Page 84 of This Wild Heart

“Nothing clears your mind better than the woods, Parker. Nothing in the world.”

If I closed my eyes, I could hear him.

My dad loved going for walks. Loved telling me about the trees. The flowers and the animals. Countless memories about countless conversations over the years, all the things he’d taught me.

I thought about that grief Anya mentioned. It wasn’t a hole. That sounded small and easy to ignore.

Mine felt like a cannonball tore through my chest. And with the unhealed edges still hurting on every breath, I raised my chin and went for a walk.

Chapter 22

Parker

Ironic how I’d gone through so much trouble to avoid facing an intervention by my family, and my chest felt strangely hollow when I got back home from my walk, and the house was quiet. The only proof of the shower was the blue balloons in the dining room.

My mom’s bedroom door was closed, and on top of my phone, which I’d left on the table, was a note in Sheila’s handwriting.

On the phone with Adaline in my room. Leftovers are in the fridge if you’re hungry. I love you.

For a moment, I tucked my hands into my pockets and looked around the space that raised us. The kitchen wasn’t huge. It wasn’t perfectly decorated or decked out with high-end finishes—wood tone cabinets that showed some wear, knobs that needed updating, and a light fixture that had been there for at least ten years. But if a single piece was changed, it wouldn’t quite feel like home. Sheila’s favorite coffee mugs hung off a display on the wall Ian made for her in high school. The fridge was covered in drawings from the grandkids and magnets from travels over the years. The floor was dinged up, courtesy of the one time Cameron dared Ian to walk through the house in his ice skates to see if anyone would notice.

They did. It didn’t help that Erik tripped Ian, and the toe picks dug straight into the wood. He was grounded for a week, and my dad made Ian clean the house for Sheila for another two weeks past that.

Countless meals, holidays, and birthdays and rushed nights between sports practices never seemed like a struggle for her. It was amazing how easy she’d made it all look, taking care of a veritable army of children after she married my dad.

My walk helped. I’d lost some of that heaviness along the miles that I wandered. One of the barn cats followed along, a cute little black and white thing with gray eyes. I told him I’d trade him for Spike if he wanted to come live in Portland, but he didn’t say a whole lot, content to amble along behind me.

I tucked my phone in my pocket and headed up the stairs, the sound of the shower in the bathroom across the hall stopping me short. The door to the bedroom was cracked open, as was the bathroom. Probably so she could hear Leo if he woke.

Rolling my neck until I heard a crack, I paused long enough outside the bedroom that I couldn’t deny the thing holding me back.

Fear.

Throat-strangling fear of letting myself love him.

Letting myself love. Period.

It was quiet when I pushed the door open; the small lamp on the nightstand on my side of the bed was the only thing lighting the room.

A small cry came from the bassinet. I paused, glancing over my shoulder, but Anya was still showering. Carefully, I closed the bedroom door so she’d be able to finish.

Leo let out another sound, just a bit louder. The sound turned into an angry little squawk, then a tiny cry, and my chest rolled over at the pitiful sounds. I strode to the dresser and grabbed the pacifier, my pulse racing as I took a few steps closer to the baby.

My fingers tingled when I finally took a full look in his face, and my heart dropped down into my feet in a sudden, sharp swoop. It was like looking right at one of my baby pictures. The nose. The eyes. The chin. The shape of the mouth. A mirror fucking image.

His eyes locked onto me, and he blinked slowly. My heart did this weird hiccup thing, and I felt a little lightheaded.

Boom.

A different kind of explosion, leaving a crater behind, just as irreversible as the one that carried far more pain. I’d feel this one for the rest of my life.

“Hi,” I managed, voice a raw whisper.

That was when he screwed up his face and let out an angry wail. But hell, if I was bundled up in one of those little straitjackets, I’d probably scream too. My hands trembled when I tried to give him the pacifier, but he pushed it back out with his cries.

I pinched my eyes shut as my mind raced through the times I’d held babies. It had been years, the product of moving away before my siblings started their families. My cousin had a kid, and I remember holding her at a shower or something.

Hold the baby right up against your chest, hands under the butt, my dad told me.You’ll know what to do once they’re there.

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