Tears spill from bloodshot eyes, her entire body trembling beneath the covers. Her gaze rakes over me, softening when she lands on my scars.
I tent my hands in a hopeless plea. “Please, try to understand.”
“Understand that you posed as the recipient of my husband’s heart during the most vulnerable time in my life?”
Fuck.
Every syllable slices me to the bone. My guilt eats away at me like acid. “I never, in a million fucking years, thought our paths would ever cross outside of the e-mails.”
Her head sways side to side, incredulous. “How did this even happen?” she swallows, shifting her eyes away from me. “I got your e-mail address from a confidential source.”
That day from over a year ago spirals back to me, a day that didn’t mean much at the time because nothing meant much—I had no idea it would change the entire course of my life. Pulling my lips between my teeth, I look down at the floor. “My sister.”
“Your sister? What do you mean?”
“My sister, Bree. Bree Whitley. She was the doctor who tried to save your husband that night. She was the one who gave you my e-mail.”
Melody blanches before me, her cheeks turning pallid. “W-What?”
“She couldn’t give you the real recipient’s information, Melody. She could have been fired,” I try to explain, tousling my hair with my fingers. “But you begged her, and she felt for you, because that’s who she is, so she asked me for a favor. She asked me to reply when you reached out, just one anonymous e-mail, and that would be the end of it. I didn’t fucking want to, but as the months went by, your message followed me around, whispering in my goddamn ear.”
Her eyes glimmer green and wary.
Sucking in a frayed breath, I approach the bed, my heart contracting painfully when she inches back on reflex.
I’m losing her. Every solemn second that passes by with the evidence of my deceit on display before her eyes, only thickens the barrier between us. I rub a hand over my face, cupping my jaw as I try not to lose myself right along with her. “Melody… please, try to see this from my side. Try to see me.”
“That’s just it.” She gathers the bedsheet, pulling it with her as she rises to her feet and steps toward me. Her tearstained cheeks are illuminated by the sunshine pooling in from the cracked curtains, a jarring contrast to the dark cloud hovering over us. “I’ve always seen you, Parker. You. You should have trusted me with the truth.”
My muscles stiffen when her fingertips reach out to graze along my scarred abdomen, her hand quivering when she presses it to my skin.
“You trusted me with this…” she murmurs, her voice raw. Her index finger traces along a small scar, then skims up the expanse of my torso, her palm landing on my chest—my swiftly beating heart. “But not this.”
My eyelids flutter closed, my veins pulsing with wayward emotion. I soak up the feel of her warm touch, knowing another long winter is about to roll in. “I thought it was the wrong heart.”
“No,” she sniffles, pulling away and inhaling a tremoring breath. “It wasn’t.”
Melody drags the sheet with her as she spins away, exiting the bedroom and leaving me to stew in my impossible grief and shitty, selfish decisions.
It wasn’t.
Past tense.
She’s fucking leaving me.
Panic boils my blood, strangling my lungs, and I chase after her, catching her as she pulls up the straps to her sundress and slips into her sandals. “Melody, wait. Fuck… please.”
Hesitation claims her for a breathtaking second before she continues her task and fetches her purse.
I swoop in to block her escape, a desperate, final appeal. My hands stretch out, cradling her jaw, my thumbs brushing away the remnants of her tears. Kissing her forehead, I linger there, then breathe out, “I’m so fucking sorry. Don’t go.” I pepper her face in fervent kisses until I reach her mouth. Melody doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t kiss me back either. She remains still, frigid. “Let me fix this. Tell me what I have to do.”
“It’s out of your hands now. Please, let me go.”
Fucking hell.
My forehead drops to hers, my grip tightening. Devastation infects me like a disease, a disease far more lethal, more venomous than apathy. It weakens me. My legs shake, and my heart shrivels up, like a flower trying to bloom during the frost-killing hour. “I’ve never fought for anything before,” I grit out, my grief palpable. “Don’t tell me this is over. Give me a reason to keep fighting.”
She blinks slowly, lifting her chin. Her gaze lingers on my mouth before she brings her eyes to mine, releasing a shuddering sigh. “You have a reason, Parker.” Melody places her palm to my chest once more, absorbing every penitent beat that seeps through her fingertips. “It’s not me.”
My hold on her slackens, and Melody slips free of my embrace, moving around me to the front door. She doesn’t waver. She doesn’t say another word or spare me one last glance before she disappears, evaporating like she was never here at all.
Another ghost to haunt me.
Melody told me that night in the rain, the night she hopped onto the hood of her car, drenched in new purpose, her soul cleansing and purging before my eyes—she told me that all broken things can be fixed. The hard part is deciding that they’re worth fixing.
As the thick silence settles over me, an old friend turned enemy, the truth is evident with every minute that ticks by in her absence.
We’re not worth fixing.
Numbly moving into the living room, I collapse onto the couch, feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt before. And in that moment, I miss my apathy. I miss my cold, dead heart. I spent years of my life feeling envious of those who felt grief, who were crushed by the heavy boulder of loss. It meant they had something to love.
But maybe I had it right all along.
This sickness feels so much worse.
Resigning myself to my misery, I heave out a deep breath, my eyes only lifting when I feel a little wet nose tickle my bare knee.
Walden.
He stands there, staring at me with his cloudy, wide eyes, his head tilted to one side. Trying to read me. Or maybe he’s trying to tell me something.
I get my answer when he hobbles back, bending his neck down and pushing at something with his snout. Frowning, I sit up, my gaze shifting to the floor.
My heart skips.
There, sitting at my feet, is the red ball.
—THIRTY-FOUR—
Incensed feet carry me through the carousel doors, marching me straight to the check-in desk. I’m greeted with a quick glance before the receptionist continues tapping away at her keyboard. “How can I help you?”
My limbs are still twitching with adrenaline and disbelief. “I’m here to see Dr. Whitley.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Oh… well, is she expecting you?”
An indignant lump climbs up my throat. “She should be.”
The flaxen-haired woman’s eyes flicker with dubiety as hospital noise clamors around us. After a long pause, she inquires, “Can I have your name, please?”
“Melody March,” I say, my chin trembling as I watch the woman send a page over the intercom.