—THIRTEEN—
“August.”
Melody sweeps her hair over to one side, crossing her legs at the knee. Her voice doesn’t crack or waver in detailing her starting point, and her eyes even sort of twinkle as I study her from one seat over.
Wait… twinkle?
No. Fuck, no.
I don’t notice shit like eye twinkles. I don’t even fucking remember my own eye color half the time.
“Growing up, all of my friends hated August—it’s hot, school was about to start, and summer was coming to an end. But I always felt like it was a new beginning,” Melody explains as the rest of the group listens fondly. “Fall has always been my favorite season, and August is kind of like a prelude to colorful leaves, apple cider, and bonfires. Plus, my birthday is in August… which also happens to be National Rum Day, so it all makes sense.”
People laugh. I groan.
August is the worst month. The sun is way too bright, fuck rum, mosquitoes are literally plotting their apocalyptic reign over humanity, and it’s hotter than Satan’s ball sack.
August can suck it.
Melody spares me the tiniest glance, lips curled up, cheeks pink, probably checking to see if I’m one of the people laughing.
I make sure my face looks extra insufferable.
When the meeting wraps up, I fucking book it, and my chair nearly tips backwards as I jump to my feet and make a hurried escape out the double doors. I don’t want to deal with her today. I don’t want to deal with her sunny smile, citrus shampoo, and goddamn eye twinkles.
Sifting through my pockets for my keys, I half-jog to my truck, eager to get the hell out of here before anyone tries to talk to me—before she tries to talk to me. I don’t have many hobbies or interests, but if I had to put something at the top of that list, it would be avoiding people.
As I squint my eyes against the setting sun, I tug open the door to my pick-up truck and attempt to dive in, but something stops me.
There’s a container of a dozen cupcakes sitting on the driver’s seat with a cheery little note on pink paper attached.
Of course there is.
I’m not sure what it says because I don’t really bother to read it.
Instead, I turn towards the front of the building just as Melody saunters out through the main entrance, her yellow sundress billowing as a quick breeze tries to lift the skirt. She fluffs it back down and pauses her steps, her chin tipping up to meet my stare from across the parking lot. It’s a brief pause, a fleeting moment of eye contact, before she resumes her pace and moves toward her Camry a few spots over—almost as if she didn’t just catch me discovering her futile gift.
I follow her.
“Hey,” I call out, gaining her attention before she slips inside the car. “What the hell?”
Melody falters, her hand curling around the door frame. She watches as I storm over to her, a frown unfurling, then tucks her windswept hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong?”
“Why are there a dozen fucking cupcakes in my truck?”
Her frown deepens. “You don’t like them?”
“They look fantastic, but that’s not the point. Why are they there?” I stop right in front of her, maybe a few feet away, but it’s close enough to smell her shampoo when that breeze blows through again.
“Did you read the note?”
“No.”
Melody’s lips part to speak, but only a little burst of laughter spills out. “I just wanted to thank you for… last week.” Her smile brightens with genuine gratitude as she glances at me. “And thank you for driving my car home that night. It was an unexpected surprise.”
My fists clench at my sides, my teeth grinding together. “Yeah, well, you were an idiot and left the keys in the ignition. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Her face falls, her smile fading, but I refuse to feel bad about it. This is better—this is so much better, this anger and resentment. It’s better than whatever the hell else has been simmering beneath the surface, trying to crawl its way inside, unwanted and unwelcome.
Trespassing.
“Well, I do appreciate it.”
She’s still all sweetness and niceties, despite the fact that I just insulted her to her face.
No, Melody, get mad. It’s easier that way.
“I don’t need your appreciation. Or your cupcakes. Or your damn love notes,” I bark back, inching closer, so she can feel my anger. She can soak it up and throw it back at me, just like she did last week, beneath dark clouds and furious rainfall.
I want her to throw punches, hurl her bitter words at me, get fucking mad.
And she does raise her hand to me, she does, but it’s not a strike. There’s nothing violent in the way her hand elevates, and her fingers reach out, applying a soft pressure to my forearm. A gentle caress. Careful and delicate.
I rip my arm away. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m just—”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
She swallows, her eyelashes fanning across her cheekbones as she blinks up at me. “You don’t like it, or you’re not used to it?”
How about this: the one person in the world who was supposed to care for me, love me, protect me… abused the fuck out of me. Instead of hugs, I got hot cigarette butts to my skin, covering me in hideous scars. Instead of cuddles, I got a leather belt across my face. Instead of kisses, I got broken bones. And when I wasn’t being beaten down until I went numb, I was neglected. Locked inside a dark closet with only my imaginary friend to keep me company.
I feared touch.
But all I say is, “Both.”
Melody reaches out again, to prove some kind of moot point, so I snatch her wrist before she makes contact. Her breath catches, her fingers relaxing in my grip.
“Stop,” I tell her, my tone low and bordering on threatening. “You’re like a lost puppy, looking for a bone. But you’re barking up the wrong tree, sunshine, because I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck. So, whatever hand you’re trying to play, I suggest you fold now. You’re in the wrong game.”
She’s quiet for a while, making me all too aware of the way her wrist feels tucked inside my palm. Again. She’s always trying to touch me somehow—playful, hostile, kind. She’s trying to get close and eradicate my walls. But I’ve been building these walls for a long, long time, and they were built to last.
Maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job—at building things. I’ve had a lot of fucking practice.
Melody doesn’t pull away from me, or fire back like I want her to. I’m begging for her wrath, but she only gives me warmth. “You said I look at you like I’m trying to fix you,” she says softly, her eyes scanning my face, searching for a crack. A hole. A way in. “You look at me like you’re trying to break me.”
My scowl meets her soft gaze as I release her arm, but she doesn’t step back, and neither do I. It’s like we’re both standing at the brink of a battlefront, but I’m the only one ready to fight.
“I’m done breaking, Parker,” she finishes, letting out a breath that sounds like surrender. “It’s time to rebuild.”
A grumble escapes me. “You can’t build something from nothing.”
“No one has nothing.”
“That’s a bullshit, privileged answer.”
She surprises me by reaching for my own wrist and tugging it to her chest, and I’m too startled by her boldness to pull away at first.
Then I’m too curious.
Her heartbeat thumps beneath my palm as she presses it to her breastbone, making her point. It feels warm, like her skin. Like the color of her eyes.
Like the way the sunlight plays with her hair in a way that is gravely captivating.
It’s evident insanity has possessed me once again because I make zero fucking effort to move away or tell her to back the hell off. I just stand there like a fool, my hand a centimeter away from groping her tit, while we stare at each other in the suicide support parking lot.
Why am I not moving?
Why is her heartrate quickening?
Why is my dick getting hard?
Fucking hell.
I think the only thing that pisses me off more right now is the fact that she pulls back first. A look comes over her, something almost panicked, and she flees, fumbling for her car door and leaving me rattled.
“I hope you like the cupcakes,” she mutters, her voice unsteady, her eyes avoiding mine. “They’re chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and a caramel drizzle.”
Pretty sure my dick gets harder.
Melody spares me a final glance, her cheeks flushed pink, then escapes into her Camry. “See you next week.”
The slam of her car door makes me flinch, but I still just stand there as she reverses and pulls out of the parking lot with squealing tires. I don’t even have time to process that fuckery when a familiar voice has me spinning around in place.
“You like her.”
Amelia hovers beside her own car, all creepy-like, probably getting ready to go haunt something, and I hold back an eye-roll. “I like her as much as I like Ms. Katherine’s hairy forehead mole that resembles the state of Rhode Island.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” she snickers, her teeth almost looking yellow against her snow white skin. Then she sighs, leaning back against the trunk. “You must really like that mole.”
“Don’t you have something better to do? Occult rituals? Blood sacrifices?”
“Way to stereotype. I actually enjoy crocheting and listening to Fleetwood Mac.”
“Cool. Go do that. Send my love to Pumpkin Spice.”
“Nutmeg,” she corrects.
I raise my hand in a “fuck off” kind of a wave and whirl around, heading towards my truck.
“You know, Parker… you don’t have to be here.”
My eyes roll up again when her voice meets my back. “There’s someone who wants me to be here.”
“Yeah,” Amelia replies softly. “But I don’t think that someone is who you think it is.”
Her response has me turning around, my eyebrows raised in question.
She finishes with, “Hint: it’s the same person who is keeping you from jumping off that bridge or swallowing a whole bottle of Valium. Think about it.” Amelia sends me her own wave—one far more amiable—and disappears into her car.
It doesn’t take long for me to think about it, and while all I want to do is contest that theory because I like to believe that I don’t give a fuck about anything, she kind of has a point.
Well played, Emo Chick.
Owen.
I’m working on the third floor reno at the Jameson property the next day, covered head to toe in sweat and sawdust, when I hear a little voice from behind me.
“Hey, Parker.”
I twist around from my place on the newly installed Brazilian walnut flooring and see Owen shuffling in the doorway, his hands tucked into denim shorts. “Hey.”
“You’ve been here a lot this week.”
“I have a lot of work to do.”
The little boy with auburn bangs inches forward, making footprints in the sawdust. “The floor looks nice.”
Falling back on my haunches, I shrug. “It’s okay. Not really my style.”
“Yeah. These are the kind of floors I’ll get yelled at for scratching with my race cars. I build them, you know.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, want to see?”
Normally, I’d say no. Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap about model cars or random kids I meet at jobs… but I’m compelled to say yes, so I do. “Sure.”
Owen leads me to his bedroom, the same room I discovered him crying in my first day here. The bed is made up, decorated in a red and blue race car pattern, and the bordering along his navy walls matches the theme. I try to think back to my own childhood room, my real childhood room, before she stole everything away from me, but the images are so hazy now. All I remember is a sports lamp beside my bed. It had a baseball, bat, football, and a soccer ball attached to a green base, and sometimes my father would switch the lightbulb out to make it shine different colors. It would be orange during October and green in December.
Pushing aside the vague memories, I follow Owen across the room and pause beside his work desk, bestrewn with all kinds of wooden creations on wheels.
It’s actually really… impressive.
I clear my throat, crossing my arms. “You made all these?”
“Yep. Do you like them?” His face lights up as he reaches for a car painted red with yellow lightning bolts. “This is the Kamikaze. He’s the fastest.”
Owen makes a few zoomy sounds through his teeth, and I feel myself relaxing. Softening. “I do like them. You’re talented.”
A smile washes over his innocent face, his cheeks round and pink, his nose spattered in freckles. “Thanks. My neighbor thinks they’re dumb.”
“Your neighbor?”
“Yeah… Brody. He thinks I should be playing video games like the other kids, but I’m not any good at that.”
“I don’t care much for those either.”
I’ve never really liked video games or watching television because my mind always wanders. Mindless activities are a cesspool for unwanted flashbacks and overthinking. That’s why I work with my hands—I need to keep busy. Focused on a task.
Owen’s smile broadens. “You’re really cool, Parker. I bet you have a lot of friends.”
My body tenses, wondering how he came to that conclusion. It couldn’t possibly be my dazzling smile or charming personality. “I don’t.”
“You don’t have friends?”
“No.”
“Not one?”
“Not one.”
Bree doesn’t count. She’s just stuck with me.
Owen considers this, worrying his brows together, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “I don’t either. Maybe… maybe we can be friends?”
This fucking kid might actually raise my cold, decrepit heart from the dead. I swallow, shifting from one foot to the other. “Yeah, okay. You can be my very first friend.”
Jesus, who am I?
It must be the cupcakes. She laced them with her happy sunshine juice.
“Cool,” Owen beams, setting down his car with an extra bounce in his step. “I think my mom wants to be your friend, too. She was watching you paint the other day.”
Yikes.
“Was she?”
“Yeah, and I heard her talking about you to her lady friend. She said she wanted to take out a second mortgage on the house just to hire you as a live-in contractor. Then she did that weird giggle she does sometimes.”
I almost laugh. “You remember all that? Those are big words.”
“Yep. I like to listen.”
Nodding, I take a quick step back and click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Hey, wait here. I have something for you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, I traipse back up the staircase with the container of cupcakes from Melody—minus one. I devoured it in my truck the second I hopped in, and goddamn, I have no fucking regrets.
Owen is sitting on the edge of his bedspread when I return, kicking his legs forward and back. His big chocolate eyes light up, only, he hasn’t even noticed the cupcakes yet. He’s just smiling up at me, overjoyed. “You came back.”
“Of course I did. You thought I wouldn’t?”
He shrugs, and it’s a little dagger to my chest. I wonder what this kid has been through.
“What are those?” he wonders, his attention finally landing on the treats. His irises sparkle with excitement when he makes the discovery. “Are those for me?”
“Sure.”
“Wow… thanks, Parker!”
Owen jumps off the bed and reaches for the confections, and when he takes them from me, I feel something shift. A little weight lifting. It makes me uncomfortable, unsettled even, but it also prompts me to snatch the sticky note off the top of the plastic container and stuff it into my pocket before I trudge out of the room. “I need to finish up, but I’ll see you around, okay?”
He bobs his head, his lips already dusted in peanut butter frosting. “Okay!”
Once I’m alone again, about to finish up my paint job, I reach into my back pocket and uncrumple the pink paper square, then scan the girly handwriting staring up at me:
Parker—
I have my starting points.
Now, I have my turning point.
I think you saved my life that night.
—Melody