Page 163 of The Wrong Heart

His exhaustion is evident, but he musters a soft, “Hmm?”

“I know you’re tired, but I want to do one more thing before we go to sleep.”

Long lashes flutter as his eyelids open, and then he reaches down to squeeze my backside. “Mmm, you’re insatiable.”

“Not that,” I grin, pulling myself off of him and reaching for his hand. “Come with me.”

We take a moment to freshen up and find our clothes, and then I’m leading him through his house, Walden trailing behind us, until we’re standing on the front porch, gazing up at the blossoming horizon.

It’s a celebration.

A new day. A new beginning.

A new life.

We watch the sunrise together that morning, side by side, hand-in-hand, with Walden resting comfortably beside our feet. And as vibrant colors paint the sky, sheathing the treetops in magenta and gold, I think we finally see the same thing.

Hope.

—FORTY—

Ifound a wayto give her a forever August.

Our daughter, August Amelia, twirls the skirt of her birthday dress in ungraceful circles, two small palms cocooning her furry little friend.

I was never any good at life, and here I am now,living—while somehow managing to keep my kid alive, as well as my dog, who is a thousand years past ancient at this point, Melody’s aggressive infiltration of house plants, and this fucking hamster that clearly surpasses every law of hamster physics.

“Daddy, look!”

Oh, fuck, did it finally croak?

Bracing myself, I step closer to my daughter as the blades of grass tickle her bare toes. Her toothy grin has me letting out a breath of relief. “What is it, sunshine?”

Sunny blonde pigtails dance with the breeze, while wide green eyes twinkle in the midday glow.

She’s a spitting fucking image of her mother.

“Nutmeg wear birfday hat.”

A smile twitches on my mouth as I glance inside August’s cupped hands, taking in the tiny pink blossom that rests atop the hamster’s head. It’s a singular petal that blew free of the young peach tree flowering in our backyard.

It was one of the first things Melody did when she moved in with me three years ago. She planted a peach tree in honor of her late husband, and we’re hoping it will finally bear some fruit this summer.

“Parker!”

Melody’s panicked voice carries over to me from the back door, and I turn in place, casting worried eyes upon my very pregnant wife. She waves me over, looking frantic.

I race towards her. “Shit, what’s wrong?”

“It’s an emergency.”

Double shit.

“Are you going into labor?”

Melody is thirty-nine weeks along with our son, so planning a big party for August’s third birthday was risky. My mind has been consumed with harrowing images of the party being interrupted by Melody’s water breaking during theHappy Birthdaysong, painful contractions, and our son popping out on the kitchen floor next to the dog bowls.

“No, it’s worse,” she exclaims in a flustered breath, her braided pigtails swinging side to side as she shakes her head.

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