Page 14 of Mended Hearts

“I’ll be right with you,” he says with his back toward me, intently scanning the shelf. “Can I help you?” he asks, stepping down from the stool, back still to me.

“Yes, I’m looking for my boyfriend. You might know him.” I hold my hands behind my back, shifting my weight back and forth. That sounded way better in my head, and now I feel nervous saying it.

He spins around in my direction with a huge grin plastered on his face, taking a step toward me. “Yeah, I might know him.” Two more steps and he’s closed the distance between us. “He’s a lucky son of a gun.”

“You’re right,” I admit with a shrug, finally letting go of my hands as they drop to my side.

Dustin glances down and grabs one of my hands, taking it in his. “You calling me your boyfriend sounds better than I could’ve imagined.” He lifts his gaze, meeting mine.

Pitter-patter.

Pitter-patter.

So much for running all these feelings away.

“Ahem.” I hear from behind. The joy drains from Dustin’s face, replaced with annoyance. He drops my hand, crosses his arms across his chest, and leans to the side, looking past me. “You’re not getting paid to flirt, pretty boy.”

Dustin’s jaw ticks, and his fists clench. I turn around, slightly placing myself in front of Dustin, and notice the tall, slender redhead. I’m pretty sure he’s in my math class.

Peter… Patrick…ahh, Paul, his name badge appears in my view.

His cocky grin falters as soon as I begin to speak. “Hey, Paul,” I start.

His face pinches together in disbelief as he fixates his gaze on me. I don’t dare point out the obvious; that I only know his name because of the badge attached to his work smock.

“I stopped in for some paint samples,” I lie. “Dustin saw me cradling my hand and asked to see my finger to check if it was possibly broken or just jammed,” I lie again to cover up why he was holding my hand. “See,” I say, holding my hand up long enough for him to look before covering it back up with my right hand.

“Mmmhmm,” Paul says, narrowing his eyes at both of us. “And what was the consensus?”

“Jammed,” Dustin grits out, causing a small smile to tug at the corner of my mouth.

“Well, at least it’s not broken.” Paul shrugs, now looking at only me. “I can help you with those paint samples, Echo.” He finally smiles.

“Ahh.” I glance down at my watch. “It looks like all this chitchatting has caused me to run out of time.” This one isn’t a lie as I do need to get home. “Maybe next time.” I offer to lighten the blow. It’s a third lie as I don’t need paint, nor would I want him to be the one helping me with samples. I turn toward Dustin, slowly walking backward to the door. “Thank you again, Dustin.”

He finally loosens the stern face he has with Paul and waves. I wave back and add a wink for good measure. It earns me a low chuckle as he shakes his head before throwing a hand back through his hair. He keeps his eyes fixed on me until I turn around, and I know they’re still on me until I’m outside the door and he can no longer see me.

I quickly make my way home, knowing my dad is going to have a conniption. I’m surprised he isn’t out driving around looking for me. Ten minutes later, I’m heaving and out of breath but home nonetheless. I bend over, placing my hands on my thighs to get my breathing under control. I straighten my stance and hold my arms above my head, making my way to the front porch. My bucket of softballs is sitting next to the front door, and my heart sinks. I slowly make my way up the two steps and to the bucket. Reaching in, I grab my glove. My empty glove. Anxiety sweeps over me as my joyous mood now turns to dread.

“Looking for this?” my dad asks from the porch swing. The bushes lining the porch hid him so well. He tosses the ball to me just like Dustin did, and I catch it, readingBe My Girl.

Oh, shit.

Chapter Eight

DUSTIN

November 2000

Ihad heard the stories of love-struck fools. I had heard the stories of guys being whipped by their chicks having them wound tightly around their fingers. But I thought they were fables; something of folklore that Shakespeare wrote. So look who’s now one of those love-struck, whipped fools who’s wound around his girl’s finger—ME! And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The guys on the team tease and call me whipped. It’s all fun and games until Bryant loses his damn mind and calls me pussy whipped. That’s where I draw the line. I’m in front of him faster than Speedy Gonzalez. Three of my teammates have to pull me back from demolishing his face.

How can you be whipped by something you have yet to experience?

Idiot.

“Dude, I was just joking. No need to Hulk out on me,” Bryant says, rolling his shoulders and fixing his shirt where my hands had gripped it.

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