Page 24 of The Wrong Heart

“They make me feel,” I continue. “Whenever I hear the sound of violin strings, I always get this emotion in my chest and tears in my eyes, ever since I was a little girl.”

“That’s fitting,” Amelia cuts in, her umber irises appearing a shade lighter. “Since your name is Melody.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Unfortunately, I’m musically-challenged. I’m pretty sure my parents started regretting the name choice the first time I attempted karaoke.”

Everyone laughs except for him.

The meeting continues, and we are given a “homework” assignment of creating a vision board, consisting of dreams and goals we aspire to reach one day. It’s supposed to keep us focused on a positive future.

Halfway through the meeting, we are allowed to mingle and stretch our legs for fifteen minutes. It’s an intermission—an emotional recharge. I watch as fellow members engage in conversation and check their cell phones, collective sighs and laughter breaking the silence.

Parker stands from his chair, and my eyes trail him as he saunters over to the little snack table, stocked with a Keurig, along with packaged crackers and cookies. He flips through the coffee flavors while I make a quick decision to join him. I’m not sure why. He’s not at all approachable—in fact, he hasn’t said a word this entire meeting. Parker doesn’t participate in any discussions or offer his starting points. He never smiles.

I’m pretty sure I even caught him sleeping.

But something pulls me to my feet and guides me over to him, an invisible force, an insatiable curiosity. I’m desperate to learn how he’s tempered his pain.

Parker is fiddling with the Keurig machine when I come up beside him, lacing my fingers together in front of me and gnawing at my lip. I clear the hitch in my throat. “Hey.”

He ignores my greeting, pressing an assortment of buttons until the coffee maker roars to life. His hair is a mess of unruly waves and curls, longer up top and short in the back. It’s a dark, dark brown, almost black, which makes his light green eyes all the more striking.

Those eyes flicker over to me, skimming down my body, then back up in a quick sweep until he returns his attention to the table.

“You were watching me,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady as I take in the way he sifts through the basket of assorted crackers.

“Was I?”

He doesn’t spare me a glance as he replies, his focus pinned on the little bag of Wheat Thins. Parker pulls it open, eyeing the contents, and I drum my fingers along the floral tablecloth. His dark denim looks worn, his t-shirt faded. He’s put no effort into his outward appearance, and yet he still commands attention somehow. I swallow. “Yes.”

Shaking the bag around, he takes a cracker out between two fingers and pops it into his mouth. Then, he finally turns to look at me, slipping his unoccupied hand into the pocket of his jeans while he chews. “And you want to know why?”

“No. I want to know what you saw.”

Parker hesitates mid-chew, his jaw ticking, almost as if I’ve taken him off guard by my answer. But he recovers quickly, his expression turning stoic. “I saw what I always see when I look at your kind.”

My kind?

The broken? The grieving?

I’m about to ask him to clarify, but the car salesman, Robert, pushes his way between us to sort through the snack basket, and the moment is severed. Parker doesn’t elaborate, and instead, pushes off the table and makes his way back to his chair, leaving me frowning and confused.

And oddly, more intrigued.

When I’m stressed, I bake.

When I’m restless, I bake.

When I’m on the verge of an emotional breakdown… I bake.

Some people exercise or read, or take hot baths with scented candles and mood music. I knead batter, weigh flour, and play with fondant like I’m a toddler with Play-Doh. It sedates my inner demons in a way nothing else can, and I think it’s because I feel close to him when I’m in the kitchen, mixing and blending and measuring.

It’s my vice. My escape.

My cell phone pings from the kitchen table, so I swipe both of my white-dusted palms along my apron and fetch it, letting a smile lift when I see Leah’s name light up the screen.

Leah:LOVE YOU SO MUCH. Miss your face. And that cute ass of yours. Has anyone told you what a nice butt you have? Seriously. It’s fantastic. I’m sure you already know. Am I making this weird? Fuck. I always do this. It’s totally weird now. But you still love me, right? Muahhh.

God, I adore her.

---