—SEVEN—
“Dancing in the lake.”
I find myself watching her again, elbow to knee, my chin propped up by the heel of my hand. Her heartbreak is tangible, engraved into her voice, carved into her skin, and coiled around every piece of her like barbed wire.
But something about her looks different today, and it pisses me off that I even notice.
It pisses me off because that means I’ve been paying attention to something other than my own hollow misery. Something other than my cemetery of scars.
Her spine is straighter, her eyes brighter. There’s color in her cheeks.
It’s almost as if she’s getting something out of this charade.
Ms. Katherine offers a simulated smile, head bobbing slowly. “That sounds wonderful, Melody.”
Melody.
Honestly, her name irritates the fuck out of me. No woman should have a name like music and a face like poetry. She’s a walking contradiction.
I pull my eyes off her when it registers that I just compared her face to poetry.
What the fuck?
Leaning back in the chair, my teeth grind together so hard, I’m pretty sure I might pop my carotid artery. But I can’t help my gaze from trailing back to the curious blonde when she continues to speak.
“My father used to take me down to Delavan Lake when I was little. The water would frighten me, and I wasn’t a very strong swimmer. I would just kind of tread along the shallow end, wishing I were brave enough to join my brother and his friends,” Melody explains, the hint of a smile tugging on her lips. She pauses for a moment, lost in some kind of idyllic reverie. “One day, I had this mini meltdown in the sand, frustrated, angry at myself for being too scared to swim. So, my father told me to dance instead. He said there was nothing scary about dancing.”
My eyes flick over her face, my jaw still rigid, molars aching. She fists the hem of her tunic between tight fingers, a conflicting mix of liberated and timid, as the members of the circle watch with interested stares. Some even have tears in their eyes.
Dumb.
“Did you dance?” the shrew probes.
Melody finishes with a soft nod, clearing her throat. “I danced. I danced for a long time, until the sun started to set over the lake and the water turned orange. I danced until I could swim.”
“I think that’s a pretty incredible metaphor for life, don’t you think?” Ms. Katherine offers with a soothing lull to her tone. “I really love that, Melody.”
Gag me.
I’m inclined to say something, to poke holes in that foolish metaphor, but the words are cut short when Melody twists her head to the left and our eyes meet.
And then she fucking smiles at me.
The gesture procures a frown to unfurl between my eyebrows, confused as to why she’s smiling at me, confused as to why she’s smiling at all. But even my scowl doesn’t hamper the way her lips curl up, the way her nose crinkles slightly, or the way the green flecks in her eyes spark to life with something akin to benevolence.
It’s not pity. Pity I’m used to—pity I can do. It’s not any kind of come-hither advance either.
I can easily manifest those things into more bitterness and hostility.
I’m accustomed to vapid, brainless women trying to stick their claws in me, trying to lure me with their coy words and flirtation, just because my physical appearance exceeds social standards. They have no idea the ugliness that dwells inside, or what lurks within the shadows.
I look down at the floor, breaking contact and running my tongue along my top teeth as I mentally retreat from the unfamiliar exchange. Refusing to humor her with any more attention, I remain zoned out and focused on the wall in front of me for the remainder of the meeting.
“I want to remind you of the importance of Lifelines,” Ms. Katherine announces before wrapping up this ridiculous waste of time. “If you haven’t connected with anyone yet, I encourage you to take the opportunity to get to know your fellow survivors. It’s advised that you seek out a same-gender Lifeline. Build that connection, create that link. You never know when you might need it.”
Ah, yes. Lifelines. It’s similar to having a sponsor, like in A. A., only no one is more progressed or further along in the healing process than the other. It’s an arranged, mutual commitment between two complete strangers, where they are expected to reach out to one another if any suicidal tendencies emerge. If the desire to die becomes too tempting.
It’s utter bullshit.
If you can’t decide for yourself that you want to wake up the next morning, Robert at the car dealership sure as fuck isn’t going to convince you to step away from the edge of the tall cliff.
People begin to disperse, and I bestow a quick glance to my right and catch Emo Chick conversing with the new girl, discussing Lifelines and hamsters and a bunch of shit that is of zero interest to me. Taking that as my cue, I lift from my seat and stalk towards the exit, eager to get the fuck out of this special level of Hell.
“Parker.”
A soft voice meets my back, giving me pause, causing my legs to still before I reach the double doors. I’m not used to hearing the sound of my own name, mostly because no one is ever around to say it.
Just Bree.
I don’t turn around right away, but I feel her body heat closing in. Radiating into me like fucking sunshine.
I hate sunshine.
“Sorry,” she says, coming up beside me until I finally pivot towards her and we’re face-to-face. “I brought you something.”
The fuck?
That frown is back, that frosty scowl that would send most people running in the other direction but doesn’t seem to have the same effect on her. “What?” I say the word like I didn’t hear her. Maybe I didn’t.
“I brought you something,” she repeats, blinking as she looks up at me, her petite frame hardly coming up to my chest. Melody falters briefly, almost as if her eyes are stuck to me, then clears her throat and glances down at a little gift bag in her hand. “Here.”
The offering is just a blur in my peripheral as she holds it up. I don’t look at it. I don’t say anything either, which always makes things nice and awkward.
Melody gnaws on the underside of her bottom lip as the silence envelops us, and the gesture captures my attention for a moment before my eyes slide back up in haste as if they were scolded.
“Here, take it,” she insists, shoving the bag at me.
I release a stoical sigh and snap my wrist up, curling my fingers around the drawstrings. A cupcake sits inside the decorative sack, encased within a plastic container. “What’s this?”
“A cupcake.” Her subsequent frown replies with, “Duh, you moron.”
“A cupcake,” I parrot.
“Yes, a cupcake. It’s lemon-flavored cake with meringue filling and raspberry cream frosting.”
Shit. That sounds kind of fucking delicious.
Luckily, I’ve perfected the art of indifference, so I just stare at her, the little bag dangling from one finger. “Have I mistakenly given you the impression that I like handouts? Or people?”
Melody flinches ever so slightly. “I mean, I brought one for Amelia, too, so you don’t need to feel special or anything. I’m a baker. It’s what I do.”
“A baker? You do this for a living?”
“Yes.” She dips her eyes to my chest, scanning the lettering across my t-shirt, the one I didn’t have time to change out of before coming to this shitshow. “Are you in construction?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Um…” Melody squints her eyes, still focused on the Denison Demos & Designs logo across my dirt-smudged shirt. “I need some work done, actually. My dad was renovating our bathr—” Something steals her words, and she drops her chin to her chest. “My bathroom. I need someone to finish it.”
It takes a moment for her eyes to trail back up to me, and when they do, there’s a shift. The light dims, and the green dulls. “You’re looking to hire me?”
“I think so. Sure. If you’re available.”
“You’re not going to pay me in cupcakes, are you?” It wasn’t meant to be funny. I’m not a funny person. But Melody fucking smiles again, causing my glower to reappear, an overcast sky to her sunshine, and I shuffle backwards, gaze lowering to my sawdust-speckled work boots. “Fine, okay. I’m pretty busy right now, but I’ll take a look at the schedule.”
And then I turn and walk away, not giving her a chance to respond, although, I think I hear a faint “thank you” filter out the door, and it follows me to my truck.
I feel on edge as I settle into the driver’s side—prickly and unsettled. The gift bag is still laced through my fingers, so I toss it onto the passenger’s seat to join my hoodie and stray tools. That’s where I plan to leave it as I rev the engine, but I falter, glancing to my right and eyeing the treat.
Damn it.
Two seconds later, I’m digging into the bag and pulling out the cupcake, finishing it in just two bites.
And it’s really fucking good.
I’m up early the next morning, chugging down a cup of black coffee and pouring kibble into a metal dog bowl. Walden totters over to the corner of the kitchen, his cloudy eyes shifting between me and his breakfast. The red ball sits dormant in the middle of the floor after another failed attempt at fetch, and I eye it with disdain.
“Eat up,” I tell the dog, but he only stands there and stares at me, causing me to wonder for the millionth time if he’s going deaf, or if he’s just real stubborn. “Or don’t. I don’t like being told what to do either.”
Filling my cheeks with air and blowing out a hard breath, I snag a granola bar for the road and make my way out of the house for a job. The sky is blooming with bright oranges and fuchsias, lighting up the treetops, sunbeams on evergreen. It’s not something I usually notice, but it gives me pause today as I hesitate beside my truck, squinting my eyes up at the first blush of dawn. A peculiar feeling sweeps through me, a quick shot of warmth to my veins, and I find myself thinking about my father and his daylilies.
Fleeting beauty.
My brows knit together as I shake my head, pulling my gaze from the painted sky, and it’s then that familiar tires roll into my driveway, gravel and stones crunching beneath the wheels.
Bree parks diagonally, jumping out of the SUV in her scrubs and wild hair, her door hanging open as she jogs over to me. “I’m glad I caught you,” she beams, her voice an octave higher than usual as it penetrates the music blasting from her Bluetooth. Kelly Perry or something. “Off to the Jameson’s? The third floor reno, right?”
“Yeah.” I sniff, tossing my keys into the air. “That for me?”
Bree holds up a plastic grocery bag, flashing me her teeth. “Yup. Lemon poppyseed muffins, your favorite. Plus, dental sticks for Walden because his breath is bordering on toxic, and a new tool belt I got on sale. Yours is looking rough.”
I glance down at my belt, thinking it looks just fine. “I like this belt.”
“So did I. Twelve years ago.” Bree steps forward, handing me the bag. She wavers when she catches me momentarily spaced out, my gaze pointed over her shoulder, then she follows my line of sight. “Pretty sunrise today, huh?”
I blink away the colors. “Not really.”
“You’re such a Scrooge. You’d have the women lining up at your door if your face didn’t permanently look like you scheduled a root canal, colonoscopy, and vasectomy all on the same day.”
“You know I don’t like women.”
Bree scoffs at that. “I know you like to tell yourself that. Breaking news: I’m a woman, and you love the crap out of me.”
“You’re an alien,” I dismiss, folding my arms over my chest, the bag of goodies dangling from my grip. “Possibly a robot. Did you seriously come all the way out here at six A.M. to drop off stocking stuffers?”
“My shift starts in an hour. You’re basically on the way.”
“Bullshit. I’m eleven miles in the opposite direction.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I just love the crap out of you, too.”
A sigh filters out, and I wish I could return the sentiment, match the tenderness of her words and the humanity warming her brown eyes, but that’s not me. I’m not wired that way, and she knows that, so she just gives me a light punch to the shoulder and trudges backwards.
“Keep me updated on materials,” Bree says. “I can order more boxes of the walnut flooring on my lunch break.”
“Yeah, okay,” I shoot back. Before she disappears into her car, I call out, “Hey, can you text me another copy of my jobs lined up for next week? I need to squeeze in a bathroom remodel.”
“Talking directly to the customers? Shit, little brother. There’s hope for you yet,” she grins, then adds, “But don’t overdo it—the last thing we need is another hospital stay. You’re busier than usual this year.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been pissing sawdust since March.”
Bree’s laughter rings loud over the music as she hops into her SUV and backs out of the driveway, a happy little wave sending me off before she vanishes down the dirt road.
There’s hope for you yet.
A grating huff passes through my lips as I spare the rising sun a final glance and climb into my pick-up truck.
I’m on my knees pulling up carpeting, staples popping up from the subfloor, thinking this is the worst fucking part of the job, when my phone vibrates in my rear pocket.
Leaning back on my haunches, I swipe the back of my wrist over my sweat-lined brow because it’s hot as shit up here on the third floor, then reach behind me to fetch my phone.
A familiar name stares back at me.
Magnolia: I’m not sure where you live, but I’ll assume you’re relatively local to me given our circumstances. If that’s the case, I have to know… did you see the sunrise this morning?
I purse my lips together, rereading the message, then I slip my phone away and smooth the dark tufts of hair back from my forehead. Adjusting my tool belt, I shuffle out of the room to find a bathroom. Activity buzzes two floors below me, some prim housewife making plans for a lavish tea party or something. Pretentious bullshit.
Eyes casing my surroundings, I see what looks to be a washroom down the hallway to the left, so I head towards it. But when I peek through the crack in the entryway, I’m startled to find a little boy sitting at the foot of his bed, knees drawn up, face buried between them.
He’s rocking back and forth, muttering something into the valley of his kneecaps.
The image sucker-punches me. I’m thrown back in time, locked in that dark closet, huddled up and petrified in the exact same position.
“Zephyr. Zephyr. Zephyr.”
My throat tightens up like I’ve coiled a noose around my neck, and my lungs burn, crying out for air. The little boy looks up then, sensing my presence, hearing the pained gasp that must have escaped me, and our eyes lock from a few feet away. Tearstains track down his chubby cheeks, winding through the assortment of freckles like connect-the-dots. There’s a frightening familiarity shining back at me, almost like I’m looking into a mirror, a time machine, and it makes my stomach stagger with unease.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, an apology for something.
Always an apology.
“You’re good. I was just looking for the bathroom.”
He sniffles, squeezing his little legs to his chest as he blinks back tears. “There’s one on the second floor. It smells like old lady perfume.”
“Old lady perfume?”
“Yeah, like my Grams.”
My lips twitch. “What’s your name?”
“Owen.” The boy relaxes a bit, his knees straightening until his legs dangle off the edge of the bed. He looks young, maybe seven or eight. But his eyes tell me he’s seen more than the average kid his age. “What’s your name?”
Hesitation grips me. I don’t like sharing things about myself—even my name. “Parker.”
“Hi, Parker.” A little smile forms on his mouth, something innocent. Something that hasn’t been stolen from him yet. “Will you be back?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’ll be back.”
We share a final exchange before I dip out the doorway and traipse back down the hall to the staircase. I hesitate in the landing, my jaw taut, my teeth clenched together, then fish through my pocket for my phone.
Opening Magnolia’s message, I finally send a reply.
Me: I did see the sunrise. But I don’t think I saw what you saw.