Page 2 of Mended Hearts

The 'duh' in my response last night had been obvious enough that I hoped he still felt like a moron fourteen hours later. I’d be eating the last of his Girl Scout cookies today as retribution for the absurd hesitation in his tone. Which reminded me?—

“Cookie?” I offered, peeling open a box of those orgasmic caramel coconut ones.

She glared at me—clearly, I was breaking our unspoken mid-video game buffer rules.

“Yeah.”

Or maybe she was insulted I’d evenasked.

I smirked, grabbed a short stack, handed her the box, and prompted, “And what about my other question?”

She snapped off a bite before shrugging a little shoulder and tightening her dirty-blonde ponytail. “I dunno. They just always have.”

I scanned over her black Converse, black denim pants, and faded charcoal Guns N’ Roses crop top. Hair bands and monochromatic palettes, save for holiday attire, were the norm for our adorable little grunge girl.

My brothers would nominate her for president the instant they met her.

“I just mean... do you like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

“That wasn’t an answer,” I observed.

She scowled at the loading circle on the screen, obviously willing it to work faster, before glaring down at her remote.

Matilda Hart, heiress to the Hart empire, was ten going on thirty, and I found her absolutely fascinating. Like a baby girl-SheldonfromThe Big Bang Theory.

But in my experience, 'Matties' came with bleach-blonde hair, more glitter than coding skills, and inevitable homecoming queen titles after leading the cheer squad.

They weren’t hyper-intelligent ten-year-olds kicking ass in seventh-grade science.

A theory I’d affirmed when I realized she rolled her eyes anytime her family called her 'Mattie.'

“Nobody has ever asked me that before,” she said.

“Still not an answer,” I sing-songed, prying open the box of mint cookies.

With a little huff, she stared contemplatively out the window for a solid four breaths before answering, “I mean. It’s better than Matilda.”

She wrinkled her nose, and I snickered into my hand as I broke off a bite of mint-chocolate wafer.

“I can’t argue with you there. I have no idea what your dad was thinking.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Obviously.”

“No,” she shook her head, ponytail flipping. “Hewasn’t. Carly picked my name. Daddy got Beau’s.”

It wasn’t lost on me that her mother was always 'Carly,' while Ollie got the affectionate 'Daddy.' Couldn’t blame the poor girl.

“So?” I prompted when her little shoulders curled in.

“I mean, not really. But what other nicknames come out of Matilda?”

“May?” I suggested, cackling when her eye roll hit catastrophic proportions. “Milla?”

“Those are as bad as Tilda.”

---