Page 12 of If Our Hearts Collide

Too quiet.

At Soulful Mind, I got used to the nightly check-ins and the sound of footsteps outside my door. At one point I think they had me on suicide watch. I would never have taken my own life—even at my lowest. That’s just how the staff viewed me when I first arrived. I was just a shell. And it took them months to even crack through enough to get me to talk during sessions.

My mind was constantly moving, though. I was just not brave enough to provide the verbal commentary until I felt safe.

I know it was scary for my family. I was scared too. I thought I would never be able to break through my own mental block to get free.

“So much for retiring, right?” Momma says with a huff.

I laugh. “Yeah, but he promised he would once Claire has the baby. I think he is using being a grandfather as a way of letting go of his dedication.”

“Pssh,” Momma says, making a face. “That man will never lose his passion. He’ll just redirect it. He has already created blueprints for the baby’s nursery furniture. Ya know, just a little weekend project to keep him from getting bored.”

“You don’t have room to talk, Momma. I wonder who designed it?”

“It’s not my fault those big box stores lack the elegance and finesse that the baby’s room needs. I’m just glad that Claire is finally accepting help.”

“Did she have a choice?”

Momma props her hands on her hips, giving me a fake glare. “Always. But some people just need some gentle persuading.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, I guess.”

“So…”

“So…?” I brace myself for one of Momma’s abrupt changes of topic, because they are usually way off course.

“Ivan has been asking about you.”

Who? Ivan… He must not have made that big of an impact on me if I can’t even remember him. “Your friend’s son?” I finally inquire.

“Oh,”—she claps her hands together in unnecessary glee—“you remember him.”

Barely.

We met a few times when his mom would visit in between trips to Colombia, and apparently we used to be friends as toddlers while attending the same indoor play space in town. I’mpretty sure the only coffee we’ll ever drink in this house is the good kind from their country. But in reality, I really don’t think we’d be a good match—and this is what this line of conversation is about. I can tell from the hopeful eyes of my momma looking back at me.

Please, just stop.

I don’t do well with the whole matchmaking thing. It’s as if everyone else thinks they know what’s best for me.

“You guys go way back, you know?”

I shrug. “I honestly can’t remember too much about him.” Ithinkhe has dark features and is really good at sports. My bank of knowledge is basically supplied by an overstepping mother who loves to “help,” which translates to meddle.

But I could also be wrong, and he’s a serial killer who collects fingernails in a jar in his basement.

Momma smiles a knowing smile. “Well, he can’t make it to your birthday, but he did get you a gift.”

What? Why? We don’t even know each other. I mean, not really. Maybe we did before as babies. But definitely not now.

That’s weird.

I take the box that Momma hands me and pull off the lid.

“Oh, that’s nice.”

And I didn’t even have to fake my enthusiasm—because itisa very nice gift.

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