Page 70 of The Wrong Heart

Rejecther, just like I’ve been trying to do since the day she stumbled into that meeting like my own personal tornado, determined to wreak havoc on me with her endless smiles and happy little sunbeams.

We hold our stare for another beat before Melody turns her attention back to the front window and zeros in on the elderly woman. She inhales sharply. “Mrs. Porter…”

I watch as Melody doesn’t think twice, doesn’t even fucking hesitate, before slipping into her shoes and running out the front door and across the street, dodging scattered debris and fallen tree branches along the way. My own feet carry me to the open doorway, my eyes following her petite figure as she meets Mrs. Porter on her front lawn and envelops the frail woman in a tight hug. No faltering, no indecision, no thought to herself or her own burdens.

Just empathy.

As I linger in the entryway, my fingers tapping restlessly against the frame and my insides humming with feelings I don’t recognize, I do something I’ve never done before.

I make my way into Melody’s kitchen, and instead of packing up my shit and bolting, I sift through her cabinets until I find a box of garbage bags.

Then I step out her front door and get to work.

—SEVENTEEN—

Bree barrels through my foyerlater that week with a box of doughnuts, interrupting my afternoon nap on the couch with Walden, who is curled up in a ball near my feet. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time he’s ever actually made the effort to hop up here with me.

The backside of my arm is draped over my forehead as I grumble a hello to my sister, peering over at her with only one eye open. This is the first day off I’ve had in months, so I kind of just want to go back to sleep.

“Oh, my God… look at your dog, Parker.”

Bree’s chipper voice has me blinking both eyes open as I pull myself halfway up by the arms. I glance at the black and white furball at the end of the couch, all withered and bony, with dark moles and skin tags casing his skin. “He looks old as fuck,” I mumble, then scrub a palm down my face.

“His hair is growing in,” Bree beams. “I thought he looked different when you dropped him off the other day.”

She dashes—legitimatelydashes—over to us, her brown curls bouncing with each step. My eyebrow arches with skepticism. “Doubtful.”

“I’m serious. Look at these fresh patches of hair. Did you change his diet?”

“No. He eats the kibble you bought a psychotic amount of, and sometimes that nasty shit in a can that looks like gelatinous slug guts.”

“Seems to be working. Keep it up.”

“Slug guts noted.”

Bree leans over the back of the couch, giving Walden a scratch between his ears that causes the poor animal to startle awake because he’s deaf as bricks. “Sorry, pup. Didn’t mean to scare you,” she coos, her smile wide.

Walden lets out a heavy sigh and goes back to sleep.Lucky bastard.

Heaving my legs over the side of the couch, I scratch at my overgrown stubble and throw my sister a quick glance. I do a double-take when I discover her studying me with that knowing smirk, her chestnut eyes glittering. “What?”

“You’re finally getting laid, aren’t you?”

“What the fuck?”

Bree puckers her lips, staring at me, all squinty and scrutinizing. “You are.”

“You’re clearly under the influence of something.”

“So are you,” she quips. “What’s her name?”

“Bye.”

“Parker, come on. Your house is the cleanest it’s probablyeverbeen, your dog is suddenly sprouting fur like a Chia Pet, and…” She paces over to my side of the couch and twirls a manicured finger in front of my face. “This.”

“My perpetual scowl?”

“You look… different.”

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