Page 9 of The Wrong Heart

It didn’t work.

Two hours later, I’m curled into the fetal position on the bathtub floor. The water is now ice cold, raining down frost and hailstones.

Winter is here, and I think it’s here to stay.

—FOUR—

One Year Later

“You should eat something.”

I spare West a quick glance before returning my attention to the assortment of baking ingredients strewn about my kitchen countertop. “I will. After the batch of red velvet.”

“I’m not a cupcake expert, but that looks like vanilla.”

“It’s cookies and cream.” Swiping my hands along my apron, I avoid eye contact and reach for the hand mixer. “Red velvet is three batches from now.”

“Melody.”

West murmurs my name like an affectionate warning—in that way he always has, but more so lately. He’s my big brother, after all, so I suppose he’s entitled. “West.”

“You’re too old to spoon-feed.”

I blink. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“But I will if I have to.”

A sigh escapes me, pausing my feet as I lean forward on the heels of my palms. “Tell Mom she doesn’t have to worry. I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

He puckers his lips, mimicking my stance on the opposite side of the island. “You look thinner.”

My eyes flick up to my brother, catching his concerned expression. He looks exactly like our father when he assesses me this way, his eyes all sapphire and sensitive, forehead creased with worry lines. When his dirty blonde hair catches the overhead light, the faintest flecks of silver dance beneath it. He’s six years older than me, but our age difference has never impeded our bond. “West, I’m fine. I promise. I have a crap-ton of orders to get through, so I’m just focused, okay?” I smile for added effect, and because it’s something I’ve always been good at—even when it’s not entirely genuine.

My brother scrubs a palm down his face, straightening his posture, shoulders deflating with an air of submission. But his eyes don’t leave mine, and I know it’s his way of trying to get the last word in.

I can’t fault West for always checking in on me, just like I can’t fault Mom for calling a hundred times a day, or Dad for showing up and doing random house projects, or Leah for blowing up my Facebook messenger with GIFs and funny memes to keep me smiling.

I can’t fault them for caring, just like I can’t fault Charlie’s mother, Eleanor March, for abandoning me when I needed her most.

She was my final tie to Charlie.

Charlie was her final tie to me.

It took a long time for me to realize that those ties were not the same.

And when ties that bind turn to cinders in your hand, you learn to make new ties. New tethers. So, I started an in-home confectionery business in Charlie’s honor, because of his peach pie eyes and marmalade kisses. He’ll always remind me of sweet things, even on the sourest of days.

The last few weeks have been a blur of Easter baskets and springtime treats, and now Mother’s Day is right around the corner.

West watches me mix the batter, gaze drifting from my face to the ceramic bowl, then back up again. He scratches at the nape of his neck. “You’re going to burn yourself out, Mel. You have plenty of money from the life insurance policy and your savings to keep you comfortable for a long time.”

My grip tightens on the bowl. “It keeps me busy. Distracted.”

“There are other ways to stay distracted,” he counters. “Why don’t you come out for a beer with me and the guys tonight? Bring Leah.”

“Leah doesn’t like you.”

“Leah likes me. She just doesn’t like that she likes me.”

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