Page 134 of The Wrong Heart

Magnolia:Is it your birth year? Your address? Maybe it’s your favorite number?

I clench my jaw as her messages continue to ambush me.

Magnolia:Your jersey number in high school? The amount of coins in your change jar? Your ideal temperature outside?

My grip tightens on the phone case as one more question pops up.

I blanch.

Magnolia:Is it the number of scars on your body?

What. The. Fuck.

My brain starts spinning, going into overdrive, but it doesn’t take long for me to remember. To realize my slip-up.

“Seventy-nine scars, Melody. I’m a fucking monster.”

Shit, shit,shit.

It’s over.

She knows I’ve deceived her.

Only a minute passes by before she messages me again, only this time, there are no words.

It’s a Google Meet link.

A fucking video chat.

Blowing out a hard breath, I drop my head against the back of the couch, my heart nearly detonating inside my chest. My skin hums with dissolution. My insides churn with loss.

But I’m done playing this game, so I click the damn link, then fiddle with the settings, trying to figure out the camera feature. Melody’s camera remains off. I stare at a black screen, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. She already knows; she just wants to see it for herself.

My camera flickers on.

Fuck.

I sit idle on my couch, holding my phone out while my guilty expression stares back at me from the phone screen. I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

All I do is wait.

I wait for her inevitable scorn, her furious disbelief.

Her anger. Her betrayal.

But all I get is a knock on my front door.

What?

I spare a final, knowing look to the camera before standing from the sofa and making the short trek to the door.

Melody stands on my front stoop, clutching her own phone in a trembling fist, her eyes pooled with tears, her mouth parted, lips quivering along with her hands. She sucks in a sharp breath, like she’s seeing me for the very first time.

But she’s not.

She’s seeinghim. Her husband.

I swallow, staring at her through gritted teeth and balled-up fists. Closing out the video on my phone, I shove it into my pocket and step backwards, allowing her entry. Melody moves in with slow, purposeful steps, her eyes locked on mine, circling around me. It’s almost as if we’re predator and prey, but I’m not sure who the predator is. Who will pounce, and who will flee.

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