And I would… I’d lose her.
So, apparently, the logical next step was to fuck her silly in her backyard to ensure that I’ll never dig my way out of this giant, endless hole of mind-numbing madness and fuckery.
Solid plan.
Utterly masterful.
Scrubbing a palm down my face, I heave out a sigh of frustration, blindly reaching for my phone to check the time and gauge damage control.
Shit.
It’s already after ten A.M., and I have more house projects given to me by Owen’s thirsty mother, so I need to get the fuck going. But a text from Melody sent an hour ago steals my motivation. I swallow down a hard lump as I swipe it open.
Melody: You just left me there.
My heart stutters.
Fucking hell.
Was I not supposed to?
Were we supposed to cuddle and spoon? Talk about shit? I don’t fucking know.
I scratch at the bristles on my chin, entirely overwhelmed by not knowing what the hell I’m doing. This is new territory for me—all of it. The sex, the false pretenses, the feelings. It’s new for her, too, because now that I know Melody is Magnolia, I have more insight into her life.
She’s never been with anyone else before.
Only her husband.
And now me.
Her stain, her shameful mistake, her mark of Cain.
Now that I think about it, I suppose leaving her alone, half-naked in the rain after screwing her brains out, was probably a dick move. But I thought that’s what she wanted—for me to get the fuck away from her. She was literally sobbing with regret.
My thumb taps with agitation against the side of my phone while I consider a response, but nothing comes to mind. I’m not equipped to handle this shit. I’ve never had to fix anything before. What does she even want from me?
An apology?
An explanation?
To meet for coffee and chat about our feelings?
I’m not exactly sure what she’s looking for, but I know what she deserves.
The truth.
The truth about Zephyr.
But I’m too much of a pussy to give it to her.
So, I turn off my phone, hop in the shower, and start my day.
“Why don’t you fight back? Too chickenshit, or did you eat too many Twinkies and it’s too much effort to move?”
When I pull into the Jameson’s driveway and jump out of my truck, Owen is getting pushed around by some piece-of-shit kid in his front yard. Cruel laughter spills out of the tall, gangly bully, sporting a buzz cut, too-baggy jeans, and a smirk that I’d love to punt right off the prick’s face. But I don’t because I’d probably accidentally kill him, and prison time isn’t on my bucket list. Not that I have a bucket list—bucket lists are for hopeful optimists, and I’m more of a cynical killjoy—but if I did, orange jumpsuits and horny inmates would not be on that list.
Owen stumbles back when the ass-wipe gives him a forceful shoulder shove, not making any attempt to defend himself. He just stands there with his head bowed, cheeks as red as his bloodshot eyes.
I abandon my tools and approach the scene, flooded with an odd urge to intervene. “Hey. Asshole.”
The smirky kid loses said smirk when his head flicks over to me, and he steps back. “We were just messin’ around. It’s all good.”
“Looks to me like you were being a douche-waffle.” They both stare at me, blinking, so I turn to Owen. “You all right?”
He lies with a timid nod.
“We were just playing,” Douche-Waffle insists, scuffing his sneaker against the grass.
Pursing my lips together, I nod, giving a flippant shoulder shrug. “Can I play?”
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 met her.
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?”