Page 16 of The Wrong Heart

Feminine.

Bullshit. The association is equally laughable and infuriating.

“Mr. Denison.”

My scowl is enough to have the portly woman teetering back on her chair legs. Other than the menace in my eyes piercing through the layers of cakey foundation settled between her wrinkles, my face remains expressionless.

This lack of reaction seems to fluster her further. “Mr. Denison,” she repeats, clearing a hitch in her throat that resembles pure terror. “Why don’t you start us off today.”

I try to keep my face stone-cold and stoic, but my left eyebrow arches automatically.

Rebel son-of-a-bitch.

“I can start, Ms. Katherine.”

The timid voice of some emo chick beside me steals my rebuttal. Her hair is black, like a starless sky at midnight. Like mine. Only, mine doesn’t have the ridiculous violet streaks and goofy headband.

Emo Chick scratches at the back of her hand, knuckles red and raw, pinholes of blood dotting the chalky skin around the bones. She is also tapping her feet.

Tap, tap, tap.

“My hamster, Nutmeg.”

Her words are whispered so delicately, I can’t help but fracture them with a mocking huff. I feel the gaze of a dozen horrified eyes on me as I lean against the seatback, arms folded.

A gasp carries over to me. “Parker.”

I’m being scolded by the shrew.

At the beginning of these gag-inducing meetings we’re supposed to go around the room and list off something that matters to us. It’s called a “starting point.”

It’s a reason. A reason to keep us alive another day.

Starting points are intended to be small—trivial, even.

The smell of freshly mowed grass, extra syrup on our pancakes, that first sip of coffee in the morning. Our favorite song.

Things we’d miss if we chose to jump off that building or shove a pistol down our throat.

But a fucking hamster? Hamsters have a three-year lifespan, and they eat their offspring.

This girl is a goner.

See you on the flipside, Emo Chick.

“She’s a good friend,” the raven-haired waif continues, earlobes stretched to a frightening level and decorated with silver skulls. “She makes me happy.”

The shrew returns her attention to my right, her pinched features relaxing as she responds to Emo Chick. “That’s wonderful, Amelia. Animals and pets make great starting points.”

My eye roll is monumental.

But it’s interrupted when the double doors plow open, revealing a disheveled sprite of a woman whose beltless beltloop gets snagged on the door handle, causing her to be yanked backwards, purse falling and dispensing lipstick, coins, and tampons everywhere, while her skinny latte from Starbucks slips from her grip as she tries to catch the fallen purse.

The scene would be amusing if I gave a flying fuck.

Chair legs screech against tile as members rise and jump into action, eager to help the inept stranger. I remain seated, bored, but mostly irritated that I haven’t figured out a way to fast-forward time yet.

I curse my dreadful sister as I wait for the chaos to simmer. She’s my foster sister, technically, but I’ve never been big on titles, and I’ve certainly never put much weight into blood.

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