But something about her looks different today, and it pisses me off that I even notice.
It pisses me off because that means I’ve been paying attention to something other than my own hollow misery. Something other than my cemetery of scars.
Her spine is straighter, her eyes brighter. There’s color in her cheeks.
It’s almost as if she’s getting something out of this charade.
Ms. Katherine offers a simulated smile, head bobbing slowly. “That sounds wonderful, Melody.”
Melody.
Honestly, her name irritates the fuck out of me. No woman should have a name like music and a face like poetry. She’s a walking contradiction.
I pull my eyes off her when it registers that I just compared her face to poetry.
What the fuck?
Leaning back in the chair, my teeth grind together so hard, I’m pretty sure I might pop my carotid artery. But I can’t help my gaze from trailing back to the curious blonde when she continues to speak.
“My father used to take me down to Delavan Lake when I was little. The water would frighten me, and I wasn’t a very strong swimmer. I would just kind of tread along the shallow end, wishing I were brave enough to join my brother and his friends,” Melody explains, the hint of a smile tugging on her lips. She pauses for a moment, lost in some kind of idyllic reverie. “One day, I had this mini meltdown in the sand, frustrated, angry at myself for being too scared to swim. So, my father told me to dance instead. He said there was nothing scary about dancing.”
My eyes flick over her face, my jaw still rigid, molars aching. She fists the hem of her tunic between tight fingers, a conflicting mix of liberated and timid, as the members of the circle watch with interested stares. Some even have tears in their eyes.
Dumb.
“Did you dance?” the shrew probes.
Melody finishes with a soft nod, clearing her throat. “I danced. I danced for a long time, until the sun started to set over the lake and the water turned orange. I danced until I could swim.”
“I think that’s a pretty incredible metaphor for life, don’t you think?” Ms. Katherine offers with a soothing lull to her tone. “I really love that, Melody.”
Gag me.
I’m inclined to say something, to poke holes in that foolish metaphor, but the words are cut short when Melody twists her head to the left and our eyes meet.
And then she fucking smiles at me.
The gesture procures a frown to unfurl between my eyebrows, confused as to why she’s smiling at me, confused as to why she’s smiling at all. But even my scowl doesn’t hamper the way her lips curl up, the way her nose crinkles slightly, or the way the green flecks in her eyes spark to life with something akin to benevolence.
It’s not pity. Pity I’m used to—pity I can do. It’s not any kind of come-hither advance either.
I can easily manifest those things into more bitterness and hostility.
I’m accustomed to vapid, brainless women trying to stick their claws in me, trying to lure me with their coy words and flirtation, just because my physical appearance exceeds social standards. They have no idea the ugliness that dwells inside, or what lurks within the shadows.
I look down at the floor, breaking contact and running my tongue along my top teeth as I mentally retreat from the unfamiliar exchange. Refusing to humor her with any more attention, I remain zoned out and focused on the wall in front of me for the remainder of the meeting.
“I want to remind you of the importance of Lifelines,” Ms. Katherine announces before wrapping up this ridiculous waste of time. “If you haven’t connected with anyone yet, I encourage you to take the opportunity to get to know your fellow survivors. It’s advised that you seek out a same-gender Lifeline. Build that connection, create that link. You never know when you might need it.”
Ah, yes. Lifelines. It’s similar to having a sponsor, like in A. A., only no one is more progressed or further along in the healing process than the other. It’s an arranged, mutual commitment between two complete strangers, where they are expected to reach out to one another if any suicidal tendencies emerge. If the desire to die becomes too tempting.
It’s utter bullshit.
If you can’t decide for yourself that you want to wake up the next morning, Robert at the car dealership sure as fuck isn’t going to convince you to step away from the edge of the tall cliff.
People begin to disperse, and I bestow a quick glance to my right and catch Emo Chick conversing with the new girl, discussing Lifelines and hamsters and a bunch of shit that is of zero interest to me. Taking that as my cue, I lift from my seat and stalk towards the exit, eager to get the fuck out of this special level of Hell.
“Parker.”
A soft voice meets my back, giving me pause, causing my legs to still before I reach the double doors. I’m not used to hearing the sound of my own name, mostly because no one is ever around to say it.
Just Bree.
I don’t turn around right away, but I feel her body heat closing in. Radiating into me like fucking sunshine.
I hate sunshine.
“Sorry,” she says, coming up beside me until I finally pivot towards her and we’re face-to-face. “I brought you something.”
The fuck?
That frown is back, that frosty scowl that would send most people running in the other direction but doesn’t seem to have the same effect on her. “What?” I say the word like I didn’t hear her. Maybe I didn’t.
“I brought you something,” she repeats, blinking as she looks up at me, her petite frame hardly coming up to my chest. Melody falters briefly, almost as if her eyes are stuck to me, then clears her throat and glances down at a little gift bag in her hand. “Here.”
The offering is just a blur in my peripheral as she holds it up. I don’t look at it. I don’t say anything either, which always makes things nice and awkward.
Melody gnaws on the underside of her bottom lip as the silence envelops us, and the gesture captures my attention for a moment before my eyes slide back up in haste as if they were scolded.
“Here, take it,” she insists, shoving the bag at me.
I release a stoical sigh and snap my wrist up, curling my fingers around the drawstrings. A cupcake sits inside the decorative sack, encased within a plastic container. “What’s this?”
“A cupcake.” Her subsequent frown replies with, “Duh, you moron.”
“A cupcake,” I parrot.
“Yes, a cupcake. It’s lemon-flavored cake with meringue filling and raspberry cream frosting.”
Shit. That sounds kind of fucking delicious.
Luckily, I’ve perfected the art of indifference, so I just stare at her, the little bag dangling from one finger. “Have I mistakenly given you the impression that I like handouts? Or people?”
Melody flinches ever so slightly. “I mean, I brought one for Amelia, too, so you don’t need to feel special or anything. I’m a baker. It’s what I do.”
“A baker? You do this for a living?”
“Yes.” She dips her eyes to my chest, scanning the lettering across my t-shirt, the one I didn’t have time to change out of before coming to this shitshow. “Are you in construction?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Um…” Melody squints her eyes, still focused on the Denison Demos & Designs logo across my dirt-smudged shirt. “I need some work done, actually. My dad was renovating our bathr—” Something steals her words, and she drops her chin to her chest. “My bathroom. I need someone to finish it.”