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

unmistakable dread. I feel it invade me, like an unwelcome sickness, drowning me in its syrupy bubble. “There are people like them everywhere, Tristan. The cliché pretty-girl-gone-bad types are easy to spot a mile away,” I say in an attempt at lightening the mood, but the words come out heavy and forced.
                  “It’s not that simple,” is his reply.
    He looks down, playing with a string on the cuff of h is leather jacket. Looking at him now, he looks like a bad-boy, the kind preacher men warn their daughters to stay away from. The kind big brothers pummel for even looking at their baby sister. The kind mothers pray their daughter won’t show a liking to. Thank goodness none of those people are around me, because there is no way I’m giving up Tristan now.
    * * *
                  Later that night, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching Aunt Rachel cook/dance around the kitchen while singing AC-D C terribly off key. The radio i s blasting, her feet bare and jeans too tight. What’s funny is that I’m actually doing my homework; I haven’t done homework i n months. I smile at myself and nod my head to the beat of “Highway to Hell,” which really isn’t a pleasant song if you listen to the lyrics.
    I had changed out of my long-sleeve shirt into an oversized t-shirt as soon as I got back to Aunt Rachel’s house- another new development. I never wear t-shirts, for fear people might see the thick scars that wrap around my wrists like permanent bracelets, screaming LOOK AT ME, I’M CRAZY.
                  What I love about Aunt Rachel is her ability to make me feel so at ease. Her carefree spirit makes it easy to forget the troubles surrounding me; she is a complete foil to my mother. How they are sisters is beyond me, with one being so uptight and harsh and the other so spirited and easygoing. It proves blood is nothing more than a human necessity; it holds no real bond between the people it links.
    You discover who your family is when they take care of you when you need it. When they look you in the eye and tell you that you’re important. Real families don’t feel the need to hide their shameful children from the public eye. Real parents don’t send their c hildren away because they can’t, or don’t want to, deal with their child’s troubles.
                  Aunt Rachel would be the perfect mother, i f there was such a thing. She i s kindhearted , generous in forgiveness, and easy to talk to. She is very young, though; barely thirty-three with her navel pierced and hair bl eached blonde. She is beautiful nonetheless.
                  “Did you meet any cute boys at school?” she asks me a s she serves our dinner, a strange concoction of brown rice an d various vegetables. It smells delicious, almost like I was suddenly transported to Mexico City.
                  I smile , thinking of Tristan. I stayed by his side as we conveniently shared every class together ex cept after lunch . Tristan skipped a year in math and had already completed his neces sary credits, leaving him with several free period s to do as he pleased after noon . At the end of the day, we parted and my heart fell a little with every step we took away from each other.
                  “I’ll take that as a big fat YES!” Aunt Rachel practically squealed, sounding more like one of the immature teenagers that have surrounded me all day than my temporary legal guardian.
                  I blush a deep red, embarrassed at being caught. I feel like Tristan should be my own personal secret, but I can’t imagine not telling someone about how perfect he is. But that’s the thing… I feel like, if I tell people about him, he’ll disappear and I’ll wake up.
    It’s like I was born knowing Tristan, and maybe, in some way, I was. If God wills it to be, then it will be. I trust His judgment; trust that He wil led Tristan and me to