Page 5 of The Wrong Heart

I think I’m running, but it’s all in slow-motion, and I’m not sure what happened to my shoes, and people are gathering, shrieking, bellowing for help, but I must be dreaming, and it will all be over soon. We’ll wake up in our king-sized bed, rested and satiated, snuggled up in the brand-new bedspread I just purchased that smells like Charlie’s favorite fabric softener, birch water and botanicals. I’ll prepare breakfast, blueberry pancakes and turkey bacon, while Charlie does the dishes because he enjoys doing the dishes. He’s weird like that.

I’ll turn on some music, probably a mix of CCR and Taylor Swift and Jimmy Eat World.

BecauseI’mweird like that.

Charlie will tease me for singing off-key, and then we’ll dance, stepping on each other’s toes, and I’ll giggle when he dips me too low, falling to the tile floor, collapsing into a pile of laughter and limbs. We’ll make love right there in the farmhouse kitchen, and it will be the perfect beginning to our fifth year of wedded bliss.

Yes.

I’m definitely dreaming.

But the gravel digging into my heels as I race to the love of my life feels painfully real, and the tears are warm and wet as they spill down my cheeks. My ears are ringing, echoing with a wretched, vile sound that appears to be lightyears away. Something chilling and bloodcurdling.

It’s a scream.

It’smyscream.

A hollow, broken wail pulled from someplace dark and untapped.

I don’t recognize it, but how could I? I’ve never made this sound before. I’ve never experienced this unique kind of heartache—the kind that steals away your senses.

Vision blurred, body numb, taste thwarted by ashes and soot.

I can hear, though.

I hear that scream reverberating through me, that heartbreaking scream, and I’ll hear it over and over andoveragain for the rest of my life.

It’s an overture to dissolution.

My kneecaps find the pavement as I collapse beside him, my hands reaching for every piece of him I can grasp. He’s still warm, still alive, still mine to hold. “Charlie… oh, my God. Oh, myGod. Baby, talk to me.”

Charlie groans, his dark brown lashes fluttering as he tries to roll towards me. “Mel,” he croaks, voice scraped and splintered, matching the fresh wounds that mar his beautiful face. When he locates my eyes, amber locking on emerald, a smile stretches as he chokes out more words. “I got your purse.”

Tears blind me as I glance over at his hand, his bloody, bruised knuckles, and note that the leather strap of my handbag is still twined between his fingers. Another sob leaves me shaking, hands trembling as they clutch the front of his shirt. “So stupid. So, so stupid,” I wheeze.

“It was epic, though, right? You were totally impressed?”

Charlie’s smile lingers, a tiny sunbeam poking through dark gray storm clouds. I sniffle as my head swings side to side. “It was just a purse.”

“It was your purse.”

His response is organic, quick and easy.

Like there is no other response.

Sirens howl in the distance, and people gather closer, whispers and noise, shredding our intimate moment. I cradle his face between my palms and lift his head, inserting my legs underneath him until he’s draped across my lap. “You’re going to be okay,” I murmur through tear-stained lips, brushing his bangs away from his forehead. “You’re going to be fine.”

Charlie grits his teeth together, trying to hide his pain from me. “Only a kiss can save me from a slow, painful death.”

He’s trying to lighten the moment, bring teasing to the turmoil.

So authentically Charlie.

I lean down to kiss him, a new wave of anguish spilling from me as our mouths collide. “I love you. Stay with me, okay?” I kiss him again and again, repeating those words, carving them into his bones, so he can’t forget. “I love you so much.”

“Don’t cry, Mel.” Charlie raises one unsteady hand to my cheek, thumb dusting over the tears, a gentle caress. “The sun doesn’t cry.”

We say it at the same time: “The sun only knows how to shine.”

---