Page 3 of Mended Hearts

“How do you and Dustin know each other?” Lynsie asks, watching Echo carefully. Uncertainty fills her expression like a sucker punch. She looks at the ground and begins fidgeting with her hands. Quirks of hers I’m all too familiar with. I envision closing the distance between us and taking her into my arms to comfort her like I did many times before.

She begins to stammer with indecision.

I clear my throat. “We went to high school together.” Stabbing pain sears my chest, and I make the mistake of looking at Echo. Her beautiful face is trained on me, and for a heartbeat, the same pain I feel consumes her brown eyes. I just belittled what we had—what she was to me.

Dax keeps looking back and forth between us, trying to place her. But with the shitty situation she and I had, he’s not going to be able to. I keep my eyes on her, wishing we could shut everyone around us out. Wishing she could read my thoughts. Wishing I could announce what she meant to me…what she still means to me.

Dax mumbles, “Oh shit.” Like he just had an epiphany.

I take a step forward and open my mouth, needing to expand on my words. She cuts her eyes in my direction, stopping me dead in my tracks. I finally pull my eyes away from her, refocusing my vision on our surroundings. That’s when I watch my new platoon sergeant walk up and put his arm around Echo.

“I see you’ve met my platoon leader,” he states before placing a kiss on her cheek.

She musters a smile, not daring to look away from me. “Seems so.”

My heart drops and my hand twitches at my side, begging to be fisted.

For a second, my belief in the universe and God had reappeared, making a glimmer of hope break through within me. But the reality of the situation quickly snuffs out all hope, making me remember why I quit believing in all the fluffy shit so long ago. All hope does is inflict hurt.

I suppress the maniacal laugh reverberating within my ribs. I know firsthand how cruel the world can be…but boy did it just one-up the hell out of me. In this moment, I know the world has it out for me. I’m hated by the stars that were supposed to align for me and Echo.

Stupid stars, and universes, and constellations. Stupid astrology. It’s all bullshit.

Chapter One

ECHO

July 2000

Being the new girl always sucks, but besides being the pastor’s daughter, the new girl is who I’ve always been. I’m not sure which is worse, as they both seem to come with their own set of cons. As the pastor’s daughter, there’s a certain stigma that’s expected and must be maintained. I’ve always felt that I’ve been manicured to be this perfect person because if I wasn’t, I’d reflect negatively on my father. And his image seems to be something he’s rather proud of. Rightfully so, as he’s made a good name for himself and his mission.

For me, being the pastor’s daughter has meant lots of moving. There have been times when my father did evangelism and we were constantly on the road like a traveling circus. During our circus days, I was always homeschooled. It just seemed to be more convenient. I think my dad would also agree it was a form of protection. As I got older, I started resenting our lifestyle and at times, even my parents. I know they love me, want the best for me, and for me to live God’s will, but I’m beginning to think that sheltering me and essentially takingaway my free will isn’t the way. I consider myself a social butterfly, and I don’t like feeling like my wings are taped down.

As Ariel said it best,“I want to be where the people are,”dang it. When I was younger, I was able to go to elementary school, but as soon as puberty hit, homeschooling began. I never really complained. I had sports. My dad made sure I was always on a softball team no matter where we lived. Albeit, it hasn’t always been easy joining a new team each season. The older I got, the more I had to prove my worth and skill each time to make sure I’d get a shot at playing. So while being the new girl in general can be a drag, being the new girl wanting to come in and take your spot on the softball field hasn’t made me an instant favorite with fellow team members. But now that I’m older, I need more than sports. I need experiences and I yearn for a sense of stability—and friends.

Definitely friends.

The move to Georgia hasn’t been as big of a culture shock as I thought it would. Maybe it’s because we settled in a small town, and I’m used to those back home. Well, the only place I consider home since it’s the one place we seem to gravitate back to. Even though it’s situated on the Bible Belt like a perfectly aligned star on a constellation, I don’t mind Oklahoma. The perks of living a nomadic life are also the things I crave. When you aren’t in one place long enough to form relationships with others, you don’t miss them when you leave. But there is one person I will miss from our gypsy days in Oklahoma—Brian. We have a common denominator that seemed to forge our union—he’s a preacher kid. Our bond didn’t happen instantly as he’s known for being a little rough around the edges. Still to this day. But with some persistence, he eventually sweetened up to me. From day one, he’s been the epitome of the preacher’s kid stereotype. Mouth like a sailor, roughing up the other boys on the playground, and all by fourth grade when we first met. Even though I was a gradebelow him, we still had the same recess and lunch. I was lucky enough to have a couple girls who befriended me on my first day at the new school, but I quickly found out that the boys weren’t so nice.

“Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo,” the redheaded boy yelled, lowering the pitch each time to mimic an echo. I turned around as he looked back at his group of friends, laughing. “What a stupid name!”

My fists curled unexpectedly and without much thought, I was going to make my way over to that mean group of boys. And do what? I didn’t really know. A hand curled around my bicep, stopping me in my tracks.

“Echo, don’t.” Brian was staring at the group of boys, then looked at me. “I’ll take care of it later,” he said, nodding. And that boy kept his word. That day at lunch, Brian sent that boy and his tray of food sliding across the cafeteria floor by placing his foot in the right place at the right time. He tried to play it off by saying, “Whoops,” but he still ended up with detention.

Ever since then, he’s had my back. Not sure what made him take such a liking to me, but he became the brother I never had, and he was the one person I was always sad to leave behind.

We moved here a month ago, and I still don’t feel settled in. Maybe I subconsciously worry that as soon as I get comfortable, I’ll just have to pack up. Part of me wonders if it’s all too good to be true. Like why now? The other part of me knows I don’t have to be in a hurry to unpack since we’re finally planting ourselves somewhere. The former pastor of the church passed away a couple years ago, leaving his house to whomever succeeded him at the church he’d founded. A win-win, if you ask me.

Planting roots here goes deeper than us getting a home. It means we will no longer be a traveling show any longer. My dad’s putting his own roots down, something I’ve always wondered if he was capable of doing. The local Pentecostalchurch here has been desperately looking for a new pastor the last two years. They had been filling the services with missionaries for the time being. One might say the timing of it all is a God thing. That’s what my mom says, anyways, but she says that about everything. Even though ministry is my dad’s calling and job, it always seems to be a family event—just one I don’t get paid for. I know my routine and where I fit into our trio. My father preaches, my mother sits in the front row like the doting preacher’s wife, and I, well, I’m the prized singer with the killer vocal cords. My mother’s words, not mine. I’m somewhat more modest than that. Modest, not shy. Far from shy. The singing skills I inherited from my mother. I initially started off singing side by side with her for fun. A way for them to show off their daughter’s God-given talent. Then one day, it was just me in the spotlight. I’m not sure why my mom no longer wanted to sing. I think it was their way of grounding me more in the church. Hoping and praying it’ll keep me from ever straying. Performing in front of people has never bothered me. I’m a pro at blocking out all my surroundings. There’s only one other place where I feel that same sense of comfort. The pitcher’s mound. Softball is more than a hobby for me. It’s my passion. Something else my dad made sure to instill in me.

Chapter Two

DUSTIN

August 2000

“Dustin, hurry up! We’re going to be late,” my mom yells from downstairs. I trip over my tennis shoes, stubbing my toe on my dresser in the process.

---