Melody’s eyes dance around as if she’s searching for another place to focus on aside from me, but the elevator isn’t moving fast enough to give her the opportunity to avoid me either. “You didn’t overstep,” she says, finally locking eyes with mine. The light color of lime encircled with an olive contrast between the whites of her eyes and her dark lashes. Every look she gives me, is piercing and feels as though she has the power to control my thoughts and feelings with her stare. I can hardly recall the words I was about to speak.
“Thank you for thinking of us, Brett.”
Acting much like Melody, I’m forced to look away, feeling as though I’m falling into a daze I can’t snap out of. . I blink for a long second, remembering my thoughts. “I know this isn’t the best time to ask, but did I somehow make you angry? I wouldn’t want to be the source of added stress.”
I need to know. I can’t think of what I might have done to trigger her mood swings but they are all over the place and I don’t want to be the cause.
“Nope.”
Her answer does not add up to the truth, or at least that’s what I’m assuming. “Is it because I know my way around The Barrel House?”
“Nope.”
The doors could open at any second. I don’t know what the delay is, but I’m itching to break out of this confinement. “Are you just angry in general?” That’s it. The only other question I can come up with.
The doors finally open and grant us our freedom. Melody walks past me, speeding up to make a point of wanting some distance. She has no way to get home, I remember. “Melody, wait up,” I call out. She doesn’t acknowledge hearing me, but the hallway leading to the front exit is fairly empty and my voice echoes off the walls. I catch up with her just before she steps outside onto the curb. “Will you stop,” I say, reaching for her arm.
Maybe I shouldn’t be touching her or stopping her from going where she wants to go, but I must. I tighten my grip and pull her back. The loose strands of her hair spill to my hand and feel like feathers skating across tattered skin.
Damnit.
Ten years, and I still feel the exact same way.
I don’t understand how it’s possible.
I don’t know this version of Melody, and she doesn’t know the man I’ve become.
“What do you need?” she asks, annoyance filling her voice.
What do I need … other than to tell her about the key mix-up she’s about to figure out? Her jaw clenches, and her eyes drift toward the star-lit sky. “You’re not okay.”
Melody swallows what seems to be a lump in her throat, then allows her gaze to fall back to mine. “No sh—obviously, I’m not okay. My dad is dying up in that hospital room.”
I’m in over my head. I’ve never been good at supporting someone else's emotions. I understand the pain, but I don’t know how to give comfort. “I know,” I reply. “I know we haven’t talked or seen each other in years, but I want to help. My dad is distraught too; he’s been a mess since he found out. I know he’s planning to visit him tomorrow.” A bunch of gibberish spills from my mouth rather than anything sensical but the more I try to talk, the more I realize we have little to talk about.
“My dad will enjoy his company, I’m sure.”
Civilians don’t know how to accept bad news. We aren’t wired that way. Instead, emotions appear in the form of tears, few words, and sometimes nervous laughter when our minds are confused. I was trained to stare beyond pain and shut it down. I’m supposed to tell myself things don’t matter, and they don’t affect me, but when she stares at me, waiting for a human reaction—like a civilian and not like a trained machine, I feel helpless. “It’s hard for me to watch people suffering. If I’m not trying to help, it eats me up. I’m not the kind of person who can sit around when I know there’s something I can do, even if it’s just bringing food.” I’m supposed to protect and catch the falling, take bullets for those more important than myself, and shield the truth. If someone is still suffering then I haven’t done my job.
“You were a soldier, weren’t you?” My inhuman way of staring into nothing while holding my head up squaring my shoulders into a straight line speaks words of I am.
“Marine, yes. Was. I’ve been out for a couple years now. It was too hard with Parker.”
“What about Parker’s mom?” I wasn’t expecting this conversation to resurface now of all times, not with how distraught she seems. The story isn’t a good one and I wouldn’t feel right delving into the past when she’s in a fragile state.
“I’d rather not talk about her if you don’t mind.” I’m sure she is assuming a million different scenarios by my lack of a response, but it’s not the time.
“Bad divorce?” She might disagree with the timing, though. Maybe she’s seeking a distraction.
“Never married,” I reply. “Anyway, I want you to know I’m here and I want to help you and your family. Honestly.”
Melody slips her hands into her pockets and twists around to step into the parking lot. “Thank you,” she offers.
I don’t want her to know that I saw what Journey did with the keys, so I need to play this out. “Let me walk you to your car. The parking lot is not lit too well at night.”
Melody spins around, holding her hand up. “I’ll be okay.”
“I insist,” I continue, trying to keep the distance she’s asking for.
