Page 51 of The Wrong Heart

Andfuck that.

Fuck giving anymore ammo to that absurdity.

Thatfluke.

I eat the banana in three bites and glance at my laptop before heading down the hallway. My unfinished response to Magnolia glares back at me, and I hesitate, finally sighing as I make a pit stop to the rolling chair and gather my train of thought.

Words appear in the little Hangouts message box as my fingers type away, but I backspace and delete them at least five times before settling on something. As I’m reading over my reply, Walden lies down beside me with a little grumble, making his presence known, and I have to do a double-take because he always wanders back to his dog bed after greeting me. He rests his chin between his paws and looks up at me with only his eyes.

I don’t smile, even though the thought crosses my mind, but I do soften my gaze.

I see you, old mutt.

Then I click “send.”

Me:You asked about my heart, so here’s my answer… this heart is a burden. It’s a fraud. Most days I resent it and wish it had been given to a better man. A worthier man. And I know that sounds shitty because your husband is gone, and here I am complaining about my healthy, beating heart. Doesn’t seem fair. But it’s the truth, and I won’t ever lie to you.

Before I rise from the chair and head to the bathroom, because I think I’m going to take that shower after all, I add one more thing:

Me:Unless it’s about Cheese-Rolling. That never happened.

—THIRTEEN—

“August.”

Melody sweeps her hair over to one side, crossing her legs at the knee. Her voice doesn’t crack or waver in detailing her starting point, and her eyes even sort of twinkle as I study her from one seat over.

Wait…twinkle?

No. Fuck, no.

I don’t notice shit like eye twinkles. I don’t even fucking remember my own eye color half the time.

“Growing up, all of my friends hated August—it’s hot, school was about to start, and summer was coming to an end. But I always felt like it was a new beginning,” Melody explains as the rest of the group listens fondly. “Fall has always been my favorite season, and August is kind of like a prelude to colorful leaves, apple cider, and bonfires. Plus, my birthday is in August… which also happens to be National Rum Day, so it all makes sense.”

People laugh. I groan.

August is the worst month. The sun is way too bright, fuck rum, mosquitoes are literally plotting their apocalyptic reign over humanity, and it’s hotter than Satan’s ball sack.

August can suck it.

Melody spares me the tiniest glance, lips curled up, cheeks pink, probably checking to see if I’m one of the people laughing.

I make sure my face looks extra insufferable.

When the meeting wraps up, I fucking book it, and my chair nearly tips backwards as I jump to my feet and make a hurried escape out the double doors. I don’t want to deal with her today. I don’t want to deal with her sunny smile, citrus shampoo, and goddamn eye twinkles.

Sifting through my pockets for my keys, I half-jog to my truck, eager to get the hell out of here before anyone tries to talk to me—beforeshetries to talk to me. I don’t have many hobbies or interests, but if I had to put something at the top of that list, it would be avoiding people.

As I squint my eyes against the setting sun, I tug open the door to my pick-up truck and attempt to dive in, but something stops me.

There’s a container of a dozen cupcakes sitting on the driver’s seat with a cheery little note on pink paper attached.

Of course there is.

I’m not sure what it says because I don’t really bother to read it.

Instead, I turn towards the front of the building just as Melody saunters out through the main entrance, her yellow sundress billowing as a quick breeze tries to lift the skirt. She fluffs it back down and pauses her steps, her chin tipping up to meet my stare from across the parking lot. It’s a brief pause, a fleeting moment of eye contact, before she resumes her pace and moves toward her Camry a few spots over—almost as if she didn’t just catch me discovering her futile gift.

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