The Wrong Heart Read online

  I’m still doubled over in the middle of that downtown street, sobbing beneath rainclouds and a sunless sky, my arms full and heavy, my heart wilting.

  The bitter taste of beer coats my tongue as my gaze flicks back to Shane. He’s still staring at me, and he’s staring in a way that’s unfamiliar. West’s friends have always looked at me the same way for as long as I’ve known them.

  As Charlie’s wife.

  But Shane’s eyes tell a different story now, and I suppose that’s because my own story has changed. There’s been a plot twist.

  I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious, drab and unkempt, so I skim unpainted fingernails through my white-blonde hair that hangs around my shoulders in long, knotted strands.

  Why isn’t he staring at Leah?

  She’s gorgeous and exotic, with mocha skin and eyes spun with copper and gold. She giggles at something my brother says, and her laughter sounds like music. A symphony, or an orchestra.

  I am nothing but bagpipes and sad violins.

  It takes a moment for me to realize she’s speaking to me, and when I do, those striking copper eyes soften with worry.

  “You okay, babe?” Leah removes her feet from West’s lap and twists around in her chair to fully face me. “Bathroom break?”

  “Sure.”

  Shane pulls his attention off me as Alex goes on a tangent about co-sleeping. West looks as if he’s about to stand to join us, to make sure I’m really okay, but I shake my head with a tight-lipped smile, assuring him I’m fine.

  I’m fine.

  Such simple yet destructive words.

  Leah drags me through the bar by my wrist, and we don’t even make it to the bathroom before she stops, turning around to study me. People bump into us as we come to a screeching halt in the middle of a high-traffic area, but Leah doesn’t care. She reaches out to tuck a loose strand of messy hair behind my ear, her expression full of love. “Don’t think you need to prove anything to anyone—even you. There’s no time limit on healing,” she whispers with delicate care. “I’m not going anywhere, West isn’t going anywhere, bars and fun and social gatherings aren’t going anywhere. No one gets to decide when you’re ready, except for that beautiful heart of yours.”

  Tears prickle my eyes, loud and defiant. I try to hold them back with a sharp inhale. “You remind me of him sometimes.” I’m not sure where the words come from, but I know it’s from someplace raw and real, so I continue, my breaths ragged, my chest tight. “You always know exactly what to say… just like Charlie.”

  Leah crinkles her nose as her hand runs up and down my bicep, squeezing affectionately. “The right words are easy when they come from an unselfish place. Don’t listen to anyone who doesn’t have your best interest in mind, babygirl.”

  I nod with my lip caught between my teeth, eyes averting to the now-tattered ballet flats Charlie purchased for me when we first started dating.

  This place feels so foreign, despite the fact that it was our favorite hang-out. Our most frequented establishment to grab a drink with friends, or just relax and talk about our day over beer nuggets.

  Our.

  It’s foreign because I’m a foreigner in my own life. A stranger. I’ve lost my way, and I’m not sure how to get back to the girl I used to be.

  Before him.

  Before tragedy infected me.

  With a sigh, I raise my chin and offer Leah a remorseful smile. “I think I’m going to go.”

  “I know.” Leah smooths my hair down, her cat-like eyes flickering over my face. “And wipe that apology off your lips. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  A chuckle slips out. “Except for these shoes I’m still wearing from 2012.”

  “You can only see the holes if you look really close.”

  We laugh together, and it’s a liberating sound, an eager ray of sunshine poking through my stone cracks. But the feeling is fleeting, and the clouds soon roll in, because I can’t help but think…

  I wish I could say the same thing about me.

  On the drive home, I remember that I’m out of butter, so I make a quick stop at the grocery store to prepare for another day of baking. A yawn escapes me as I stand in the checkout line, drained from the mental exertion of socializing and faking my way through conversations and pleasantries. I shuffle forward, distracted by my own hollow thoughts, when chitchat behind me catches my attention. My eyes remain fixed ahead, but my ears soak up every word.

  “Did you hear about that hit-and-run in Lake Geneva yesterday?”

  “Oh, my God, yes. Terrible. I heard the child survived, but the mother is critical.”

  “My worst nightmare…”

  My stomach coils as the voices fade out, and I become drenched in my own horrible memories. There were two men involved in Charlie’s murder, but only one was caught. A bystander grabbed the license plate off the truck that hit my husband, and Alfred “Alfie” Kent was quickly arrested, then eventually sentenced. He refused to give up his accomplice.

  An elderly gentleman begins ringing up my items, puncturing my bleak fog. “Yer eyes are too pretty to look so sad,” the man mutters, slipping the sticks of butter into a paper bag. “That’ll be seven-twenty-one.”

  I stiffen as I swipe my debit card.

  He hands me the purchase, along with my receipt when the transaction goes through. “Have a nice night, Peaches.”

  Something inside me freezes—a snap, a trigger. An ice-cold draft rolling in like a winter stormfront.

  “You smell like peaches, Mrs. March.”

  The old man flashes me a toothless smile, reminding me that I should return the gesture.

  I’m good at smiling. I’m good at sucking people in like a happy vacuum.

  They have no idea my real smile was sucked away almost one year ago today—that it’s now permanently shrouded in gray clouds and should-have-beens.

  But I do force a smile as I tuck the paper bag underneath my arm, and it’s wide and bright, eerily authentic. “Goodbye.”

  I tell him goodbye, not goodnight, because when I arrive home ten minutes later, I wander aimlessly into the kitchen to discard the butter and my purse, then pluck a paring knife out of the silverware drawer.

  Swallowing, I carry the knife into the living room and collapse to the floor, my back pressed up against the front of the couch with my legs sprawled out in front of me, my heart thumping. I decide to remove my hoodie because I don’t want to get blood on it. It was Charlie’s favorite, and I can’t bear the thought of being responsible for anymore stains.

  The knife feels weightless in my fist, and I’m grateful that I sharpened it not too long ago. The blade is smooth and cunning. It shouldn’t hurt too much.

  Not that I’d really notice.

  I inhale an abrupt breath, rolling up the thin fabric of my long-sleeved blouse until the underside of my wrist comes into view. Blue veins stare back at me, swimming with winter and twilight, so striking against my milky skin.

  A hollow calm sweeps through me—a foggy disconnect. It’s almost as if I’m out of my own body, observing from afar as the knife lifts, and the pointy tip digs into the soft flesh. It doesn’t take much pressure for it to pierce through, to puncture my skin, and I watch, almost catatonic, as the blood pools to the surface. I dig a little deeper, dragging the serrated edge downward and releasing a sharp hiss when the pain hits.

  The sight of the blood has my stomach twisting into knots as a wave of dizziness claims me. My eyes flutter, and I start to sway.

  I’ve always had a weak stomach.

  I just never knew I had a weak heart.

  As the blood begins to spurt, a notification pings from my cell phone beside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hardly hearing it at first.

  Leave me alone, I’m busy.

  I’m too preoccupied with dying.

  But something niggles at me, pokes and prods. It buzzes in my ear until reality comes crashing down around me, detonating at my feet and stealing my breath, ripping a battle cry st
raight from my womb. There are explosions behind my eyes and ashes in my throat.

  On instinct, I reach behind me for the blanket sprawled over the armrest of the couch and wrap it tightly around my pulse point, trying to halt the blood.

  What am I doing?

  My God, what am I doing?

  Panic sinks its teeth into me, and my breaths come in quick bursts of chaos as I near a hyperventilative state. I sift through the pocket of Charlie’s hoodie and locate my phone, consumed by violent tremors, my blood-tinged fingers swiping to unlock the screen so I can dial 9-1-1.

  I’m not ready.

  I’m not ready yet.

  But I pause when the notification catches my eye. The notification that interrupted my suicide attempt.

  I pause because it’s an e-mail.

  It’s an e-mail from… him.

  I quickly open it, trying to make out the words through a wall of tears.

  from:

  Zephyr

  to:

  [email protected]

  date:

  Apr 12, 2021, 9:22 PM

  subject:

  Re: Widowed & Wilting

  Hey.

  I’ll be honest, I had no intention of writing you back. Hence the nine-month delay. A better person might apologize for that, but I’m not that person.

  I’m not exactly a wordsmith either, and I’m certainly no expert on grief.

  But I do know a thing about wilting.

  I feel like it might be a fate worse than death, you know? It’s a slow, soul-sucking process, where you’re stuck in this limbo between fading away for good and making a comeback, but you can’t quite obtain either. So, you just wilt.

  I’ve been wilting for a long time, and it fucking sucks.

  Anyway, I hope you found some sunlight and have been watered properly.

  Zephyr

  My eyes scan over the e-mail a dozen times, soaking up the words, feeling my heart sputter and short-circuit as trails of blood trickle down my arm and saturate the rug beneath me.

  A ghastly reminder of my near-fatal choice.

  I try to process it, I try to process the letters and sentences and what it all means, but I’m fading, captured by a sky full of stars in the veil of night.

  Before I’m fully possessed by darkness, I find the strength to dial those three numbers, to call for help, to save myself from… myself.

  And when I finally come to, I’m lying in a new bed in a strange place, blinded by the bright lights overhead.

  They singe my eyes.

  Harsh and artificial.

  But I find myself smiling as I drift away once more, and this time it’s a real smile, a sincere smile, because the ceiling lights manifest into something else, and all I feel is warmth dancing across my face as the clouds scatter.

  The sun is looking for me.

  —FIVE—

  The sole of my shoe taps the linoleum in perfect time with Ms. Katherine’s ballpoint pen.

  Ms. Katherine.

  Like we’re fucking kindergarteners gathered around the area rug for a riveting rendition of Goodnight Moon.

  I wish I could say goodnight.

  Goodnight, room. Goodnight to the old lady who smells like mothballs.

  Unfortunately, I’m stuck here because the only person in the world I give a shit about wants me to get better.

  Yeah. Better.

  As if I have an affliction I can cure in a matter of a few months by attending kumbaya classes with a merry band of idiots. Classes that reek of drivel and falsities, packaged neatly in a big ass box of bullshit, tied with glitter-infused ribbon.

  As if I’ll suddenly care enough to… care.

  The old bat blinks through a thin smile that appears drawn on with a plum-colored pencil. Her pen continues to tap against a leather-bound journal, intensifying my feet to drown it out.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It grates me. My jaw tenses, teeth gnashing together until the enamel nearly chips. Eyes narrowed, focused and razor-sharp, I almost miss the sound of my name penetrating the vanilla-scented air.

  Vanilla and honeysuckles, to be exact. I saw the empty package of wax melts in the garbage can when I was grabbing a cup of stale, shitty coffee, and I had to scoff.

  The fragrance is designed to be calming. Soft and sweet.

  Feminine.

  Bullshit. The association is equally laughable and infuriating.

  “Mr. Denison.”

  My scowl is enough to have the portly woman teetering back on her chair legs. Other than the menace in my eyes piercing through the layers of cakey foundation settled between her wrinkles, my face remains expressionless.

  This lack of reaction seems to fluster her further. “Mr. Denison,” she repeats, clearing a hitch in her throat that resembles pure terror. “Why don’t you start us off today.”

  I try to keep my face stone-cold and stoic, but my left eyebrow arches automatically.

  Rebel son-of-a-bitch.

  “I can start, Ms. Katherine.”

  The timid voice of some emo chick beside me steals my rebuttal. Her hair is black, like a starless sky at midnight. Like mine. Only, mine doesn’t have the ridiculous violet streaks and goofy headband.

  Emo Chick scratches at the back of her hand, knuckles red and raw, pinholes of blood dotting the chalky skin around the bones. She is also tapping her feet.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “My hamster, Nutmeg.”

  Her words are whispered so delicately, I can’t help but fracture them with a mocking huff. I feel the gaze of a dozen horrified eyes on me as I lean against the seatback, arms folded.

  A gasp carries over to me. “Parker.”

  I’m being scolded by the shrew.

  At the beginning of these gag-inducing meetings we’re supposed to go around the room and list off something that matters to us. It’s called a “starting point.”

  It’s a reason. A reason to keep us alive another day.

  Starting points are intended to be small—trivial, even.

  The smell of freshly mowed grass, extra syrup on our pancakes, that first sip of coffee in the morning. Our favorite song.

  Things we’d miss if we chose to jump off that building or shove a pistol down our throat.

  But a fucking hamster? Hamsters have a three-year lifespan, and they eat their offspring.

  This girl is a goner.

  See you on the flipside, Emo Chick.

  “She’s a good friend,” the raven-haired waif continues, earlobes stretched to a frightening level and decorated with silver skulls. “She makes me happy.”

  The shrew returns her attention to my right, her pinched features relaxing as she responds to Emo Chick. “That’s wonderful, Amelia. Animals and pets make great starting points.”

  My eye roll is monumental.

  But it’s interrupted when the double doors plow open, revealing a disheveled sprite of a woman whose beltless beltloop gets snagged on the door handle, causing her to be yanked backwards, purse falling and dispensing lipstick, coins, and tampons everywhere, while her skinny latte from Starbucks slips from her grip as she tries to catch the fallen purse.

  The scene would be amusing if I gave a flying fuck.

  Chair legs screech against tile as members rise and jump into action, eager to help the inept stranger. I remain seated, bored, but mostly irritated that I haven’t figured out a way to fast-forward time yet.

  I curse my dreadful sister as I wait for the chaos to simmer. She’s my foster sister, technically, but I’ve never been big on titles, and I’ve certainly never put much weight into blood.

  Bree is an anomaly. A woman. But it’s different with her—I’ve never really noticed her gender. I only see her heart.

  I pull my chin from my chest when I catch a whiff of something girly and citrus. Something like sunshine. The new girl stumbles past me, cheeks stained pink and hair so light it resembles cotton fields. She’s careful not to trip over my outstretched legs as she
finds a seat on the opposite side of Emo Chick, then slinks back like she’s hoping it’ll swallow her up.

  Looks like we’ve got one thing in common.

  Ms. Katherine settles back into her own chair, while the rest of the circus quiets down and we resume circle time. “Let’s welcome our newest survivor,” she says, fisting her journal between knobby fingers. “This is Miss March.”

  “Melody,” the woman corrects, voice cracking slightly. “Just Melody.”

  Melody.

  Yeah, right—a melody she is not.

  She is noise, discord.

  A sour note.

  They all are.

  Everyone welcomes her with a warm hello, except for me, and somehow, my silence must be the loudest of all because she turns to me then, seeing me for the first time.

  She’s all big green eyes and pale skin. Emerald and ivory. Her frame is petite and willowy, a sundress hanging loose off her modest curves, while a bandage adorns her wrist like a dismal focal point. My gaze shifts from the bandage to her bony collarbone, then skims back up.

  She has that kind of face.

  Like maybe she was happy once.

  I pull away with a crude exhale, tipping my head against the seatback and closing my eyes, zoning out of this embarrassing spectacle. Bree means well, I know that, but I’m only here because she asked me to be here. I know these meetings won’t do jack shit—I’m confident I’ll walk out this door the exact same man I was when I walked in.

  But she asked me.

  She begged and pleaded with tears streaming down her freckled cheekbones: “Please, Parker. If not for you, then do it for me. I can’t lose you.”

  So, I did.

  I’ll do anything she asks me to because she’s the only person who’s ever had my back. She was the only one to give a shit about me, to pull me out of that black hole, and there’s no favor in the world that can compensate for one small act of compassion in the midst of brutality.

  The starting points have transformed into sob stories now, and I heave out another jaded sigh when Robert starts rambling on about his shitty day at the car dealership, and how a customer was going to buy a car but didn’t, and now he feels worthless.