Page 18 of The Wrong Heart

“Melody, why don’t you share a little about yourself? What brings you toLoving Lifelines?”

I hold the groan in the back of my throat. Stupid fucking name.

My eyes narrow as I watch the new girl fidget in place, toes tapping in opposite time, hands gripping the handbag in her lap. She sweeps trembling fingers through her hair, still looking down.

“I, um, lost someone,” she replies, her voice no more than a shaky whisper. “And then I lost myself.”

Ms. Katherine bobs her head slowly, brimming with artificial sympathies. “What brought you back from the point of no return?”

“Hope.” Her response is swift and pointed. “I had a glimpse of hope in that dark moment.”

“It’s a lie, you know.”

There I go again, running my mouth. I feel their offended stares on me, but I pay them no mind. Arms still folded across my chest, legs sprawled out in front of me, I keep my gaze on little miss sunshine as she turns to look at me with a slow, languid crane of her neck.

Wide, searching eyes meet my cool indifference as I continue. “Hope is a toxic false sense of optimism created to keep us going, but all it does is prolong the inevitable,” I say, unblinking and unemotional. “Hope is for the weak.”

I’m ambushed by a collective round of murmurs and gasps, but I don’t flinch as my sights stay fixed on the frail woman across the room, frail in both body and spirit. She looks breakable in every possible way—the counter to my stone walls and steel truths.

“Parker, I know this is an open forum, and we encourage healthy discussion,” the shrew cuts in, stealing away whatever objection may have escaped the new girl’s lips. “But let’s try to keep things positive.”

I sniff, shrugging my shoulders and pulling myself to my feet.

Works for me.

Without another word, I see myself out, feeling the heat of her stare burning into my back like fiery rays of sunshine as I walk out the door.

The gravel crunches beneath rubber tires as I pull into the driveway, scanning all the unfinished projects that litter my front yard.

I’m busy as hell this season, my job being a one-man contractor specializing in building renovations and home improvements. I was employed with a larger construction company for most of my career, but found that I don’t work very well with others.

Not exactly a revelation.

Bree suggested I start my own business, which sounded awful at first because self-employment involves shining customer service and fake-ass smiles, but when she volunteered to take the reins in the people department, I was sold.

I’m not sure how she does it. She works crazy long hours as it is, lots of overnight shifts, yet still finds time to keep my business up and running, securing new jobs and handling the customers. She even stops over to let my dog out for bathroom breaks as often as she can, occasionally leaving home-cooked meals or freshly baked desserts on my counter with a cutesy note.

Today is no different when I walk into the modest house I built from the ground up in my early twenties. I’m thirty-two now, so I’ve had this place for nearly ten years. It sits partially off the grid in a secluded, heavily wooded area on the outskirts of Delavan, suiting me just fine. I hate a lot of things, but neighbors are at the top of that list, right along with football and hipsters.

Walden lifts himself to unsteady legs as I push through the front door and toss my keys to the side table with a jarring clatter. He’s a Border Collie mix, older than dirt, and I get the feeling that the mutt enjoys life just as much as I do—which is not in the least. His black and white tufts of fur have been falling out since the day I found him wandering on the side of the road a mile from my house, feeble and malnourished. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wag his tail.

But every time I walk through the door, he stands and hobbles over to me. He doesn’t beg for attention or bark or lick my hand. He just kind of lurks a few feet away until I notice him, and then he shuffles back over to his dog bed with a sigh.

I blow out my own sigh, scratching my head and tousling my mop of hair as I venture into the cramped kitchen. A plate of lemon pound cake rests on the portable island, covered in plastic wrap and taped with a note:

Eat up, little brother. Lemon cake is the happiest dessert, and if anyone needs a bit of sunshine in their life, it’s you.

And your dog.

Please give that dog some damn lemon cake.

—Bree

I would smile if I did that sort of thing.

Instead, I peel back the plastic and pluck a yellow, miniature loaf from the platter, eating half of it in one bite. I turn around, glancing at my dog from across the room as I chew, his melancholy eyes staring back at me while his chin rests between two paws. Swallowing down the cake, I reach for a red ball sitting atop the adjacent counter and toss it up and down with one hand, my attention still on Walden.

I approach him, crossing into the living room, then crouch down and throw him the ball.

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