My eyes widen, a breath lodging in the back of my throat. I glance to my left.
Ms. Katherine greets me with a knowing smile. “My starting points are your starting points.”
More tears rush to my eyes, and I can hardly see the pages. The ink and pencil sketches become a blur as I frantically wipe my eyes with trembling fingers, not wanting to stain the entries. Collecting myself, I sift through, eyeing the scrapbook of our sessions—of our lives. Each member has pages dedicated to them, riddled with quotes and hand-drawn pictures of our starting points.
Robert pushing his young daughter on the swings.
Stacy picking strawberries with her grandmother.
Kevin playing the piano.
A small cry breaks free when I discover Amelia’s page subtitled, “The Storyteller.” A lifelike drawing of Nutmeg is shaded in pencil as a beautiful girl with ribbons of dark hair clutches the animal between her hands.
I feel Ms. Katherine’s warm palm glide up my spine, an offering of solace. It’s enough to keep me turning the pages until I find my own dedication.
Melody.
I’m dancing in the lake beneath a picturesque sunset, my hair flying free, my arms spread wide. I’m smiling. I’m living.
I’m not ready.
My emotions twist into dread when I continue to flip the pages, unprepared to see Parker’s sad, blank pages. He never gave his starting points—not once.
Anxiety grips me, and I close my eyes, my heart thrumming with mournful beats. My chest aches. My skin turns clammy.
I don’t want to see… I don’t want to see his empty pages.
But I force myself to continue until I land upon his entry.
Parker.
It’s one page, and it’s not blank.
My stomach pitches when my eyes land on the drawing. It’s a sketch. Carved in pencil, shaded with color, brimming with detail.
Looking back at me is a woman with straw blonde hair, irises spun green, and a smile as bright as the summer sun.
It’s me.
Quiet tears manifest into a heart-rending sob as I break down, falling sideways into Ms. Katherine’s welcoming arms.
Parker’s starting point is me.
—TWENTY-NINE—
The violin in the downtown store window catches my eye.
Faltering, I can’t help but slow my feet, coming to a complete stop as my sister rams into me from behind, her nose in her cell phone.
“Shit, Parker.” Bree follows my thoughtful stare, her acorn eyes thinning. Long, thick eyelashes flutter, fanning freckled cheekbones. “It’s a music store. You don’t like music.”
She’s right, in a way. I never really cared for music because its purpose never aligned with my own. Evocative, emotion-laced, riddled with feeling and lyrical prose.
I’m a deadened ice block. A glacier.
Well… I was.
Now there’s music filtering through my blood, pumping anthems and lullabies straight to my heart, causing the calloused organ to dance and sing.
Melodies.
Pursing my lips, I blink at the instrument, an idea unraveling as Bree slurps a berry-infused smoothie through a wide straw. I shrug. “Violins are kind of fucking cool, right?”
“Cool?”
“Yeah. The music they make… I mean, I get the appeal. Like vibrating ocean waves.” Braving a glance in her direction, I clear my throat and add, “Or some shit.”
She gawks at me, rising to her tiptoes and placing the underside of her palm against my forehead. “Do you have a fever?”
Fuck yes, I have a fever.
I’m sweating, burning up, possibly hallucinating. I have been for months.
I swat her hand away and turn from the glass window display. “Never mind.”
“No, Parker. Not never mind.” Bree races to catch up to my long strides when I storm down the sidewalk. “What’s gotten into you?”
Her. She’s all over me, infecting my blood.
And I’m addicted.
My gait quickens, a feeble attempt to outrun her questions and probing. It’s been years since my sister has gotten me out of the house to do aimless sibling shit, like take an afternoon walk and drink pretentious smoothies together.
My smoothie tastes like asparagus, so I toss the plastic cup of green sludge into an approaching garbage can as Bree strolls up beside me. Stuffing my hands into my worn out jeans, I arch an eyebrow, pretending to have no idea what she’s talking about. “I’m fine.”
“That’s my point. Is this about the woman you’re not sleeping with?”
I waver. “Things may have changed since we last spoke about it.”
“What?”
Her eyes bug out as she snatches my wrist, dragging me over to a bench we’ve conveniently stumbled across. “It’s not…” My words evaporate into the midday August haze, and the ensuing draft steals the lie from my tongue.
It’s not a big deal.
Yeah-fucking-right.
Bree pulls me down to the bench, her knees twisting towards me as she lassos my attention with her wide, questioning pools of light brown. “Parker.”
“Bree.”
Her eyes shimmer beneath the sunless sky, a dainty hand clasping my knee with a tender squeeze. “Are you in love, little brother?”
What the fuck?
Her question sends my insides into a spiral, and my heart pinwheels out of control. “That escalated.”
“Are you?”
“No.” My fingers curl into tight fists atop my lap. “I have no fucking clue what love is. We both know that.”
My sister strengthens her grip on my knee, dark chocolate curls swinging along with the shake of her head. Her lips toy with a smile as she tries to connect the dots somehow. But she doesn’t know the dots. The dots hold no context.
Fuck the dots. The only thing they lead to is annihilation.
Regrouping, I shift back against the bench and scrub a palm down my jaw. “I’m just fucking her, okay? Jesus. You make it sound like a damn historical event.”
Bree’s smile turns watery as wetness springs to her eyes.
I lurch back, horrified. “Don’t you dare fucking cry. I’m serious, Bree.”
“I’m just so happy.”
About my dick finally getting action. Awkward.
But I know that’s not the real reason, because Bree has always had a way of seeing right through me. Seeing straight down to my deep, dark center—materializing every little brush with emotion, every taste of humanity, hoping she could drag those crumbs to the surface and build a new home for me.
She’s always held out hope. She’s always wished the very best for me, and for the longest time, my best was simply surviving. My heart would beat with sleet and snow, with icy disdain for life itself, but it was still beating.
Because she wanted it to. She needed it to.
And shit… maybe that’s love right there. Maybe that’s the way I’ve loved for all these years without even realizing it. I’ve prided myself on my unwavering indifference. I’ve relished in my apathy. I liked to tell myself that I didn’t give a flying fuck about anything, that death would be a welcome reprieve to this meatsuit, this coffin—but if that were the case, I’d be dead.
Bree has kept me alive.
And now, Melody is showing me what it’s like to truly live.