—FOURTEEN—
This cannot be happening.
I’m standing in my kitchen, ankle-deep in water and drywall, with a caved-in ceiling and a screaming Leah.
Actually, she’s kind of squawking. Her arms are flapping, and she’s hopping up and down, shaking insulation out of her hair while her voice shrieks in a way that does not sound human. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
I just stand there numbly, staring up at the giant hole that used to be a ceiling, wondering if this is some kind of twisted metaphor for my life.
Twenty minutes later, West is beside me whistling his condolences as Leah recovers on my living room couch with an oversized blanket and leftover cupcakes.
“Leaky pipe,” my brother says, shaking his head. “Not good.”
“Not good?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Thanks, West. A startling revelation.”
He fills his cheeks with air and blows out a hard breath, planting his hands on his hips and gazing up. “My buddy, Shane, is a plumber. The best. I can probably get him out here by tomorrow.”
“Does he fix ceilings, too?”
“Doubt it, but I’ll check. You might have to call your guy for that.”
I blink. “My guy?”
“Yeah, the douchey one.”
Oh. Parker.
Fidgeting, I cross my arms and pick remnants of my ceiling off my shirt sleeve. “Maybe.”
West throws me a probing glance before wading through the two inches of water in my kitchen and bending down to the lower cabinets for pots. Then he asks casually, “You sleeping with him?”
“What?” My head jerks up, my cheeks instantly flaring red. “No!”
“So, what you mean is… not yet.”
Leah pipes up from the couch. “Don’t be a dickhole, Westley.”
“I can’t believe you asked me that,” I snap.
“Why? You guys looked like… I don’t know, like there was something.”
“Something?”
“Yeah, something. Don’t know, Mel—that’s why I asked.”
My arms tighten defiantly across my chest. “Loathing and disgust are probably what you saw.”
West straightens, seemingly considering my response, then quips, “Nope. Wasn’t that.”
“It was called: none of your business,” Leah adds, gliding off the couch and strolling over to us, licking peanut butter frosting off her fingertips and making little popping noises.
“Put the claws away, Tiger.” West gives her a blatant once-over, then shoots her a wink. “For the time being, anyway.”
“Gross.”
“Can we stop with the sexual innuendos while we’re standing in my flooded kitchen?”
West demonstrates his maturity by stepping into the living room with a sly grin. “I’m just saying, if you’re looking to start dating again, you should let Shane take you out. He’s divorced, stable, pays his taxes. No felonies at the moment.”
“I’m not looking to date.”
It’s the truth—I’m not. The thought of dinner dates, hand-holding, inside jokes, all with someone who isn’t Charlie, makes my insides twist with dread. It makes me ache.
I have no idea what my brother thinks he saw with Parker. The man is an emotionally-stunted bully, void of feelings, lacking in empathy, zero sense of humor.
He’s nothing like Charlie.
And I think that’s why I feel so disgusted with the way my body has been reacting to him lately—all tingly and starved, like it’s craving something only he can give. The way he looks at me sometimes, dark and heated, penetrative, sends my heart into a tailspin and my lungs into overdrive.
It’s confusing. Maddening.
Parker is the opposite of me in every way, the antithesis to my very soul, and yet I’m drawn to him somehow. There’s a darkness inside of him that speaks to my light. He was right when he said I wanted to fix him because I do. My nurturing heart wants to glue his pieces back together until he’s whole again. I’m yearning to see him smile. Laugh.
To let go and feel free, even for just a moment.
And then there’s a part of me that wonders if I’m just lonely, and I’m latching on to the first attractive man who walks into my life because I miss having a warm body wrapped around me. I miss strong arms holding me tight, keeping me safe and protected.
I miss intimacy.
I miss bear hugs and grand kisses.
I miss sex.
Charlie is the only man I’ve ever been with. I gave him my virginity and my heart beneath a starless August sky, and I never looked back.
But now I’m forced to look forward without him, and it’s daunting. Terrifying. I don’t know which way to turn because every direction feels like it drags me farther and farther away from him.
I’m jolted out of my musings when Leah leans in and throws an arm around me, tugging me to her. “Don’t listen to him, babygirl. He’s still single for a reason.”
“I’m holding out for you, Leah.”
My sigh is heavy with annoyance. “West, I don’t want to date anyone. I’m not ready for that yet. Parker is just… a friend. Sort of.”
Parker’s words echo in my mind, harsh and haunting: I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck.
His words hurt, I’ll give him that, but I refused to give him a reaction. I refused to give myself a reaction. I’m done being angry.
“Whatever you say, Mel,” West says, wringing out water from the saturated towels into metal pots. “I’ll call Shane and send him over to look at the pipes. If you can’t get a hold of your “sort-of-friend,” I’ll see if Dad has some referrals to get your ceiling fixed.”
I swallow. “Thanks.”
West takes off an hour later after helping us unflood the kitchen, only getting into two water fights with Leah, and Leah stays behind to help me finish up. I’m shoveling drywall and insulation into garbage bags when my backside vibrates from a cell phone notification.
I can’t help the organic smile from blooming on my lips when his message pops up.
Zephyr.
Zephyr: Did you know the hashtag symbol is actually called an “octothorpe?” It means “eight mystery.” I feel like this needs to catch on. Regardless, it would make a pretty epic band name. This concludes my random fact of the day.
Oh, Zephyr.
My faceless friend. My anonymous confidant.
The final link to the man I love.
Nibbling my lip, I whip out a quick response.
Me: Are you saying we should start a band? I’m so in. With that name, I feel like we would need eight members.
Zephyr: Agreed. And our music would need to be super mysterious. I call drums because they’re loud and obnoxious.
Me: I’ll take violin.
There’s a pause before his reply comes through.
Zephyr: Popular instrument these days.
Me: It’s so underrated. Like nitrogen.
Zephyr: Nitrogen? Explain.
Me: Oxygen gets all the cred. Nitrogen takes up three-quarters of our atmosphere, but when do you ever hear, “Nice job today, nitrogen. Well done.”? Never. #teamnitrogen
Zephyr: To be fair, I’ve literally never heard anyone say, “Nice job today, oxygen. Well done.” either. People just don’t talk like that. Nice use of an octothorpe, by the way.
Leah suddenly appears over my shoulder, and I nearly hit the ceiling.
Or… what’s left of my ceiling.
“Is that the heart guy?”
I quickly close out the app and stuff my phone back into my pocket. “Yes. His name is Zephyr.”
“Like, that’s his birth-given name?”
“No, obviously. We don’t know anything about each other.”
“Bummer. Sexy name.” Leah leans back against my kitchen island, her fingers curling around the edge of the countertop. She tilts her head in the way that she does when she’s trying to get a read on me. “What do you think it means?”
“Zephyr?”
“Yeah.”
Pursing my lips together, I twist my hair over my left shoulder, fiddling with the split ends I need to trim. “Do you think it’s an acronym for something?”
“Ooh.” Her golden eyes glow brighter, widening as her mind tries to conjure up something amazing. “Zombies Eating People’s Hearts Year-Round. He’s a zombie.”
“That took a very dark turn.”
Leah waggles her perfectly shaped eyebrows at me. “Maybe he just likes Madonna.”
“Or maybe it’s a code word.”
“Or a safe word—during sex. Maybe he’s a kinky son-of-a-bitch.”
We both laugh, but my laughter ebbs the moment Parker’s face flashes through my mind. Because I was thinking about sex.
Damn it.
While Leah starts wiping down the countertops, I pluck my phone back out and scroll through my contacts until I find his name. I shoot him a quick message.
Me: Are you busy? My ceiling tried to kill me.
“I really, really appreciate you coming out.”
Parker plods through my doorway, stomping his work boots against my entry mat. His dark hair is a chaotic mess of overgrown waves, and his skin is scuffed with dirt and paint smudges. He eyes me with that same penetrative stare that rattles my insides, like he’s trying to see beyond the words. “Yeah. Not a problem.”
His gaze skims over me, and I kind of wish I changed out of my comfy clothes. All I’m wearing is a pair of cotton shorts and an old college t-shirt with my hair thrown up in a messy bun. But then I scold myself for wishing that—it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to impress him. “Did you just come from a job?”
“I did.”
“You seem to have a good business going. I’m happy for you.”
Parker’s eyebrows dip as he registers my response. He does that sometimes—frowns at compliments and smiles. Acts of kindness. At first I thought he was just an asshole, but now I’m wondering if he’s genuinely not accustomed to those things.
“I like staying busy.”
I flash him my teeth. “I get that. That’s why I went a little crazy with my baking business. It keeps me focused. Distracted.”
“They were good.”
His reply takes me off guard, and my smile wanes. Did he just say something… nice? To me? “Oh… the cupcakes?”
“Yeah.” Parker clears his throat, dipping his head towards the kitchen. “This way?”
I blindly nod, watching as he moves around me and shuffles toward the scene of the crime with his toolbox. Wringing my hands together, I follow, wondering if I should incite more conversation. More nice words. “So, um, do you live around here?”
Absolutely gripping, Melody. Great job.
“Ten minutes, give or take,” he says, peering up at the gaping hole when we enter the kitchen area. “Jesus.”
I wince as I follow his gaze. “I wish I had a cool story—a meteor shower, maybe a mysterious transient living in my ceilings. But my brother says it’s just a leaky pipe.”
Parker spares me a curious glance. “Leaky pipe sounds less life-threatening.”
“Not a cool story, though,” I breeze, flicking my finger at him.
He presses his lips together, and I choose to believe he’s holding back a smile.
“I’ll go grab the ladder from my truck,” he murmurs, his toolbox clanking against the countertop. “I can measure and shit today, then I’ll be back tomorrow to finish. I have another job during the day, so it’ll probably be early evening.”
“That sounds great. Thank you.”
Parker gives me a little nod, averting his eyes and moving around me to head out to his truck. His arm grazes mine as he passes, and I’m zapped with a shot of warmth that turns my skin flush. The fleeting over-the-shoulder look he sends me has me wondering if he felt it, too.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to scrub the goosebumps away. They are physical evidence of this feeling—this nagging curiosity that is quickly blossoming into something else. And maybe I should be happy about it. Relieved. It’s proof that I’m still alive, that I’m capable of feeling something other than overwhelming numbness.
But truthfully, it angers me.
How dare my body react in this way, how dare it feel.
How dare it feel roused by a man who isn’t Charlie.
My eyes trail to our wedding canvas, hanging on the far wall, the one I’ve debated taking down at least fifty-thousand times. It hurts to look at it. It hurts to see his smile, so blissful, so in love—so unaware of how swiftly our love story would be snuffed out, ending in bitter tragedy.
Tears burn my eyes, my throat stinging, so I distract myself in the kitchen and begin to bake. I try my best to ignore Parker’s presence as he sets up the ladder, carrying tools and measuring equipment between his teeth. I try to ignore the way the muscles in his back pull and stretch against the fabric of his light gray t-shirt, and the way a faint whiff of his shampoo or deodorant mingles with the chocolate brownie batter—something clean and outdoorsy. Organic, like the way a gentle breeze might smell way up in the mountains.
A smile pulls at my lips—a zephyr.
“Fucking hell.”
I snap my head up from the bowl of batter, watching as Parker grumbles through the tape measurer in his mouth and examines his finger. My face goes ashen when I spot the blood. “Oh, my God… you’re bleeding.”
“I’ll live.” He climbs back down one-handed, holding his injured finger up to keep the blood from dripping. Plucking the tape measurer from his mouth, he tosses it to the counter and moves around to the sink, mumbling, “Got a Band-Aid?”
Swallowing down the queasy feeling roiling my chest, I meet him at the sink and snatch his hand before he dips it under the running water. “Parker, this looks terrible.”
He tries to pull away. “I got it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Let me help, will you?” Reaching for a clean dish towel, I wrap it around his index finger and hold tight in an attempt to control the bleeding.
“I told you I don’t like to be touched.”
Our eyes meet, my breath sounding choppy when I inhale. “And I’ve been known to faint at the sight of blood.”
“Sounds like you should go back to being Betty Crocker while I deal with this.” His Adam’s apple bobs, his entire body tensing at my nearness. “Both problems solved.”
“Or you can let me help, and we’ll face our fears together.” I force a mega-watt grin despite my nervous belly and wobbly knees, causing his gaze to dip down to my mouth with that trademark glower. When his eyes lift back up, they look darker somehow. More ablaze.
“You and your smiles…” he says in a low voice.
He’s trying to project his annoyance, but I don’t buy it. Applying deeper pressure to the towel, I tease, “I know they’re growing on you.”
“Like fungus, maybe.”
“But the good kind of fungus.”
“No, like ringworm.”
My smile lingers as I unravel the towel to inspect his wound, noting the cloth is saturated in blood. “What the heck did you do? Does my ceiling have teeth? Maybe I’ll have a cool story, after all.”
“Got myself on a nail. Amateur move.” Parker finally tugs his hand free of my grip and spins around to the faucet. “I’ll take a bandage if you have one.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride to the hospital?”
“I’m really fucking sure.”
Stubborn.
After sifting through my linen closet for bandages, I find a First Aid kit with antiseptic and gauze and carry it back to the kitchen. Parker is applying pressure with a new towel, looking massively ticked off. I hesitate for a moment before approaching, swallowing my pride and closing in on him. “Let me see.”
“Will you stop?” he barks, trying to dodge me as I reach for his hand.
“I used to be a nurse.”
“Really?”
Holding him steady in my left hand, I rummage through the kit for the antiseptic with my right. “No. But I’ve seen three or four episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.”
My eyes flick up, and I swear to God I think I see a smile begin to surface. But he squashes any trace of it and grunts his irritation instead. “So damn intrusive.”
“Like the sun, right?”
My tone is gentle and unoffended as Parker’s jaw tightens, and he whispers back, “That’s right.”
I nod slowly, watching as the blood flow finally ebbs, and I dab the antibiotic cream onto the wound with a fresh gauze. Parker hisses through his teeth, trying to pull back, but I hold firm, knowing he could push me away if he really wanted to.
I don’t think he wants to.
“My husband used to compare me to the sun,” I tell him softly, still working, still fixing him. “It was kind of our thing. I was the sun, and he was the sky, and for the longest time, I didn’t know how to survive without him. When you build your entire life around another person and that person just disappears… what’s left?” I don’t dare glance up at him as I peel open a bandage, too afraid his deep stare will eclipse the rest of my words. “I’ve spent over a year trying to figure how to build a new life around me. But as you probably know, given your line of work, with building comes the occasional collapse. The inevitable downfall. Pieces don’t always fit the way you want them to, and then… starting over again sounds so overwhelming. I’ve had my share of downfalls, and I’m sorry you had to witness one of them.”
Parker is still and silent, his breath beating down on me, tickling my baby hairs. He hardly flinches when I wrap the gauze around his finger, securing it with a bandage.
“Anyway, I’m not the sun,” I finish, tracing my finger along his dressing, caught somewhere between this moment and a past life. “The sun only knows how to shine, and I’ve seen too much darkness.”
A beat passes, a quiet, poignant beat, and Parker asks, “What happened to him?”
Part of me wants to hide from those words because reliving the worst moment of my life is really, really hard. But the other part of me recognizes the beauty of his question.
He cared enough to ask it.
My grip on Parker’s hand clenches out of instinct, the memories brutal and unforgiving. “It was our wedding anniversary. We had just left a restaurant and were walking home, discussing life. The future.” I inhale a frazzled breath, forcing myself to continue. “We were happy. Kissing, smiling, laughing. We were so, so happy, and then it’s almost like time froze, and evil seeped inside of our little bubble, and everything changed. A stranger came out of nowhere and stole my purse while we were talking about becoming parents, and Charlie chased him, because that’s what Charlie did. He was my protector. He chased him into the busy downtown street and was hit by a car.”
I finally lift my eyes, my blurry, watery eyes, and discover Parker staring down at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Confusion, maybe, mixed with… a shred of emotional turmoil. It’s like he has no idea what to do or say, but my words are affecting him, and that’s new. That’s something startlingly unfamiliar.
He doesn’t say he’s sorry or offer his sympathies, and I’m okay with that. I’m tired of people being sorry. I’m sick of hearing it.
Parker’s response to me is in everything he doesn’t say or do.
He doesn’t pull away. His hand remains enclosed in mine while he allows me to graze the tip of my finger up and down his bandage, and I feel like this is his own way of opening up and sharing a part of himself. Not with words—not with words that can feel hollow and superficial, but with vulnerability. By breaking down a wall he’s probably spent a hell of a long time building and letting me in.
And I think we both realize this at the same time. We both notice the shift, the power of this moment, the undeniable energy swirling between us—we notice it at the exact same time, and that makes it all the more potent.
My finger goes rogue and travels along his palm, tracing all the little lines and divots, a maze of untold stories. His skin is warm, so warm and inviting, despite his chilly fa?ade. I feel him tense against my touch, his body’s way of trying to resist me, but he still doesn’t pull away.
Parker lets me touch him, really touch him, and I have no idea what it means. It’s beautiful, and it’s intimidating, but I’m not sure I understand it quite yet as we stand here in my kitchen beneath a busted ceiling, while my body starts to lean into him like he’s some sort of magnetic forcefield. Like I’m drugged and loopy, unable to hold myself upright, desperate to steal more of his warmth for myself.
I look up at him then, swaying and strung-out on whatever this is, and goddammit, I can’t help but smile. It’s instinctual, involuntary—just like Parker’s reaction to it.
He heaves in a jerky breath, his whole body stiffening. I can feel him harden, his muscles clenching, because I’m that close to him. And then he finally pulls his hand away, tearing his eyes from mine and looking down.
The moment is severed, and it’s for the best, it really is. I take a step back and bite down on my lip, smoothing out my hair and sucking in my own deep breath.
“I’m going to head out,” Parker says, breaking through the thick silence. His voice is raspy, a little rattled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He gathers up his tools, and I just stand there, watching him, my skin buzzing and my cheeks hot. “Don’t worry about it. You’re injured, Parker… I’ll find someone else to take care of the ceiling.”
Parker folds his ladder and tucks it underneath his arm, reaching for the toolbox with his opposite hand, careful not to make contact with his wound. He pauses in front of me before he leaves, his eyes pinning sharply on mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A heartbeat goes by before he sweeps past me and out the door, and I finally let out that breath.