Page 91 of The Wrong Heart

Douche-Waffle noticeably gulps, fidgeting. Owen watches with interest.

I don’t wait for a response and saunter over to my truck, snatching up a tire iron from the bed and heading back over to the two boys. Then I stand there.

I just… stand there.

Silent and menacing, my eyes locked on Douche-Waffle.

Smoldering, as Melody would say.

He glances at Owen, as if asking for help, but Owen only quirks an amused grin as he keeps his attention on me. Douche-Waffle glances at the tire iron. “Um, what’s that for?”

I don’t reply, I don’t blink, I don’t flinch.

I just stand.

And stare.

Basically, I intimidate the fuck out of this kid until he almost shits his pants, then bolts.

Slapping the tool against my opposite palm when the bully is out of sight, I shift my focus to Owen, who looks totally impressed, like I just taught a llama how to play the harp. “Don’t let that punk mess with you. You’re too cool for that shit.”

“You think I’m cool?” Owen asks, appearing wide-eyed and awestruck as he smacks his bangs out of his face.

“Definitely. You’re cooler than me.”

“No way. That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Making model cars is a lot cooler. I think you’ve got me beat.”

His face lights up with a big grin, cheeks stretching wide. “I guess the Kamikaze is kind of cool. Want to see the new one I made?”

“Sure.”

Stopping at my truck to gather tools for the day’s projects, I follow Owen inside the house, trying to ignore the little pang of contentment that hums inside my chest. I’ve been feeling it more than I care to admit—something like happiness.

It’s been brewing on and off for a little while now, pumping through my blood and defrosting my icy veins, seeping into untapped parts of me. Parts that have been dark and hollow for a long ass time. I’ll notice it when Walden curls up beside me on the couch, or when Owen looks genuinely happy to see me, or when Bree stops by with random gifts and tells me about her day.

I’ll notice it when Melody smiles at me. When she laughs. When she surprises me with cupcakes. When she shares her starting points.

When she looks at me like I fucking matter.

Yeah, I’ve been feeling it a lot lately. I’ve been feeling it since I mether.

As I set down my toolbox and make a pitstop in Owen’s room, he brings out the new model car and tells me all about it, eager and enthusiastic, filled with pride. His whole demeanor shifts from insecure and beaten down, to…seen.

For a moment, I’m transported back in time to that foster house after years of feeling lost and transparent—broken apart so expertly, I had withered away to dust. All it took was for one person to notice me. To stick up for me.To care.Bree’s kinship was the one link I had to humanity, my only sense of purpose, and while she’s probably the solitary reason I’m still alive today, so much damage had already been done. I was irrevocably branded with these scars and iron-clad weights, molding my future into the desolate dark hole I’ve come to embrace.

So, maybe I see a little of myself in this kid.

Maybe I want him to have a fighting chance—a chance to rebuild before there is nothing left of value to extract from the rubble.

A starting point.

“Parker?”

I’m moving towards the doorway to start my work when I pause, giving him my full attention. “Yeah?”

Owen tilts his head to the side, deep in thought. His little tongue pokes out to wet his lips, brown eyes as wide as saucers. Then he wonders innocently, “What’s a douche-waffle?”

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