Page 48 of The Wrong Heart

“You heard me.”

“You’re an asshole,” she spits out, all venom and vitriol.

“Maybe. But I’d rather be an asshole than an idiot.”

Two shaky hands plant against my chest, and she shoves me backwards, her cheeks flushed. “Go home, Parker. I can’t believe I called you.”

She storms away, feet splashing in mud puddles as she heads toward the hood of the car. I follow, still instigating. Still poking. “Yeah, not too smart of you. Then again, I don’t expect much from someone who gets behind the wheel shitfaced.”

“Please leave.”

“I’m already here,” I say, trailing her. “Trust me, the last thing I wanted to do tonight was play therapist to little miss sunshine. Poor you, right? Poor you with all of your support and fucking cheerleaders. Friends, family, strangers, all flocking to the sun. It must be such a burden.”

“I’m not the sun. I’m just a shadow,” she grits out over her shoulder. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“So, enlighten me. I can’t wait to hear this. I’m shaking in my sopping fucking boots.”

“Stop!” Melody spins in place, visibly shaking, wet clothes clinging to her. “This is the last thing I need right now.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” she shrieks, swiping a soaked piece of hair from her forehead. “Just get the hell away from me, Parker.”

I move in closer. “No.”

“You’re a bully.”

“Keep going,” I press.

Melody raises her hands to shove me away from her again, but I catch her by the wrists. She growls in protest, trying to wriggle free. “You’re the opposite of me,” she continues, her anger spewing out in waves. “You’re cruel and hateful. Cold. You don’t smile. You don’t laugh.”

“Keep going.”

She squirms against me, still trying to free her wrists. “You disgust me.”

“Keep going, Melody. Get mad. Let it out.”

“I—” Her words break off, and she goes still, relaxing in my grip, and I’m pretty sure she’s crying, but her face is streaked in raindrops, so it’s hard to say for sure. “I… I’m not okay.”

I stare at her. I stare at the way little water droplets stall on her upper lip and just dangle there, almost floating, before her tongue slips out to lick them away. My eyes lift up to hers, green on green, and I can see a shift—the anger morphs into something softer. Acceptance, maybe. Possibly a revelation. “Keep going.”

Fuck, I hate the way my voice cracks. And I really hate the way my fingers feel curled around her, my large palms swallowing up her tiny wrists. Delicate and breakable. She doesn’t stand a chance against my iron and steel.

I let her go, my feet stepping back, but my gaze still hard and leveled with hers.

Melody’s arms fall to her sides, a sound escaping her, piercing through the heavy rainfall. A laugh, a cry, a penance—its origin is unknown. “I’m not okay,” she repeats, and a roll of thunder follows. “I’m still there.”

“Where?” I make her say it. I make her talk.

“On that street.”

“What street?”

Her gaze cuts away, landing just above my shoulder as her thoughts drift. “With Charlie.”

Charlie. Her husband.

Magnolia also lost her husband, and I wonder if they grieve the same. I’m not familiar with that kind of grief, so I’m not sure if there are different types, different levels. All I know is that I’m envious ofbothof them in this moment. I’m goddamn jealous of their loss.

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