Page 74 of The Wrong Heart

Me:My fault. I shouldn’t have said all that shit.

Magnolia:No, I’m glad you did.

Me:Are you going to take my advice?

Magnolia:I don’t know. There IS someone who makes me feel… something. But he’s emotionally unavailable. And possibly gay.

Me:Emotions are overrated. Can’t help you with the gay part, though.

Magnolia:Me and my complicated life. Thank you for listening.

I’m mid-response when another message pops up.

Magnolia:Zephyr?

Me:Yeah?

Magnolia:Did you see the sunrise this morning?

My thumb flicks along my bottom lip as I stare at the screen.

Her and the damn sunrise. She asks me this question all the time, but my answer is always the same. It won’t change.

Me:I did. But I don’t think I saw what you saw.

We say our goodbyes a few minutes later, and I shuffle off to bed with Walden at my heels, plugging my phone into the charging port as I climb beneath the slate gray bedsheets. I’m surprised when it bursts to life with a new text message, and even more surprised when I glance at the sender and discover Melody’s name. I swipe it open.

Melody:This is a long shot, and I understand if you don’t want to… but I’m going to the lake tomorrow after the group meeting. I’ve spent over a year of my life being scared. Scared to heal, scared to move forward, scared to be alone. I’m done being scared, so I’m going to dance instead. There’s nothing scary about dancing.

I’m going to dance until I can swim.

One more message follows, and I almost choke on my breath.

Melody:I thought maybe you would want to dance with me.

—EIGHTEEN—

“Peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”

Ms. Katherine’s lips stretch into the sweetest smile, the rouge of her cheeks blossoming like pink peonies, and I consider adding it to my growing list of starting points. She’s a portly woman with a slightly crooked bob, dappled in brindle and silver streaks. A floral-print blouse adorns her ample frame, the fuchsia petals matching the nail polish on her fingers that are curled around a leather-bound journal.

“Did you know those were Elvis Presley’s favorite?”

A chuckle clears my lips as I duck my head. “My mom would always tell me that when she’d make them for me.”

“You should try them with bacon sometime. It’s such an interesting flavor dynamic,” she encourages, shifting her weight on the folding chair.

Amelia pipes in. “That sounds nasty.”

“You’re a vegan, aren’t you, Amelia?” Ms. Katherine prompts tenderly.

“Yep, for almost a year now. Any time I look at meat, I just see Nutmeg’s little face.”

I quirk a smile, braving a glance to my left. Amelia scratches the back of her knuckles with short black nails, causing a cluster of blood dots to speckle her skin. “How is Nutmeg?” I ask her when the starting points shift down the circle.

“She’s good. I just knitted her little booties, but she doesn’t really like them.”

The mental image of a hamster in hand-knit booties sends a tickle to my heart. “Maybe she just needs to get used to them.”

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