Pieces of a Mending Heart by Kristina M. Rovison Read Free Book Online

something. Not telling the whole truth and flat-out lying are just about the same thing in my book, and I loathe liars. My entire family has been a l ie: the perfect suburban couple, daughter ivy-league bound, the son “away" at a prestigious prep-school.
                  The façade tire s me just thinking about it; that “perfect suburban couple” rarely spent more than an hour with each other a day and they never slept in the same room, let alone the same bed. Their son was not at some swanky prep-school, but rather residing at a boarding school for mentally unstable/troubled youth in Canada. Recently, he got out of that “hell hole,” which David liked to call it. His life was on a steep incline as he moved to Los Angeles and began to rebuild himself. His parents, my parents, deserted him when they couldn’t deal with h is weakness. “His selfishness i s unacceptable,” I once heard my mother say.
                  David was anything but selfish. One may argue that suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness, but I beg to differ. Suicide is the easiest way to spare those around you from the heartache of having to live with a person like you in their lives; at least, that’s what I once thought about it. The discussion I had with God gave me a drastically changed opinion.
                  “I’m assuming you dislike your parents,” I say boldly. His sarcastic smirk is my answer. “Well, we have that in common.”
                  “ Parent, not plural,” he states, emotionless.
                  He looks down at me, blue eyes shining, radiating a type of sunshine of their own. Who needs the sun when his eyes emit such a powerful light? My vision couldn’t have been true; this boy in front of me was so strong. His eyes speak a thousand words his mouth does not say; they speak of t umbles and triumphs and sparkle with acumen . These are not the eyes of a rambunctious teenage boy. These are the eyes of an old man, their wisdom adding depth to eyes you felt like you could drown in.
                  “But, really? You dislike your parents?” he asks , tone sounding genuinely surprised. His emotions, however, gave him away. I knew he already knew this about me- the animosity I felt towards my parents. He was humoring me with his polite questi oning and a part of me wonders why he bothers with the pretenses.
                  “Hey, look! The psycho found himself a new friend,” a dark skinned girl called towards us from across the garden, having just walked out the back door. At first, I thought she was talking about me, but then heard the girl say “himself” and realized she must be talking about Tristan. I look at him, confusion knitting my brows together. His face is blank, and other than the slight hardening of his eyes, I would have thought he didn’t even hear the girl’s harsh words.
                  She giggles , suddenly surrounded by three other girls and two boys. “Hey, Tristan! Who let you back in town?” a redheaded girl called out, laughing along with the others. I shot them daggers, warning them with my expression to leave immediately.
                  They all looked at me like I spouted three heads, a subtle expression of shock crossing their faces. “Looks like she’s not interesting in making friends ,” says the dark skinned girl. “Le t’s go,” she turns , the other girls and boys following her back inside the school.              
                  I feel t he tingles again and turn my head back to Tristan, wondering what he’s thi nking. His expression now seems afraid, eyes dull but still reflecting silent panic. “Sorry about them, they’re-” he cuts himself off and brushes his hand along his neck.
              “I get it,” I say, looking for a way to ease him of his weariness. His eyes flash to mine, suddenly fille d with