Page 38 of The Wrong Heart

I used to love the sunrise. It made me feel fuzzy inside, like something magical was about to happen.

I have that same feeling right now, only it’s not the sunrise. It’s not even the cookie.

It’s the girl. It’s the girl with curly hair and a crooked smile who did a nice thing for me when nobody else cared.

Swallowing down the last bite of cookie and savoring the chocolatey taste, I let out a thankful sigh and lie down, pulling the itchy blanket up to my chin.

She sees me.

“People like me might not be so different from people like you.”

I feel my limbs stiffen at her words and close proximity. She sets a paper bag next to me on the new marble sink, and I spare it a glance before returning my attention to her.

Her fluffed hair and painted lips. Her citrus scent made of lemons and sunshine. Her dress that would have most men itching to know what’s underneath it.

But I’m not that man, so my attention settles on her eyes.

Not the interesting shape, of course, or the deep emerald color, or the way her long lashes flutter with a conflicting mix of timidity and surety.

I’m struck by the vulnerability. The softness in her gaze.

It baffles me because I just insulted her, speared her with my hate and pent-up bitterness, leveled her with my scorn against the female species… and yet, she’s standing in front of me, only inches away, all sweetness and light. Any other woman would have likely fired me on the spot, told me to get lost—possibly slapped me. I would have deserved it all, but I wouldn’t have given two-shits about it. I have enough jobs to keep food on my table for a long time.

Fuck, I was goddamnsureshe was coming on to me. The amount of pathetic housewives who have hit on me during a job, gawked at me with their googly eyes, and thrown themselves at me with no shame because their corporate-pieces-of-shit-husbands don’t know how to get them off is astounding.

What would make Melody any different?

She sends me another smile, prompting my fingers to curl into fists at my sides because I’m really goddamn irritated that she keeps doing that. I want her to leave me alone with her soft edges and sunshine smiles. I never asked for any of that shit.

I’m irritated, because for the first fucking time in my life, I almost feel a little bit…guilty.

Like she didn’t deserve that.

Melody turns to leave, her scent a cruel reminder of her existence, and my body finally relaxes when she’s out of sight. I close my eyes, trying to regain my wits, trying to calm the pressure in my chest. But I’m not calm, I’m nevercalm, and when I glance back at the little paper bag with a girly heart sticker fixed to the front that says, “Thank You”, that tension instantly reappears.

I already know what it is.

Snatching the bag and blowing out a hard breath, I unravel the rumpled top and peek inside. Another cupcake stares back at me, looking just as appealing as the last one.

This one has a cherry on top.

And motherfucking sprinkles.

I toss it back onto the countertop, knowing damn well I’m going to eat the hell out of it later, and collapse onto the toilet seat, ruffling my hair with one hand.

My tools lie strewn about the new tile flooring, beckoning me to get back to work, but all I can think about is sitting all alone in that foster house, rooted to a flimsy mattress that reeked of mildew. I didn’t even have a pillow. All I had were my dark thoughts and a hell of a lot of scars.

I swallow, thinking back to my years in that house.

There was so much noise, so much chaos, so many kids running round, screaming and laughing.

Nobody ever noticed I was there.

Nobody except for Bree.

As I lose myself in old memories and bleak thoughts, my eyes land on the cupcake bag again, and I grit my teeth, knowing exactly what it means.

She sees me.

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