—THIRTY-ONE—
Walden and I stroll in through my front door well past ten P.M., and the goofy fucking smile on my face hasn’t faded since I drove out of that parking lot.
Is this happiness?
Am I happy?
It’s almost an impossible notion. Goddamn preposterous, honestly. But this floaty feeling coursing through me, making my legs feel weightless, keeping this stupid ass grin on my face, feels like it might be happiness.
I swear my damn dog even feels it.
Walden follows me to the couch as I collapse onto the cushions, sighing deeply. The animal paces over to me with slow, cautious steps, wavering once or twice before bridging the gap between us. His eyes are wide and curious, his head tilting to the side as if he’s trying to read me somehow. Like he’s trying to process this brand new version of his caretaker.
As I close my own eyes, I feel a warm presence hop up beside me, a furry little face sniffing my jaw and giving me a quick lick. Walden curls into my thigh, resting his chin atop my knee, and I link my arm around his bony body. His sigh is long and content, matching mine, and we sit there together amidst the comfortable silence.
I realize then that this is the very first time he’s ever licked me. Ever laid upon me in this way. Ever showed affection.
I’m not sure why he’s coming around now, after all these years.
Glancing down at the ball of black and white nuzzled against me, a contemplative frown furrows between my eyes. Bree had mentioned she thought his hair was growing in, but… holy shit. It really is. Thick, shiny tufts of healthy fur have filled in the mottled patches of his skin. He looks like an entirely new dog, thriving and restored.
He looks cared for.
Happy.
Loved.
A burning swallow claims my throat, my chest tightening with revelation. I’m thrown back in time, reminded of a dreary day in the foster house with Bree, when she snuck into my bedroom with a potted plant. The leaves were vibrant and green, fragrant with earthy musk. The soil was damp from a fresh watering, and my sister cupped the terra cotta pot between her palms like it was a precious thing.
Setting it beside me on my nightstand, which was nothing but one of those individual folding tables, Bree said to me, “Living things thrive on other living things. The energy you give off will be the energy received. Give this little plant the very best version of you, and you can grow together.”
I recall thinking it was silly at the time, but I was only ten or eleven, so fantasies still appealed to me then. I spent the following week forcing myself to smile, trying to conjure up the tiniest pocket of happiness, so the plant would bloom and grow. So it would want to be my friend.
I watered it. I talked to it.
I even named it “Leafy.”
But the fucking thing died anyway. It wilted before my eyes, withering away to brown leaves and sad soil. It was a little pot of death.
A mirror image to myself.
I knew then that I couldn’t fake happiness. I couldn’t fight for joy that didn’t exist. Even the goddamn plant knew I was a hopeless case.
But Walden… he’s changing right before my eyes, a striking parallel to my own metamorphosis. And it’s real this time, it’s not an act or a ruse.
It’s real.
I’m happy.
Riding out the emotional waves, I pull Walden closer to me and stroke his soft, newly grown-in mane of fur. He makes a wispy little sighing sound, something peaceful, and snuggles in farther to the crook of my hip. He knows the truth.
He knows it, and I know it.
I’m fucking in love.
I don’t hear from Melody at all the next day, which throws me a little. It’s already late, dusk fading into dark. After the night we shared together—the gift I gave her, and the gift she gave me—I expected a message. A phone call, even. Maybe a surprise visit. It felt like we had bridged a final gap somehow, and all the scattered pieces were falling into place.
We’d ended the evening in my truck, with her in my lap, riding me as the sun set beyond the horizon, and I clung to her tighter than ever before. I’d invited her back to my place, thinking I’d finally bring her into my bed and make love to her until dawn, but Melody had declined, telling me she had an order of cupcakes she needed to fulfill.
After climbing out of the shower an hour ago, I finally gave in and texted her. Maybe that’s what she’s been waiting for—effort on my end. Better communication.
And hell, that’s fair.
Palming the cell phone in my hand, I realize I keep checking it every few minutes or so, anxious to see her name light up my screen.
I’m not used to this feeling of expectancy, this antsy yearning.
I toss the phone to the other side of the couch, internally glowering at myself for acting like a lovesick fool. But just as I pull up from the cushions to go search for a distraction, I hear the telltale ping.
Pathetically, I dive back to the sofa at record speed and dig my hand between the cracks where my phone slipped through. Snapping my arm up, I swipe at the screen, unlocking her response.
Only… it’s from Magnolia.
Magnolia: I wasn’t going to contact you again, but here I am. Something is nagging at me, and I can’t let it go.
What the fuck?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I settle back down onto the couch, my insides twisting. I was so fucking close to deleting this entire goddamn account after she messaged me the last time, telling me that I left her doubting her own worth.
Fuck, that hurt. That hurt like hell.
But I thought it was over. I thought Zephyr would finally disappear, become a distant memory, and Melody would never have to know we were one and the same.
Or, more importantly, that I’ve known that fact since the night in her backyard, when I fucked her against her shed instead of telling her the truth—the whole reason I went over there in the first place.
Coward.
But I knew she would see me differently once she knew, everything would change, and I couldn’t lose that.
Holding my breath, I wince when another message comes through.
Goddammit, Melody… message me. Respond to me.
Magnolia: What does the number stand for in your screen name?
My mind stutters.
Why is she asking me this now?
After all these months. After all this silence.
Magnolia: Is it your birth year? Your address? Maybe it’s your favorite number?
I clench my jaw as her messages continue to ambush me.
Magnolia: Your jersey number in high school? The amount of coins in your change jar? Your ideal temperature outside?
My grip tightens on the phone case as one more question pops up.
I blanch.
Magnolia: Is it the number of scars on your body?
What. The. Fuck.
My brain starts spinning, going into overdrive, but it doesn’t take long for me to remember. To realize my slip-up.
“Seventy-nine scars, Melody. I’m a fucking monster.”
Shit, shit, shit.
It’s over.
She knows I’ve deceived her.
Only a minute passes by before she messages me again, only this time, there are no words.
It’s a Google Meet link.
A fucking video chat.
Blowing out a hard breath, I drop my head against the back of the couch, my heart nearly detonating inside my chest. My skin hums with dissolution. My insides churn with loss.
But I’m done playing this game, so I click the damn link, then fiddle with the settings, trying to figure out the camera feature. Melody’s camera remains off. I stare at a black screen, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. She already knows; she just wants to see it for herself.
My camera flickers on.
Fuck.
I sit idle on my couch, holding my phone out while my guilty expression stares back at me from the phone screen. I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.
All I do is wait.
I wait for her inevitable scorn, her furious disbelief.
Her anger. Her betrayal.
But all I get is a knock on my front door.
What?
I spare a final, knowing look to the camera before standing from the sofa and making the short trek to the door.
Melody stands on my front stoop, clutching her own phone in a trembling fist, her eyes pooled with tears, her mouth parted, lips quivering along with her hands. She sucks in a sharp breath, like she’s seeing me for the very first time.
But she’s not.
She’s seeing him. Her husband.
I swallow, staring at her through gritted teeth and balled-up fists. Closing out the video on my phone, I shove it into my pocket and step backwards, allowing her entry. Melody moves in with slow, purposeful steps, her eyes locked on mine, circling around me. It’s almost as if we’re predator and prey, but I’m not sure who the predator is. Who will pounce, and who will flee.
Melody paces toward me until we’re toe-to-toe, misty-eyed and flushed.
I can’t read her—I can’t fucking read her.
Is she pissed? She should be.
Is she hurt? Probably.
But her eyes shimmer with something akin to wonder, enchantment, and that feels so much fucking worse. My limbs go taut as anxiety grips me. “Jesus, Melody, say something.”
She opens her mouth to speak, and a little gasp breaks through. She’s tongue-tied.
Fuck.
“Damn it, listen to me—”
Melody’s mouth silences my words, cutting them off with her eager tongue. Her kiss is punishing, desperate, merciless, one hand fisted in my hair, while the other…
The other goes straight to my chest. My heart.
She pulls back for a breath, her tears spilling out, glistening her cheekbones, and she whispers two words before crashing her lips into mine once more. “My Zephyr…”