Page 9 of Hearts to Mend

I press. “Matty has a babysitter, and Mom will be at church, so we could talk… About everything that happened.”

“Everything that happened? My, what a passive way to phrase it.”

Shit. She’s right. Describing what I did as a thing “that happened” absolves me of responsibility. And if I’m going to explain myself to her, I will have to accept full responsibility for my stupid actions, starting now. “I’d like to talk about what I did, the mistakes I made. I owe you an explanation, at least.”

Dee seems surprised by my ownership of my stupidity. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she picks at that freckle on her chin again. I learned long ago not to interrupt her when she’s “deep thinking,” as she used to call it. So I wait.

After a moment, she finally answers, “I’ll think about it.” Then she walks away.

Confused, I watch her go, my mouth hanging open like I want to say more, press her further. But how?

As she’s about to disappear inside the shadows of the station, she spins on her heels. “Go ahead and cook dinner for two. Maybe I’ll see you at eight, maybe I won’t.”

With that, she spins back around, swaying her ass so sweetly as she disappears inside the station.

Well…hot damn! I have a date at eight.

Because, if there’s one thing I know about Dee, it’s that she’s way too curious not to show up.

CHAPTER 5

DEE

* * *

I told him eight, but I arrive at seven thirty. It’s a lame little power play, but it’s all I’ve got. I’d considered my other option—not showing up at all—but I have too many questions for that.

Damn my curious nature. This Nancy Drew need for answers has always been my downfall. I can never leave well enough alone, always gotta know the who, what, when, where, and why of it all. In a horror movie, I’d die first, the idiot who goes down into the basement to investigate a creepy noise.

So here I stand on Inez Rodriguez’s porch. Surprise and a succulent cloud of spicy scents wash over me when she swings the door wide and smiles. For a moment, I’m rocketed back to memories of my childhood, when I was a little girl raised by a widower who couldn’t cook. Inez had taken pity on us and began the weekly tradition of dinner at the Rodriguez house so she could “fatten me up with a home-cooked meal.”

“Dee Marie, come in, come in!” Inez takes my elbow in her soft little hands and brings me into her home, then she wraps me in the best hug I’ve felt in years. Rooster and the guys at the station are huggers, and I love them for it, but no one has ever been able to top Inez Rodriguez when it comes to the art of the hug.

I have to bend a little so she can wrap her arms around my shoulders. That’s nothing new. I’ve towered over her since my growth spurt at twelve. With my chin resting on her shoulder, I close my eyes and allow myself to absorb the affection before we eventually pull apart, and she drags me the rest of the way into her home.

It’s the first time I’ve been inside this place in years. In a town as small as Krause, it’s literally impossible to avoid running into your ex-boyfriend’s mom, but I’ve given it the old college try, keeping my relationship with her cordial but distant.

To be here now, with my elbow in the grasp of this sweet lamb of a woman as she draws me deeper into a lion’s den of memories and heartbreak, it’s terrifying. And it smells so damn good!

Little has changed here in the time I’ve been away. Inez’s soft mauve sofa and chairs sit exactly where they always have, and the bulk of the photos on the walls are familiar, maybe a few new ones of Inez’s grandbabies. Inez and Emmanuel’s wedding photo still hangs in its gilded frame between a large crucifix and the television. Now, that’s new. The old boxy, cathode-ray tube television has been replaced by a large, flat-screen version. A gift from one of her sons, I’m sure.

The delicious scents in the air grow stronger as Inez delivers me to the doorway of the kitchen, gives me another hug, and winks. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you two talk.” And then, she’s out the door, leaving me alone to stare at Rico’s back. More specifically, I stare at his broad shoulders, which pull at the soft cotton of a gray T-shirt, and the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the worn denim hugging the globes of his tight ass so perfectly—

This was a mistake.

It smells too good here. He looks too good here. I want to be here too much.

Arriving early was a serious miscalculation. I’m at a disadvantage. With his mom’s assist and this glorious view of his ass in those goddamn jeans, Rico has taken the high ground. I’m already losing, and the fight hasn’t even begun.

Still I stay, my feet fixed to the floor as I watch the way his shoulder muscles shift when he stirs something in a skillet. I can’t help but grin at the sight of him bobbing his head to the rhythm of an old Mariachi tune playing on the transistor radio, which still sits on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.

From the little radio, one of the band’s singers lets out a jubilant grito between verses, and Rico howls along with him.

I chuckle, truly enjoying this sight before me. But the sound comes out louder than I’d intended, and Rico jumps right out of his skin, nearly dropping the spatula as he turns to find me there.

“I, uh… I didn’t hear the door.” He looks all around the room, clearly confused. Grabbing a dish towel to wipe his hands, he checks the clock. “I wasn’t expecting you until eight.”

“Bold of you to expect me at all.” I hold up the bottle of wine I brought with me—because I have manners, even if this is dinner with my ex. “Glasses?”

---