Chapter 2 #2
I’ve known Maveryk for as long as I can remember visiting my grandparents’ house. There’s nothing new or special about him. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe like this land, this house, my grandparents, he feels like a comfortable thing. Maybe I’m mistaking ghosts for signposts.
Over dinner, Maveryk keeps his eyes averted. When I talk, he ignores. When I ask questions, he responds stiltedly, like he can’t be bothered with answering. And when his turquoise eyes briefly snap toward me, the warmth is gone, replaced by icy indifference.
Suddenly, oddly, he levels his gaze on me. “How are you enjoying being back, Melody?”
I laugh at his slow drawl and careful pronunciation.
“Just Mel now,” I correct. “Fewer syllables, less fuss.”
He only half smiles. “Shame. Melody’s a good name.”
Grandma weighs in, beaming. “That name, Melody, was always perfect for our little girl. She used to sing all the time, at the top of her lungs. Never quit.”
“Not surprised.” The cowboy studies the tablecloth like it holds some great secret, burnished gold hair simmering in the dining room lights.
She proudly nods, eyeing me. “Songline in her blood. Always has been.”
He takes another thick slice of homemade bread, slathers it in freshly churned butter and homemade strawberry jam.
My eyes linger on his large, strong fingers, throat tightening when he raises one, licks butter and jam away.
Hands carved for work, yet with a dexterity I can only describe as graceful.
“Mind passing me the bread?” I ask, my eyes meeting his. The air seems to stop, like my breath, as he stretches an arm. A vibration hums through the plate—soft, alive, the way my pulse jumps when his fingers brush mine.
I grab a slice of bread, then my butter knife, feeling the faint hum in the metal. It’s in the table, too, for one lingering second before it fades.
“Cattle ready to go up to the north pasture. How about yours?” Grandpa asks.
“Yep,” he murmurs, tearing his eyes from me. “Thinking about holding up there with them.”
“Lonely winter that’d be.”
Maveryk shrugs, looks everywhere but me. “Lonely’s fine by me.”
The air feels heated, like it’s whispering something to me. Like if I could just listen hard enough, I would make it out.
“Still no woman or family plans?” Grandpa asks, and Mav’s face goes hard as granite.
“Not the settling down type.”
My eyes bob between my grandparents’ weathered skin and Mav’s ageless complexion. His gaze meets mine, disturbed and simmering. But I say nothing, swallowing hard and trying to take it all in.
After dessert, Grandma and I clear the plates while Grandpa and Mav talk in the front room. The voices fade, and soon all I hear is Grandpa’s snoring. I breathe relief at the neighbor’s departure, though I can’t name why.
“Anything else I can help with?” I ask Grandma, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
“My, no. Thank you, Dear.”
I nod, drawn outside to the porch. Can’t remember the last time I saw a pristine night sky. I step off the stairs, stare up, hugging myself for warmth. The air has a bite, but it’s refreshing after the kitchen.
Thunder rolls—low, metallic. The kind that shakes in your bones.
Then, I notice him, leaning against the railing, starlight haloing the tattoos that glow through his shirt, a shimmer beneath his Carhartt.
I freeze, eyes rounding. “Are those black light tattoos or something?” I ask. I’ve heard of them before. But never seen them on a person. Never knew they could radiate through fabric.
“Yep.” He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. But I can’t stop staring, mesmerized by their waning and waxing, like the moon, only throbbing.
“Are they supposed to do that?” I ask, scrunching my nose.
“Do what?”
“Pulse like they’re trying to talk to the mountain?” I ask, eyes widening.
Maveryk laughs as though I’m seeing things. “Old scars.” He tips his hat to walk past. “Thank you for a delicious dinner. Nice to see you again, Melody.”
“Mel.”
He turns, face pained, like he’s hanging on by a torn thread.
“Although I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” I add, speaking of the nickname. “After all, it’s been forever since I was last here.”
“The mountains remember who belongs,” he grits out between clenched teeth, his eyes sliding over my face like a caress before he starts down the creaking stairs.
“Goodnight, Maveryk,” I whisper, almost as an afterthought.
“Goodnight, Melody.” The name thrums through me like an echo I’ll hear in my dreams.
Later, I unpack my clothes, putting them in drawers and getting used to the faded wallpaper, the stuffed animals and dolls, the soft glow from the pink, flowery lamp. I catch my reflection in the armoire’s mirror.
Hair straight and heavy, used to drive my mom crazy, impossible to tame. She used to say it was the kind of hair you only got if your blood carried stories older than fences.
Outside, the wind moves through the electrical wires, humming a faint, familiar tone.
I lie back into the twin bed, sinking into the perfume of roses and lilacs. Then, a rogue thought hits me. Melody . Like a song on Maveryk’s tongue.
Maybe he didn’t mean anything by calling me that. Maybe I just wanted him to.
But long after I close my eyes, I swear I can still hear him whispering my name—not Mel, but Melody—carried on the hum of the mountain. Maybe the mountains have been singing all along, and I just forgot how to listen.