Page 12 of Mended Hearts

HAND IN HAND, Dustin walks me back home. A block away, he stops and kisses me on the cheek.

“I had a good time,” he says as we stop in front of my house.

“I did, too.” I smile back. He walks backward a few steps before turning away and walking in the direction toward hishome. I stand on the porch, watching for longer than I should. I know without a doubt I’m being watched. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were followed from the get-go.

I sigh and brace myself for the persecution I’m sure to receive. The smell of garlic hits my nose as I open the door, and I know my mom’s making her signature chicken alfredo with my favorite garlic sticks.

I inhale deeply. “I’m home,” I announce as I try to head straight for my room. But that would be far too easy. My dad clears his throat, and I stop dead in my tracks, knowing exactly what it means. I walk backward a few steps and look to the right, spotting my dad sitting near the front room window.

I called that.

“I’m okay with you having friendships with boys. But it’s obvious you and that young man are beyond friends,” he starts the talk by pointing that out. I want to deny it, but I can’t even force myself to. It would be a lie. And there is no point in doing that. “I’m just going to lay it out there. My house, my rules. No boyfriends, no dating, no nothing until you are out of this house. You have far too much going for you to let some boy screw it all up.”

It takes every ounce of strength not to let the anger I’m feeling spill over. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from spewing the words I so desperately want to. The faint taste of blood fills my mouth. I want to scream about how unfair he is. I want to huff and puff and make a big scene. But I don’t. I keep my composure. If I act out, it’ll only make it worse.

“Do you understand?” He holds my stare while I contemplate how to reply. Obviously, I’m going to answer yes… I just don’t know if I’ll do so politely or not.

“Yes, sir.” The Jesus in me won that round.

“Good. Now,” he says as he stands up, “I don’t want you sitting by him anymore at church either. You can return to sitting up front next to your mother.”

I groan. There goes my freedom. Well, all the freedom I care about.

Chapter Six

DUSTIN

The thing I typically love most about the school year is how busy I am. Between school itself, working at the local hardware store, baseball season, and conditioning (which seems to be basically year-round) I’m practically never home. I love my mom, but I’m far from a momma’s boy. The woman wears me out, but I’m thankful for her dedication to me playing ball. She’s never missed a game and still makes sure to bring snacks for all of us guys after every single game. They love their Mother Teresa, as they call her. You can always count on her to be sitting in her chair next to the dugout, full of school pride and screaming for her boy. Correction, boys—she considers the entire team her boys since we’ve grown up playing together.

I bounce down the stairs with my glove in my hand, rounding the way as I land on the tile.

“Dustin? Is that you?” my mom hollers from her sewing area in the dining room. The stitching noise comes to a halt when I reach the entryway. “Oh good. Look at the shirt I made for this season.” She holds up the orange shirt with black lettering.

“Nice shirt, ma,” I say, doing a quick glance, not paying much attention. She’s made these types of shirts since I played T-ball.

“It’s just”—she sniffles—“it’s your last year.” A sob erupts as she pulls the shirt to her, hugging it. Mother Teresa has never been one to be overemotional. Overbearing, yes.

“Oh, Ma.” I walk over and lean down to hug her. “I’ll be playing ball next year. Your shirt making days aren’t over,” I tease, trying to cheer her up.

“I know, but you’ll be in college. You won’t be here.” Her voice cracks with realization.

“But I won’t be far. And you’ll still have Dax.” I remind her.

“Not the same,” she replies, gaining her composure.

“I know.” I give her one more squeeze before pulling away. “He’ll never be me, but second place will have to work.” I grab a black sharpie off her sewing desk and slide it into the pocket of my mesh shorts.

“Hey, I heard that,” Dax whines from the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, radar ears.” I swear he hears everything.

My mom neatly folds the shirt and wipes under her eyes with the back of her hand, removing the proof of her sadness. Standing, she looks at me, eyeing my glove in my hand. “Where are you going?”

“I’m heading to the school field to catch for Echo while she practices pitching. Then work.” I lift my baseball hat off my head, flipping it around backward before sliding it back on.

My mom’s face shifts to a disapproving stare—one that I’m all too familiar with. “Is that the preacher’s daughter?” she snidely asks, placing a hand on her hip.

I roll my eyes and turn away, heading for the front door. I don’t have time for her antics. I plan on making Echo mine today, and she’s not going to interfere like she has in the past.

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