I graze a finger along the edges of a larger scar, soft yet jagged, and Parker inhales a sharp breath. His grip on my wrist is deathlike, his eyes closing tight.
He’s fighting. He’s fighting so hard to keep this connection—to break through this final wall, the one that’s most resilient.
It’s painful to watch.
My heart falls faster than my tears, my hands tremoring even harder as I splay my fingers along his beautifully marred skin. “You’re perfect.”
“No…” Parker hisses through his teeth. “You don’t need to lie to me.”
Another cry breaks loose, broken and mournful. My lungs feel strangled. “I’m not lying, Parker. The cruel things you tell yourself, your toxic beliefs—those are the lies. They’re ugly and poisonous, not you.”
His muscles clench, resisting my truths. “Seventy-nine scars, Melody. I’m a fucking monster.”
“No. You’re a man,” I bite back. “You’re the man I’ve fallen head over heels for, scars and all.”
Parker lets go of my wrist, then curves his hand behind my head until he’s palming my skull, fingertips digging into my scalp. He crashes his mouth against mine, his tongue tearing through my lips until I cry out with a moan.
I grip his shirt between my fists, my back arcing as he devours me with his kiss. It’s laced with fire and embers, everything we are, everything we’ll always be.
But as our tongues duel and fight for dominance, my mind rewinds, pausing on his words. Shivers race down my spine, curling my toes into the murky lake floor.
Déjà vu. An alarming sense of familiarity.
With my favorite song in my ears, his lips on mine, and an insatiable fullness in my heart, everything is perfect.
Everything is perfect, except for the pulsing in my temple and the goosebumps on my skin.
Seventy-nine.
… Zephyr79?
—THIRTY-ONE—
Walden and I stroll in through my front door well past ten P.M., and the goofy fucking smile on my face hasn’t faded since I drove out of that parking lot.
Is this happiness?
Am I happy?
It’s almost an impossible notion. Goddamn preposterous, honestly. But this floaty feeling coursing through me, making my legs feel weightless, keeping this stupid ass grin on my face, feels like it might be happiness.
I swear my damn dog even feels it.
Walden follows me to the couch as I collapse onto the cushions, sighing deeply. The animal paces over to me with slow, cautious steps, wavering once or twice before bridging the gap between us. His eyes are wide and curious, his head tilting to the side as if he’s trying to read me somehow. Like he’s trying to process this brand new version of his caretaker.
As I close my own eyes, I feel a warm presence hop up beside me, a furry little face sniffing my jaw and giving me a quick lick. Walden curls into my thigh, resting his chin atop my knee, and I link my arm around his bony body. His sigh is long and content, matching mine, and we sit there together amidst the comfortable silence.
I realize then that this is the very first time he’s ever licked me. Ever laid upon me in this way. Ever showed affection.
I’m not sure why he’s coming around now, after all these years.
Glancing down at the ball of black and white nuzzled against me, a contemplative frown furrows between my eyes. Bree had mentioned she thought his hair was growing in, but… holy shit. It really is. Thick, shiny tufts of healthy fur have filled in the mottled patches of his skin. He looks like an entirely new dog, thriving and restored.
He looks cared for.
Happy.
Loved.
A burning swallow claims my throat, my chest tightening with revelation. I’m thrown back in time, reminded of a dreary day in the foster house with Bree, when she snuck into my bedroom with a potted plant. The leaves were vibrant and green, fragrant with earthy musk. The soil was damp from a fresh watering, and my sister cupped the terra cotta pot between her palms like it was a precious thing.
Setting it beside me on my nightstand, which was nothing but one of those individual folding tables, Bree said to me, “Living things thrive on other living things. The energy you give off will be the energy received. Give this little plant the very best version of you, and you can grow together.”
I recall thinking it was silly at the time, but I was only ten or eleven, so fantasies still appealed to me then. I spent the following week forcing myself to smile, trying to conjure up the tiniest pocket of happiness, so the plant would bloom and grow. So it would want to be my friend.
I watered it. I talked to it.
I even named it “Leafy.”
But the fucking thing died anyway. It wilted before my eyes, withering away to brown leaves and sad soil. It was a little pot of death.
A mirror image to myself.
I knew then that I couldn’t fake happiness. I couldn’t fight for joy that didn’t exist. Even the goddamn plant knew I was a hopeless case.
But Walden… he’s changing right before my eyes, a striking parallel to my own metamorphosis. And it’s real this time, it’s not an act or a ruse.
It’s real.
I’m happy.
Riding out the emotional waves, I pull Walden closer to me and stroke his soft, newly grown-in mane of fur. He makes a wispy little sighing sound, something peaceful, and snuggles in farther to the crook of my hip. He knows the truth.
He knows it, and I know it.
I’m fucking in love.
I don’t hear from Melody at all the next day, which throws me a little. It’s already late, dusk fading into dark. After the night we shared together—the gift I gave her, and the gift she gave me—I expected a message. A phone call, even. Maybe a surprise visit. It felt like we had bridged a final gap somehow, and all the scattered pieces were falling into place.
We’d ended the evening in my truck, with her in my lap, riding me as the sun set beyond the horizon, and I clung to her tighter than ever before. I’d invited her back to my place, thinking I’d finally bring her into my bed and make love to her until dawn, but Melody had declined, telling me she had an order of cupcakes she needed to fulfill.
After climbing out of the shower an hour ago, I finally gave in and texted her. Maybe that’s what she’s been waiting for—effort on my end. Better communication.
And hell, that’s fair.
Palming the cell phone in my hand, I realize I keep checking it every few minutes or so, anxious to see her name light up my screen.
I’m not used to this feeling of expectancy, this antsy yearning.
I toss the phone to the other side of the couch, internally glowering at myself for acting like a lovesick fool. But just as I pull up from the cushions to go search for a distraction, I hear the telltale ping.
Pathetically, I dive back to the sofa at record speed and dig my hand between the cracks where my phone slipped through. Snapping my arm up, I swipe at the screen, unlocking her response.
Only… it’s from Magnolia.
Magnolia: I wasn’t going to contact you again, but here I am. Something is nagging at me, and I can’t let it go.
What the fuck?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I settle back down onto the couch, my insides twisting. I was so fucking close to deleting this entire goddamn account after she messaged me the last time, telling me that I left her doubting her own worth.