A few silent beats go by, and I wonder what he’s thinking—what he’s piecing together from my elusive response. I’m about to explain, to let him know I’m reaching out, to tell him how pathetic and wilting I truly am, but his long sigh filters through the Bluetooth.
He understands.
He knows.
“Text me your location.”
—TWELVE—
I trudge through heavy sheets of rain, my shoes sinking into the mud like quicksand.
Motherfuck.
Why am I here? Why the hell did I even answer my phone?
Melody’s number was saved into my contacts from our string of messages about her bathroom reno that I completed. When her name flashed across my screen as I was finally responding to Magnolia after hours of stalling—because fuck talking about my damn heart—something in me felt compelled to pick up.
“Amelia didn’t answer.”
Jesus Christ.
I’m pretty sure rage is what’s dragging me towards her stalled car in the middle of this fucking monsoon, soaking wet and ready to blow a fuse. Her silhouette is visible through the drenched glass, her fingers curled around the steering wheel, head bowed.
I pound my fist against the window when I approach, causing her to nearly hit the ceiling. Melody clasps both hands over her heart, scared shitless, then finally pushes the door open.
“Get out of the fucking car,” I order, watching her red, puffy eyes slowly roll up to me. “Now.”
Her gulp is almost audible as her throat bobs and two shaky legs step out. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t want her apology. I just want her to move faster.
Snatching her wrist, I pull her to her feet and yank her away from the car. She squeaks, then stumbles toward me… and it’s then that I smell it.
She reeks of fucking liquor.
I drop her arm. “Are you drunk?”
Melody refuses to make eye contact with me, and instead, dips her chin and wraps her arms around herself like a security blanket, shivering as the rain floods her. “This is a mess.” She looks up at the sky, letting the rain douse her face as she releases a pained breath. “I’m a mess.”
She wobbles and sways, talking to me but looking to the stars for answers. I grit my teeth. “You’re an idiot.”
This gets her attention. Melody whips her head towards me, eyes narrowing with disdain. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re an asshole,” she spits out, all venom and vitriol.
“Maybe. But I’d rather be an asshole than an idiot.”
Two shaky hands plant against my chest, and she shoves me backwards, her cheeks flushed. “Go home, Parker. I can’t believe I called you.”
She storms away, feet splashing in mud puddles as she heads toward the hood of the car. I follow, still instigating. Still poking. “Yeah, not too smart of you. Then again, I don’t expect much from someone who gets behind the wheel shitfaced.”
“Please leave.”
“I’m already here,” I say, trailing her. “Trust me, the last thing I wanted to do tonight was play therapist to little miss sunshine. Poor you, right? Poor you with all of your support and fucking cheerleaders. Friends, family, strangers, all flocking to the sun. It must be such a burden.”
“I’m not the sun. I’m just a shadow,” she grits out over her shoulder. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
“So, enlighten me. I can’t wait to hear this. I’m shaking in my sopping fucking boots.”
“Stop!” Melody spins in place, visibly shaking, wet clothes clinging to her. “This is the last thing I need right now.”
“Is it?”
“Yes!” she shrieks, swiping a soaked piece of hair from her forehead. “Just get the hell away from me, Parker.”
I move in closer. “No.”
“You’re a bully.”
“Keep going,” I press.
Melody raises her hands to shove me away from her again, but I catch her by the wrists. She growls in protest, trying to wriggle free. “You’re the opposite of me,” she continues, her anger spewing out in waves. “You’re cruel and hateful. Cold. You don’t smile. You don’t laugh.”
“Keep going.”
She squirms against me, still trying to free her wrists. “You disgust me.”
“Keep going, Melody. Get mad. Let it out.”
“I—” Her words break off, and she goes still, relaxing in my grip, and I’m pretty sure she’s crying, but her face is streaked in raindrops, so it’s hard to say for sure. “I… I’m not okay.”
I stare at her. I stare at the way little water droplets stall on her upper lip and just dangle there, almost floating, before her tongue slips out to lick them away. My eyes lift up to hers, green on green, and I can see a shift—the anger morphs into something softer. Acceptance, maybe. Possibly a revelation. “Keep going.”
Fuck, I hate the way my voice cracks. And I really hate the way my fingers feel curled around her, my large palms swallowing up her tiny wrists. Delicate and breakable. She doesn’t stand a chance against my iron and steel.
I let her go, my feet stepping back, but my gaze still hard and leveled with hers.
Melody’s arms fall to her sides, a sound escaping her, piercing through the heavy rainfall. A laugh, a cry, a penance—its origin is unknown. “I’m not okay,” she repeats, and a roll of thunder follows. “I’m still there.”
“Where?” I make her say it. I make her talk.
“On that street.”
“What street?”
Her gaze cuts away, landing just above my shoulder as her thoughts drift. “With Charlie.”
Charlie. Her husband.
Magnolia also lost her husband, and I wonder if they grieve the same. I’m not familiar with that kind of grief, so I’m not sure if there are different types, different levels. All I know is that I’m envious of both of them in this moment. I’m goddamn jealous of their loss.
To lose is to have loved.
It’s when we have nothing left to lose that we truly know suffering.
Melody runs both hands through her hair, smoothing back the wet strands. She’s illuminated by the headlights of her car and the glow of the moon, shadows carved into all of her curves and crevices. Laying claim to her darker parts. “He fucking left me here alone to sift through the debris of everything we had together. And I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with his mother calling me wicked and blaming me for his death when I was a victim, too. I’m not okay with the color of the living room because he picked it out, and every time I stare at those rust-colored walls, I cry. I’m not okay with sleeping alone, or mowing the lawn, or peach pie. I’m not okay with that look my mother gets when I zone out of a conversation because I thought I heard his laugh.”
She’s shrinking in front of me, her weights lifting. She looks lighter somehow.
I’m no expert on living, and I sure as fuck don’t have any advice for her, so I just listen.
And I think that’s all she needs right now.
“I’m not okay.” She keeps repeating it, making that sound again, and I think it’s a laugh this time—a delirious laugh. A bolt of lightning brightens the sky just as Melody begins to climb on top of the hood of her car, shouting, “I’m not okay!”