Page 5 of Her Defiant Heart (Damaged Hearts 1)

“I wait for the bus here pretty much every night.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t have a friend to give you a lift? Or to at least ride the bus with you?”

I shake my head, sending him a fierce look that says don’t you dare give me a bunch of sympathy because I have no friends.

He doesn’t. Instead he says, “You should take Uber. Or Lyft.”

I scoff. Literally scoff. “I can’t afford to take an Uber everywhere. I’m not rich like you.”

He tilts his head to the side, contemplating me. “How do you know I’m rich?”

Panic races through my brain and I stand up straight, contemplating him right back. “Look at how you’re dressed.” I wave a hand at him, at his expensive Nike sweatshirt, at the track pants, the very expensive Nikes on his feet. “You’re like a walking billboard for Nike. And that watch you’re wearing.” I point at his wrist and he shakes his sleeve down so it covers the thick silver watch. “Probably worth one year of tuition.”

“Not quite,” he mutters, looking irritated.

I almost want to laugh. “Close enough.”

“You don’t know me.” His gaze locks with mine again, practically daring me to say something in return.

“You don’t know me either,” I say with a lift of my chin.

The bus chooses that moment to rumble up the street, stopping in front of us with a screech of brakes and the stench of exhaust. The doors whine as they swing open and a few people disembark. The driver—his name is Stan—looks at me, waves me on with a weary waggle of his fingers. “Don’t got all night,” he calls.

Without a word, I climb onto the bus and settle into my usual seat at the very back, staring straight ahead. I can feel Rhett watching me and I want to look at him, but I don’t. Not until the bus pulls away from the curb and we’re inching our way to the stoplight do I glance over my right shoulder to see him still standing there.

Watching me.

Nine years ago

“I want my mama.” I cross my skinny arms and tuck my chin into my neck, glaring at my father from beneath my brows. I do this when things aren’t going my way, say those cruel words so I can watch him wince, witness his heart practically writhing in pain when he hears the word mama or mommy or mom.

I’m only twelve and I already know how to stick it to my father where it hurts the most.

His voice is reed-thin when he says, “You know she can’t be here with you, Jenny. I’ve told you this time and again.”

“I don’t care.” I cross my arms tighter, to the point that it hurts, and I relish in the pain. At least I’m feeling something. “Where did she go? Why doesn’t she like me?”

“She loves you, sweetheart. She just…doesn’t know how to show it.”

“I don’t believe you.” I know he’s lying. Why won’t he tell me the truth? “Why doesn’t she come see us? Come see me? Where is she?”

Daddy sighs. Shakes his head. Blinks at me like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “Gone. Gone, gone, gone.”

The thing is, he knows where she is. I know he does. I found a thin folder in his desk one Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago, when he was outside mowing the weeds in the front yard and I was supposed to be cleaning the bathroom. I got bored and started rummaging around in his desk, looking for clues. To what, I’m never sure.

I just know my life is a mystery and he’s the one holding onto all the information.

I flipped through that folder with muted fascination, reading all the newspaper and magazine articles he clipped out, all about a woman named Diane. I picked up one glossy page torn out of a magazine, clutching the jagged edges tight as I stared hard at her face.

Her face sorta looked like mine, especially when she smiled. And when I saw that, I knew without a doubt she was a part of me. That I was a part of her.

“She’s not gone,” I tell him, feeling defiant. My voice is firm and my heart is beating so hard it feels like it wants to leap out of my chest.

“Yes, she is,” he says wearily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s tired. He works hard but makes little. There’s n

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