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I went there hoping to see her, but the owner informed me that the paintings were shipped in from California. He wouldn’t give me any more information than that, a fact that still makes me grind my teeth.
No matter.
We lost the game tonight, which puts us down three to two. We need to win the next two games, or our time in the playoffs is over. I showered in the locker room and changed on the plane, so there’s nothing left to do except kick off my shoes and flop into bed.
But it seems impossible with Melody separated by only a few walls.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
Thankfully, I only spend a few minutes of trying to breathe deeply or meditate before my phone buzzes.
Bill
Got something
I dial his number, and he picks up immediately.
“What did you find?” I’m aware of my voice and how it might travel.
“Melody Cameron made contact with a friend tonight,” my investigator says. “Lucille Page. I was able to track her much easier than Ms. Cameron. Lucille has a robust social life, especially online. Her sister is married to Mafia in New York City.”
He lets that sink in.
What the hell kind of friend does Melody have?
“Anyway, I was able to go back and find Melody in Lucille’s history.”
“Tell me.”
“Lion’s Head. It’s a private school in Beacon Hill, New York. I accessed an online yearbook from when Lucille graduated, and sure enough, there she was: Melody Cameron.”
“Her name? So it’s her real name. Her… maiden name?” I shake my head. “Send me that, would you?”
“It’s in your email.” Bill’s voice is gruff. “Now that I have her school, I can get her records, social security number, the works. The rest should come easier.”
Relief sweeps through me. “Thank you, Bill.”
“Don’t mention it, boss. Talk later.”
The line goes dead, and I immediately open my email. He’s sent a link to the online yearbook, and I click through the rows of seniors until I get to the C last names.Cameron. Melody. There she is.
She’s not wearing glasses. Her light-brown hair is in soft curls over her shoulders, falling to the tops of her breasts. She’s wearing a red, ruffle shirt with a square neckline. Her eyes are more green than brown. Her face is rounder, the baby fat still clinging to her cheeks and jaws. But her smile is just as devastating.
I run my finger over her face, committing the younger version of her to memory.
One day I’ll show her. One day, I’ll lay out the pieces of her life like a feast for her to devour. To pick up what she wants and leave the rest.
Maybe high school was terrible. Maybe she wore braces for most of it and got made fun of, or bullies picked on her for her weight. Maybe she wasn’t popular.
Or maybe she loved high school.
I know I hated mine. I played hockey and used it as a way to kiss girls, but it wasn’t fulfilling the way kissing Melody is. No matter where I’m kissing her, or if she’s asleep or awake.
I miss kissing her.
I miss the feel of her lips on mine, the way her tongue slides against mine. The little breathy moans that a nip of her lower lip can elicit, or the way she grabs at my biceps and tries to pull me closer even when she wants to shove me away.
I’ve missed it for years, but I only allow myself to feel it now. To revel in that specific, angry kind of pain.
