Page 10 of Chasing Wild Heart

“But the reconciliation didn’t even last a month when they started fighting again and he moved out again. My sisters and I watched the vicious cycle last for three years until Dad finally served her with divorce papers. When my mom signed the papers, I took it as a positive sign that she was moving forward but deep down, she believes he’ll come back.”

“That sucks,” Juni offers with a sad smile.

“Yeah,” I agree softly. “She called me tonight, saying my dad is devastated his third marriage is ending. And that led us to arguing about why is he crying on her shoulder and why is she sympathizing with him. She says I don’t have a right to be angry with either of them.”

Her nose scrunches in disapproval. “Parents kinda suck, don’t they?”

I nod wordlessly, watching my fingers fiddle with the napkin, not knowing what else to add.

Fortunately, the awkward stillness breaks when Mindy drops off my burger and salad and refills our water glasses.

A few bites into my salad makes me wish I had ordered fries or Juni’s breakfast skillet. Not sure if it’s the food or the unwilling dinner date, but I feel my frustrations slowly fade.

“I kinda figured your mom was a hopeless romantic,” Juni admits, shoveling more food onto her fork.

I shoot her a skeptical look, wondering how anyone who doesn’t know my mom would come to that conclusion.

“It’s not hard to figure out when your sisters’ names are Marianne, Genevieve, and Cordelia.”

The question about how she knew the names almost slips out when my mind pulls me back to a time when I had been a really big deal. A really big deal where I found myself answering the same questions for different outlets.

The most frequently asked question had been if my parents knew I would be a runner when they named me Dashwood. With my oldest sister named Marianne, our dad strongly objected to our mom’s top choice for a boy: Willoughby. According to him, naming a brother and sister after a doomed literary couple sounds “icky.” After Mom pulled the“who has to push a watermelon out of her vagina”card, Dad reluctantly accepted the alternative: the last name of the three sisters inSense and Sensibilityby Jane Austen.

He foolishly believed he ended the trend of character names after banning the classic novel, just one of my mom’s favorites, for inspiration. Except my mom had dozens of “favorite” books that became fair game.

My new question is: when did Juni research me? Did she want to know more about the new assistant coach? Or did she follow me when I was in high school?

The idea of a teenage Juni scrolling through my past social media accounts on her phone tugs at something inside me. Amusement, for sure. But the unfamiliar pulse of warmth from earlier returns but slightly stronger. Despite its intentions, I find I don’t hate it.

Juni’s empathic smile fades slowly when mine brightens, edging toward devious.

“No,” she snaps without any real heat, pointing her empty fork at me. “Whatever you’re thinking about is wrong. So, just stop thinking.”

I hum quietly as I finish the rest of my salad and watch her squirm in her seat. As the silence between us stretches, the more agitated she becomes. I freaking love it.

“Ugh!” she huffs, pushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes. “We lived in the same state, and your stupid name was freakin’ everywhere, Dash. Everyone knew who you were.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I was just a dumb kid. I didn’t know any better.”

“Didn’t know any better than to what, Juni?” I tease, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially. “Juniper Mitchell, did you have a crush on me?”

Don’tblush.Don’tblush.Don’t blush.

The internal mantra doesn’t matter when I feel a deep warmth spread over my face.

Stupid cheeks. Stupid fucking cheeks.

Despite the obvious non-verbal answer, I still choose to lie. As if I can save my ass. As if he’s so dumb, he won’t know any better.

I casually lift my shoulders and aim for a bored look. “Like I said, I was a dumb kid who didn’t know any better.”

“Mmm hmm.” The smirk painting his face not only tells me he doesn’t believe a word I say, but he’s enjoying the front-row seat of watching me die a slow, painful death of humiliation. Asshole.

“I was twelve,” I scoff, leaving out the fact my crush started a year or two earlier. “I was just coming out of theboys have cootiesphase.”

Dash’s nose scrunches and his lips pull into a frown. “Twelve? Shit, Mitchell, how old are you?”

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