Page 66 of The Wrong Heart

He doesn’t respond right away, so I inquire more specifically, “Are you scared?”

His answer comes quick. “Yeah.”

“Of the storm?” I probe, my forehead pivoting against his torso until my temple is level with his heart.

“No.”

He’s scared ofme, of whatever the hell is happening between us. I know this, I know exactly what he’s implying because I feel the same way, but I still ask. “What are you afraid of, Parker?”

A deep sigh hits the top of my head, shaky and agitated. Parker’s arms still hang loose at his sides, refusing to hold me back, refusing to give in. “Don’t make me answer that.”

I cling tighter, and he doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t pull away, and Iknowthat means something.

I drop the question because he’s not ready, and truthfully, I’m not ready either. Instead, I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, as the screeching wind echoes through the darkness, causing a fearful gasp to escape my lips. The house rattles around us, my skin vibrates, my throat burns, so I just keep holding him, tighter and tighter, until my arms are fully wrapped around his waist. “Tell me a story,” I tender, needing a distraction, needing to hear his voice. It’s so dark in here—I have to know that I’m not alone.

Parker falters for a moment, heaving in a breath and letting it out into my hair. “What kind of story?”

The wind roars, the windows clamor, the shutters clap, and the sirens sing loud, all trying to outplay the racket of our frazzled hearts and cluttered minds.

I never much cared for the dark, but right now, it feels like a friend.

Nuzzling in closer, I whisper into his t-shirt, “Tell meyourstory.”

—SIXTEEN—

“Tell meyourstory.”

She’s wrapped around me like I’m her favorite fucking blanket, and it’s the only thing keeping me from spiraling back in time and returning to that closet. To thatprison.

It sounds like there’s a freight train on the other side of the door, but she is louder—her presence, her breaths beating against my chest in sporadic bursts, her pulse vibrating beneath my skin, the goddamn feel of her arms clutching my waist, so delicate and fragile, yet so, soloud.

She’s louder than the voice inside my head screaming at me to resist, to push her away and get the fuck out of here, tornado be damned.

She’s even louder than my inherent fear of dark, enclosed spaces.

Yeah, Melody is louder… and I’m paralyzed by every decibel, by every deafening note.

Inhaling sharply, I reply, “You don’t want to hear my story. It’s not a nice story.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve to be told,” she whispers back.

My eyes squeeze shut, as if that will somehow make her disappear.

This is just pretend.

This is just the darkness fucking with my head like it always has.

I hate the dark, I really do, and I know that sounds weak and pathetic, considering I’m a grown ass man. But this kind of darkness, the kind where you can’t even see your own hand in front of your face, takes me right back to that closet when I was five years old, all alone and scared shitless.

All I had were ghosts to keep me company.

All I had was Zephyr.

And now I have her.

Tipping my head back, I blow out a hard breath, then inhale deep through my nose. I do it again and again, closing my eyes and trying to center myself before I unravel.

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