Page 81 of Mended Hearts

Dax grabs her hands into his, intertwining their fingers.

Echo’s dad begins the speech, cutting a lot of the fluff out.

Dax pulls out a piece of worn paper and unfolds it. Lynsie instantly tears up, bringing a hand to her mouth. Then he clears his throat, “Ahem.

Lynsie, my love, I want you for life.

The only thing left is to make you my wife.

I’m usually good with words,

But when it comes to you, I’m at a loss.

Nothing I say could ever be good enough.

So let’s cut to the chase, and go against the grain.

Let’s skip the engagement and jump in the fast lane.

We aren’t promised tomorrow, and I want no regrets.

Become Mrs. Adams, and make it a day we never forget.”

“I do!” she yells, jumping into his arms and wrapping her legs around his hips. We all begin to clap and cheer for the now happily married couple.

I watch Echo as she wipes away tears of joy. She’s so happy for her best friend. She’s so happy for them being happy. Now I have to come up with my own way to make her feel just as

special as Dax did Lynsie. My brother isn’t the only sly Adams boy. It’s time for me to look around in my hat full of tricks. Or maybe ask my son since he seems to have a hat, as well.

Chapter Fifty-Six

ECHO

This feels weird. Almost surreal. My dad and I back in the last backyard we ever practiced in. The yard where I finally perfected my pitch. I haven’t even attempted to do what he’s asking in over thirteen years. I left my sport behind when I had to leave the other thing I loved behind.

“Dad, I haven’t done this in years,” I say, causing his face to drop momentarily. The fact that I gave up that dream that he instilled into me as a young girl makes him sad. Hell, it made me sad knowing that I had to give up the colleges that wanted to give me full rides. But I’d never regret the reason why I did. It’s not like they would have accepted a pregnant player.

“Just one pitch, please.” His eyes light up. “You were such a natural. You only think you’ve lost it because you haven’t wanted to do it.” He walks up to me with a smile, and I smile back.

Him and my mom were only supposed to swing by on their way out of town to grab Dylan for a few days. But now I feel it was just a plow to get me to play catch. I know he's trying to rekindle the main thing we use to bond over. But then he holds out a glove in one hand and a softball in the other. I gasp as I grab the glove. I trail my finger along the discolored bottom part of my old glove. I pull the opening back and see where myname is still barely visible. After all these years, he held onto it. I thought he surely trashed all my belongings—especially the ones we bonded over.

“Thank you,” I say as a tear slides down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away.

I hold my empty hand out for the softball he’s still holding. “Got your glove?” I ask with a smirk, sliding my hand into the old, worn leather. It’s just as soft as I remember and still fits perfectly.

He starts walking backward, reaching behind with one hand. “Right here,” he says with a wink, holding up his glove he had tucked in the back of his pants.

I roll the ball in my hand, getting reacquainted with the seams and finding that perfect placement of where I want my fingers to grip. I drag my foot into the dirt, lining out my pitcher’s mound. I place the toes of my right foot on the line, and with my gloved hand, I cup my right hand with the ball, swing my arms forward, drop them, lean into my right leg, and rotate my right arm almost full circle behind me as I do. Once my arm is pointing toward the sky, I push off with my right foot, swinging my arm around as my left leg shoots out in front of me. My right foot begins sliding up from behind as soon as my left one connects with the ground. All while my pitching arm rotates full circle once before my hand releases midway near my hip during the second rotation.

I hear the sound of the ball smacking into my dad’s leather glove and satisfaction washes over me. I can’t even control the huge grin breaking out across my face. That felt so good. Yeah, I’ve played catch with my son here and there when he was younger, or before he was “too cool” for me. But I always kept myself from seeing if I still had it when I’d question myself. I didn’t want to chance the memories it’d drag out. I wanted tokeep all things relating to Dustin, and even my father, buried. It kept the guilt at bay—temporarily.

Dylan was a daily reminder that I would never be able to hide away. Not that I’d ever want to. I’d choke down the pain and memories for that boy of mine. Out of all the things I’ve done in life, right or wrong, he’s been the one thing I’d never change, no matter the consequences.

“Whew.” My dad stands from his crouching position and shakes his gloved hand. “You sure you haven’t been practicing that?”

“I swear.” I laugh, amazed that I do, in fact, still have it. I hold my gloved hand up, signaling him to toss me back the ball. I want to do it again.

He tosses it back. “This time don’t go easy on me.”

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