Page 19 of Overkill

“Melody…”

I swallowed as the weight of Greg knowing added something humiliating to all of this. I looked to the side, to where the family room was in full view. The fireplace. The family photos. Luke. Staring out from his wedding photos. I stood between him and my mother, in a floral dress.

I didn’t realize until years later that his hand shouldn’t have been so low on my waist, tugging me into him with one arm as the other held my mother’s hand.

“Open up, Melody.” Greg said it so softly that I’d barely heard. It floated in like the cool wind through the ventilation window beside the stove—except the vent above the stove had been broken for months. I didn’t have the money to replace it, and as hard as I’d tried, I couldn’t fix it myself. So there it stayed. Broken, useless. Like so many other things in this fucking house.

“I’m here to help, sweetheart. Honest.”

That did it. That was the thing that made my heart clenched, and my stomach turned.

No one was ever here to help. Never. Luke used to say he was just trying to help me feel better. He just wanted to make me happy. That he loved me.

It had made my body recoil as bile crawled up my throat.

“Melody? Mel…sweety heart…”

I pushed off the wall. Using my hand to help me stay upright, I went through the small threshold to the foyer, my bare feet touching the rough runner that was supposed to catch the mud, snow, and salt from our shoes as we walked in.

“What do you need?” My voice was shaking.

“I’d like to see your face. To see if you’re alright.”

His silhouette was visible through the glass. Tall, wide-shouldered, fit, with long wavy hair that always effortlessly fell to his clavicle. Long enough to put in a ponytail, but not quite long enough for a bun.

I didn’t think I’d like that in a man, but here he was. All…likeable.

“Can you open the door?”

My brain must have become completely smooth, because I had forgotten that we were separated by a glass door. As in see-through. He could see me standing there like an asshole, not sure how to do a damn thing.

When someone was at the door, you opened it, invited them in for a cup of coffee or tea, and offered food if it was available. My mother would have hated my bad manners.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered as I took one tentative step after another, until nothing but the door stood between us, and the worn floral runner of the foyer was stiff under my feet. I placed my hand on the glass, as if I could feel him through it.

He lifted his palm and placed it on the other side. The shadow of his hand was so much bigger than mine.

I swore I felt his heat through the pane. Like his palm had transcended the glass and pressed against mine.

“I was worried about you.” He was so earnest.

And in my deluded little brain, I thought that maybe he liked me. That was why he worried. People worried about those they cared for.

But in reality, he was just a good guy, probably here to make sure I didn’t absolutely fuck up everything and cause harm to myself and others.

He was always taking care of me. He always gave me baskets of vegetables from the garden he tended at the back of the property. But it wasn’t just vegetables. He gave me fruits, canned preserves, and even flour and bread that Lottie made from her new sourdough starter. He always reminded me to eat and drink and asked whether I fed my two little hellions enough. He’d even bring leftovers.

I thanked him, because how could I be anything but utterly grateful? I kept telling myself that it wasn’t special. He was nice to everyone! But sometimes I let myself think that maybe he did it because he liked me.

I had to pull hard to open the door, thanks to the damn warped wood.

His hand was still on the glass. Thick lashes made his green eyes even brighter, and his beaked nose tipped down at the end over his closely shaved beard. I’d always wondered if it would feel smooth or sharp. Would his cheek scratch against mine if we ever slow danced in the rain? He seemed very much like the kind of man who would dance in a summer rain.

He leaned in. So close I almost felt his breath on my skin.

He smelled like cigarettes. Did he smoke? I had never seen him do so.

He smiled. Not a happy smile, but the kind that showed sympathy, designed to make me feel better—or, perhaps, designed not to make me feel worse.