Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(62)

Turning toward her, I slip my free hand through her hair, my fingers pushing her red strands behind her ear. I need to see her face. Her eyes are glazed over, no tears falling. She’s holding it all in. “What could you have possibly done?” I ask.

She shakes her head a little, releasing a clear trail of tears down her cheek. “Nothing. I’m sure of that. I’m not a f*cking psychic. But there were so many other courses of action I could have taken that night—like many nights before—that could’ve altered the outcome.”

“Mel, who looks out for you? Who’s responsible for your pain?”

Her dark eyes flick up, the question catching her so off guard I hear her slight gasp. “I want you to say something aloud. Even if you don’t mean it. Just speak the words.”

I lick my lips, stopping myself from kissing her. Instead, I nod. No questions asked. I’d do just about anything for her right now.

“Say, I’m not responsible for Hunter’s death.”

My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “No.” I’m not sure what she’s trying to do, but she’s asked one of a few things I can’t do. Not even for her.

She reaches up to run her hand over my cheek. In this intimate span of time, it’s possible the outside world doesn’t exist. It’s possible that, somehow, I’m not responsible. That maybe fate is a real force, and there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent his death. That Melody’s actions had nothing to do with what lead up to her friend’s death.

But beyond this bubble, there’s a very real world, one we can’t escape. Actions have consequences. Even if in your darkest dreams you could’ve never predicted the pain, the hurt, the loss—every action has an equal and opposite counter reaction. That’s the law of physics, but it’s also the words that thrum through me daily.

I don’t want any of my actions to cause Mel any more pain than she already has to endure.

I’m not…whole. I can’t offer her the life she needs in order to get out of this rut. To be sober, functioning. I thought I needed to steer clear of her for my own benefit. To keep me on the straight and narrow. But it’s evident now that it’s just the opposite.

She needs to get away from me.

“Let’s pick this up another time,” I say, and she gives me a questioning look. “I should really go…clean myself up.” I lower my gaze to my crotch.

With a knowing laugh, she says, “All right…” and bounds up, grabbing her underwear and quickly putting them on. “I need some alcohol to come down, anyway. Be right back.”

As she takes off toward the small kitchen, I release a heavy breath. I’ve given her more than anyone else; more of my story, of myself. But I’m still holding back.

If I can help it, I want to prevent seeing that appalling look on her face—the judgment in her gaze that not even Melody would be able to disguise if she ever discovered the truth.





Melody

For my longing overflows, bitter pain



I QUICKLY DOWN TWO shots of Jack. I had half a bottle stashed under my sink for emergency situations just like this. Thank, God.

Even though I was really, really trying not to use, truth is, there was no way to handle Jesse any other way. Our circumstance didn’t technically get “handled,” but it did get confronted. Well, most of it. Now the conflict is over, I can move on and try to enforce some damage control. Let him in on the fact that I have zero intentions of becoming his ol’ lady.

But that’s another day, another uncomfortable situation—not tonight.

For good measure, I take a swig right from the bottle before capping it and returning the liquor to its place under the sink. I just want to pass out and not think about today until the blistering morning sun awakens me for the ultimate hangover.

Today was one of the longest days ever.

As I enter the living room, I stop midway in. Boone’s chin rests on his hand, his elbow propping his head up. If he’s not asleep yet, he will be soon. Walking over to the bar, I look down at my phone and hit the button to light the screen: 2:37. Nice. He probably doesn’t have late nights like this anymore. And really, I’m sure he’s spent after earlier.

What guy doesn’t pass out afterward? Dudes, I think, shaking my head.

I love seeing him like this, though. All laid back, his usually tense and uppity self too worn out from a full day to compete with his dire need to be a savior. I wonder just who or how he was before shit went wrong in his life.

I wonder if I’ll ever get the full truth of his story.

Then I realize that I don’t even want that. Ugly pasts shouldn’t play a part for us.

My head is starting to spin with the rush of alcohol hitting my bloodstream, and I grab my phone and hedge for the couch. I settle down on the opposite end from Boone, trying not to wake him, and scroll through my messages.

The ones from Sam, and some new ones from Jesse.

My heart constricts as I read his desperate words. Pleading, begging, apologizing. Shit, how the hell did things get so f*cked up between us? For the millionth time, I wish I could ask Dar what I should do.

In reality, if she were still here, I probably wouldn’t go to her for advice. I always thought I was so much smarter than her, that I was the brains of our duo. That I had everything figured out. But that was such bullshit. She saw through my crap and called me out on it, and I should’ve listened to her more.