West demonstrates his maturity by stepping into the living room with a sly grin. “I’m just saying, if you’re looking to start dating again, you should let Shane take you out. He’s divorced, stable, pays his taxes. No felonies at the moment.”
“I’m not looking to date.”
It’s the truth—I’m not. The thought of dinner dates, hand-holding, inside jokes, all with someone who isn’t Charlie, makes my insides twist with dread. It makes me ache.
I have no idea what my brother thinks he saw with Parker. The man is an emotionally-stunted bully, void of feelings, lacking in empathy, zero sense of humor.
He’s nothing like Charlie.
And I think that’s why I feel so disgusted with the way my body has been reacting to him lately—all tingly and starved, like it’s craving something only he can give. The way he looks at me sometimes, dark and heated, penetrative, sends my heart into a tailspin and my lungs into overdrive.
It’s confusing. Maddening.
Parker is the opposite of me in every way, the antithesis to my very soul, and yet I’m drawn to him somehow. There’s a darkness inside of him that speaks to my light. He was right when he said I wanted to fix him because I do. My nurturing heart wants to glue his pieces back together until he’s whole again. I’m yearning to see him smile. Laugh.
To let go and feel free, even for just a moment.
And then there’s a part of me that wonders if I’m just lonely, and I’m latching on to the first attractive man who walks into my life because I miss having a warm body wrapped around me. I miss strong arms holding me tight, keeping me safe and protected.
I miss intimacy.
I miss bear hugs and grand kisses.
I miss sex.
Charlie is the only man I’ve ever been with. I gave him my virginity and my heart beneath a starless August sky, and I never looked back.
But now I’m forced to look forward without him, and it’s daunting. Terrifying. I don’t know which way to turn because every direction feels like it drags me farther and farther away from him.
I’m jolted out of my musings when Leah leans in and throws an arm around me, tugging me to her. “Don’t listen to him, babygirl. He’s still single for a reason.”
“I’m holding out for you, Leah.”
My sigh is heavy with annoyance. “West, I don’t want to date anyone. I’m not ready for that yet. Parker is just… a friend. Sort of.”
Parker’s words echo in my mind, harsh and haunting: I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck.
His words hurt, I’ll give him that, but I refused to give him a reaction. I refused to give myself a reaction. I’m done being angry.
“Whatever you say, Mel,” West says, wringing out water from the saturated towels into metal pots. “I’ll call Shane and send him over to look at the pipes. If you can’t get a hold of your “sort-of-friend,” I’ll see if Dad has some referrals to get your ceiling fixed.”
I swallow. “Thanks.”
West takes off an hour later after helping us unflood the kitchen, only getting into two water fights with Leah, and Leah stays behind to help me finish up. I’m shoveling drywall and insulation into garbage bags when my backside vibrates from a cell phone notification.
I can’t help the organic smile from blooming on my lips when his message pops up.
Zephyr.
Zephyr: Did you know the hashtag symbol is actually called an “octothorpe?” It means “eight mystery.” I feel like this needs to catch on. Regardless, it would make a pretty epic band name. This concludes my random fact of the day.
Oh, Zephyr.
My faceless friend. My anonymous confidant.
The final link to the man I love.
Nibbling my lip, I whip out a quick response.
Me: Are you saying we should start a band? I’m so in. With that name, I feel like we would need eight members.
Zephyr: Agreed. And our music would need to be super mysterious. I call drums because they’re loud and obnoxious.
Me: I’ll take violin.
There’s a pause before his reply comes through.
Zephyr: Popular instrument these days.
Me: It’s so underrated. Like nitrogen.
Zephyr: Nitrogen? Explain.
Me: Oxygen gets all the cred. Nitrogen takes up three-quarters of our atmosphere, but when do you ever hear, “Nice job today, nitrogen. Well done.”? Never. #teamnitrogen
Zephyr: To be fair, I’ve literally never heard anyone say, “Nice job today, oxygen. Well done.” either. People just don’t talk like that. Nice use of an octothorpe, by the way.
Leah suddenly appears over my shoulder, and I nearly hit the ceiling.
Or… what’s left of my ceiling.
“Is that the heart guy?”
I quickly close out the app and stuff my phone back into my pocket. “Yes. His name is Zephyr.”
“Like, that’s his birth-given name?”
“No, obviously. We don’t know anything about each other.”
“Bummer. Sexy name.” Leah leans back against my kitchen island, her fingers curling around the edge of the countertop. She tilts her head in the way that she does when she’s trying to get a read on me. “What do you think it means?”
“Zephyr?”
“Yeah.”
Pursing my lips together, I twist my hair over my left shoulder, fiddling with the split ends I need to trim. “Do you think it’s an acronym for something?”
“Ooh.” Her golden eyes glow brighter, widening as her mind tries to conjure up something amazing. “Zombies Eating People’s Hearts Year-Round. He’s a zombie.”
“That took a very dark turn.”
Leah waggles her perfectly shaped eyebrows at me. “Maybe he just likes Madonna.”
“Or maybe it’s a code word.”
“Or a safe word—during sex. Maybe he’s a kinky son-of-a-bitch.”
We both laugh, but my laughter ebbs the moment Parker’s face flashes through my mind. Because I was thinking about sex.
Damn it.
While Leah starts wiping down the countertops, I pluck my phone back out and scroll through my contacts until I find his name. I shoot him a quick message.
Me: Are you busy? My ceiling tried to kill me.
“I really, really appreciate you coming out.”
Parker plods through my doorway, stomping his work boots against my entry mat. His dark hair is a chaotic mess of overgrown waves, and his skin is scuffed with dirt and paint smudges. He eyes me with that same penetrative stare that rattles my insides, like he’s trying to see beyond the words. “Yeah. Not a problem.”
His gaze skims over me, and I kind of wish I changed out of my comfy clothes. All I’m wearing is a pair of cotton shorts and an old college t-shirt with my hair thrown up in a messy bun. But then I scold myself for wishing that—it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to impress him. “Did you just come from a job?”
“I did.”
“You seem to have a good business going. I’m happy for you.”