Page 144 of The Wrong Heart

And I think that’s why this hurts so much.

—THIRTY-FIVE—

Ten days.

Ten fucking days without her, and I’m going out of my mind. Bree has been breathing down my neck ever since Melody confronted her at the hospital, checking in on me, bringing me food, bringing me even more food, and making sure I don’t go off the deep end.

But this isn’t like last year, after my injury that sent me into a black, depressive hole, inciting my sister to enroll me in the suicide support group.

No, this is different…I’mdifferent.

Melody fixed me, and I’m determined as hell to fixus.

My initial, pathetic text message to her shortly after she’d left my house that day, broken down and hollowed out, went unanswered for forty-eight hours.

Me:I fix shit for a living… I can fix this, too. Tell me what to do, Melody.

Then, she finally responded.

Melody:I need time and space to process everything. I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s just what I need.

After a week of stewing in my miserable guilt, overworking myself just to keep my mind distracted, re-reading her text, and missing the fuck out of her, I’ve reached a sickly point of desperation. Melody hasn’t even been to the meetings.

She hasn’t been to the damn meetings, all because of me.

She’s avoiding me, and I get it—I fucking get it—but I’ve lived my entire life remaining idle and inactive. Maybe it’s time to fucking fight.

I’m just not sure how to fight for something so goddamn important. I don’t know what weapons to wield, or how much armor to possess. Do I go at her all bare bones and bleeding heart? On my knees, pleading and shaking, defenseless, with the blade of a dagger to my chest?

Stick it in, Melody. Twist it deep. What’s one more scar?

Or is fighting for her giving her the time and space she’s requested?

But then again…howmuch time? Do I wait for her to reach out, putting more and more distance between us?

Time is the greatest measure for healing, after all.

It’s the greatest measure for forgetting, too.

Fuck, I’m all over the place. I’m clueless and unprepared for how to deal with the consequences of my selfish fucking choices, so I’m throwing myself into work as a distraction. At least I have that. It’s more than I can say for this time last year.

And luckily, my job today is a final project at the Jameson residence, finishing up painting and adding crown molding to one of their fifty-thousand extra rooms.

Owen.

I’m going to miss that kid when I’m officially done here.

“Parker!”

Owen comes barreling at me in the foyer, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a heartening contrast to the defeated little boy I discovered that first day. A smile lifts, despite my own inner turmoil, as Owen’s mother follows behind him with a mug of coffee, her silk robe trailing her feet. I nod my greeting, setting down my tub of primer. “Morning.”

Long, salmon-colored talons click the ceramic as Mrs. Jameson flashes me her teeth, her lips hardly stretching through the obvious Botox. “Good morning, Mr. Denison. It’s a shame we’ll be saying goodbye after today.”

Because I was such a happy little ray of sunshine while I was here.

Palming the nape of my neck, I clear my throat, my mind calculating the number of times I told her to “fuck off” under my breath—pretty sure it was a lot. “Yeah, I appreciate the work. Hit me up if you need anything else.”

“I’ll do that.”

---