Page 45 of The Wrong Heart

She’s calling me.

And I know I’m in no state to answer. I’m parked in the middle of a rainy highway at nine P.M. with vomit in my throat and ice in my lungs, but I answer anyway, because emotion is always mightier than logic.

“H-Hello?”

My voice is a pathetic quiver, and Eleanor’s is slurred and spiteful. Her hate rings out through my Bluetooth and buries me alive. “I wish it were you,” she rasps.

I clasp a hand over my mouth to keep the sobs from pouring out, but all they do is erupt inside me, turning everything to ash. “Me, too,” I croak.

Me, too.

She’s drunk—I think she’s drunk, but I’m not sure if she’s intoxicated from alcohol or grief. Eleanor lets out a painful moan, then goes quiet for a beat before repeating, “Oh, how I wish it were you.”

Her confession blankets me in heartache, so I curl up and lay my head. “Why are you saying this? What did I do?”

“You stole from me, Melody, and I hate you for it.”

I sniffle and hiccup, trying to understand, trying to comprehend why she feels this way.

My relationship with Charlie’s mother was always strong—or so I thought. She made me feel warm and welcome, just like her son had. But something changed that day, the day the sun died, and everything shifted. I felt her animosity towards me. I felt her blame like I felt his loss.

It was all-consuming.

I just never understoodwhy. It wasn’t my fault. It was a horrible, unfair accident that debilitated me just as much as it destroyed her, but it wasn’tmy fault, and I would take Charlie’s place in a heartbeat if I could.

God, I wish I could.

I’m about to counter her words, tell her that makes no sense, insist that I did nothing wrong… but all I can do is mutter a weak, “I’m sorry.”

There’s a prolonged pause, riddled with so much left unsaid. So much baggage and loss and irreparable damage. So many things Iwishshe would say. But she only whispers, “So am I.”

And then the line goes dead.

I sit there for a moment, staring out through the rain laden window, listening to the wiper blades squeak against the glass. My throat feels raw, my skin crawling with penitence.

Am I responsible?

Am I to blame for Charlie’s death?

I chose the restaurant that night. I chose the time. I chose to stay for dessert, even though Charlie was eager to get home and celebrate in the privacy of our own bedroom.

I didn’t run fast enough. I didn’t scream loud enough.

Maybe I didn’t give him enough reason to hold on.

I decide to mull over my impossible regret at a local dive bar a mile up the road, sucking down shots of tequila as if they might fill the empty holes inside of me. They don’t, of course, but they do numb the pain, and that’s a start.

Hobbling off the bar stool over an hour later, I teeter on both feet, slinging my purse strap across my shoulder.

The bartender eyes me warily, swiping up the cash I left for her. “You have a ride, right?”

I blink, her question registering like slush.

She leans forward on her arms. “Do you have a ride home, honey? Want me to call an Uber?”

“I, um…” I shake my head, and the action prompts little stars to dance behind my eyes. “I have a ride. Thanks.”

Not waiting for her reply, I traipse out of the bar, swaying as I push through the doors and head out into the rain. I slip into the driver’s seat of my Camry, trying to find the keyhole and missing multiple times. My brain is foggy, my movements sluggish.

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