reaches for a car painted red with yellow lightning bolts. “This is the Kamikaze. He’s the fastest.”

Owen makes a few zoomy sounds through his teeth, and I feel myself relaxing. Softening. “I do like them. You’re talented.”

A smile washes over his innocent face, his cheeks round and pink, his nose spattered in freckles. “Thanks. My neighbor thinks they’re dumb.”

“Your neighbor?”

“Yeah… Brody. He thinks I should be playing video games like the other kids, but I’m not any good at that.”

“I don’t care much for those either.”

I’ve never really liked video games or watching television because my mind always wanders. Mindless activities are a cesspool for unwanted flashbacks and overthinking. That’s why I work with my hands—I need to keep busy. Focused on a task.

Owen’s smile broadens. “You’re really cool, Parker. I bet you have a lot of friends.”

My body tenses, wondering how he came to that conclusion. It couldn’t possibly be my dazzling smile or charming personality. “I don’t.”

“You don’t have friends?”

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