Page 4 of Mended Hearts

“Shit!” Perfect way to start out Sunday morning as I’m getting ready for church. A church we haven’t been to in months. But since the new pastor arrived in town, my parents want to give it another shot. “Let’s see how many weeks it’ll last this time.” I snicker as I tighten my belt. I bend over and grab my shoes, the damn sneakers that nearly caused the demise of my big toe, and plant my ass on the edge of my bed to slide them on.

I run into the bathroom to brush my teeth. In the past, I never cared about my appearance when we went to church. It’s not like I’m going there to pick up chicks or make any sort of impression. But as I glance at my appearance in the mirror, I figure it can’t hurt to make myself look a bit more presentable. I turn the water back on, not even allowing it to warm up before wetting my hands and shoving them through my disheveled hair to dampen it. I open the tube of gel and squeeze somein my hand before rubbing my hands together. I focus on the top part, giving it that spikey, pushed-forward look girls seem to appreciate. I quickly wash my hands off and grab my Lucky cologne, giving my shirt a few spritzes before I head downstairs.

My parents and brother are waiting impatiently by the front door, staring at me as I jog down, hopping off the fourth to last step.

“Sorry,” I mutter as my feet smack the hardwood floor.

“Next Sunday, we better not be waiting for you,” my mom warns as we make our way out the door like ducks in a row.

“If there even is a next Sunday,” I mumble under my breath.

The short drive to church is filled with Dax bugging our dad about some airplane exhibit that is coming through town. I stare out the window, listening to him as he names off the different types of planes that’ll be putting on the show. Although I’d never admit it, it’s quite impressive. For some reason, Dax and his best friend Lincoln are obsessed with all things planes. I thought once he hit middle school, he’d find a new obsession, but that has yet to happen. In fact, they’re both so over the top with it they plan to become pilots together after graduation. It’s gotten so far out of hand that they have everyone refer to them as Maverick and Goose.

The gravel parking lot is jam-packed. My mom glares at me, pinning the blame for our late arrival solely on me. As we reach the front doors, my mother cuts her eyes my way as the sound of praise and worship music bellows out the older orangish brick building. I shrug my shoulders, walking through the doors. She should be thanking me. I got us out of the whole “before we begin, turn to your neighbor and tell them you’re happy they’re here,” awkwardness.

My dad spots a section near the back with enough room for us to quietly slide in. I shift to the side, allowing Dax in ahead of me so I can sit at the end of the pew. As he squeezes by me, Inotice how much he’s grown. Before I know it, he’ll be taller than me. The top of his head reaches my nose. We have a four-year age difference between us. I can’t have him catching up to me or he’ll think he can overpower me, and that will never happen. I resist the urge to ruffle his hair as he passes by. That would surely piss the parentals off. I take that minuscule moment to study his features. The full cheeks he once had are no longer there and definition resides where they had been. His boyish features are slowly dissipating, and I’ve never taken the time to notice. He’s still more of a toe-head in comparison to me. I wonder if it’ll darken more like mine, or if he’ll stay a blondie for life.

“Bro, take a picture. It’ll last longer,” he whispers with a chuckle. I shake my head and pat him on the shoulder. In this moment, I’m feeling like a proud brother. I want to take the time to soak it up. Any given second, he’ll be back to annoying me and this moment will pass as if it never happened.

While I sit, they stand and clap along as if they know all the words to the songs. Every so often, my mom shifts her focus on me, giving me a look of disapproval. What’s new. I just go about my business, letting my fingers drum across my thighs, keeping up with the tempo of the songs as I scope out the congregation. Even though the lighting is dim, I can make out a few familiar faces. But one in particular catches my attention as I fixate my eyes on the stage.

This must be the new girl in town—standing up on stage, singing with the rest of the band. The tapping of my fingers subsides as I straighten in my seat, shifting my body forward. I look around, seeing everyone just as captivated as me. Well, those whose eyes are still open. The rest are captivated by Jesus, praising him with their hands up. I hear Dax chuckling at my side, and I smack his leg.

“Oww.” He fakes a whine, knowing damn well it didn’t hurt.

I can feel my mother’s eyes burning into me. I don’t even have to look to know it’s there. I’m all too familiar with it. In fact, I think she reserves that facial feature just for me. I also don’t look because I don’t want to take my eyes off the stage.

I could get used to this whole church thing.

I listen to her soft yet strong voice flowing through the speakers. I don’t even notice the pastor walking onto the stage until he starts talking. My shoulders slump as the praise and worship team begins to walk off the stage. Service seems to fly by. Crazy how that can happen when your attention is elsewhere. Mine is practically focused on the back of the new girl’s head, praying she turns around and makes eye contact with me. That’s about as good as I get when it comes to praying. After service, I make my way outside to wait by the car while my parents play Good Samaritan with the new preacher and a few church elders. Everyone else seems to have gotten the hell outta Dodge. Most likely hitting up the Shoney’s buffet.

“I’d like to be hitting up a buffet,” I mumble aloud as my stomach growls. I silently thank the man upstairs that my body didn’t betray me during service, waiting until I was in the deserted parking lot alone to do so. I lean against our black sedan, looking down at the gravel, lightly kicking it around. I hear laughing, causing me to look up. That’s when I see her, walking out the front door, the wind whipping her long brown hair every which way. She bends over, flips her hair toward the ground, gathers it all in her hands, and places it in a messy bun on top of her head.

She stands back up, catching me staring. Instead of giving me the shy look I expect, she smiles and confidently walks across the street, right toward me. For reasons unknown to all of mankind, it makes me nervous. Real nervous, and I don’t get nervous. I evoke it. What do I do with my hands? I mean, it’s not like this is the first time the opposite sex has approached me. I’ve beenapproached by plenty of girls, plenty of very attractive ones. Something about this girl feels different, though.

As my nerves begin to lessen, I can’t keep my smile from widening with each step closer she gets. I still don’t know what to say. For once in my life, I’m speechless. Or so I thought. She stops in front of me and without hesitation, the cheesiest thing flies out of my mouth.

“So…you come here often?” I ask, cocking a brow for effect.

She stops in her tracks. In mocking fashion, she cocks a brow back and gives me a once-over before covering her mouth and laughing. I let out my breath, relaxing my shoulders, feeling like I’m wound up tighter than a Jack-n-Box. I silently thank Jesus for her not running off. Every ounce of stupidity I feel for being such a cheeseball leaves as soon as that sweet sound erupts through her full lips. The twinkle that fills her brown eyes and the perfect smile on her face are added perks.

“Just every Sunday and Wednesday,” she replies through more giggles.

So far, I gather three very important facts about her: she isn’t shy, she has an amazing voice, and she has a sense of humor. Now all I want to know is where I need to sign to make her mine.

“Dustin,” I say, extending my hand out to her. My fingers clasp around her slender hand as we shake.

“Good to know,” she replies with an ornery smile.

We look over, seeing my parents coming out the front door, along with what’s left of the congregation. I groan, and as I look back her way, her carefree demeanor falters momentarily. I follow her gaze directly to her father, who is staring in our direction, no longer smiling himself. Just as quickly as her smile fades, it reappears as she turns back toward me and starts walking backward, almost as if in defiance of her apparently disapproving father.

“What’s your name?” I ask as she continues backward.

“Echo.” She gives me a full-blown grin before turning around and jogging back across the street. I run my hand through my hair, letting out an audiblehmmbefore grabbing the door handle and falling into the car. This must be what they call love at first sight. Or voodoo. Definitely voodoo. Because this girl has put a spell on me. I just don’t know if it’s love or magic. Whichever it is, I have to get to know her. Here and now, I make the decision.

I’ll be right here every Sunday, Wednesday, and any other day these church doors are open.

Chapter Three

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