Page 170 of Mended Hearts

Smiling so wide my cheeks hurt, I kissed his cheek and looked over at Tillie. Her expression had turned serious again—soft and tentative.

“What’s on your mind, sweet girl?”

“I want Daddy to be happy,” she said. “And... I’d like you to be my Mom.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. I nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Soon, sweetheart. I’ll be your stepmom, but still.” My voice wobbled. “Is that okay?”

Tears welled in her hazel-blue eyes, and then she was nodding, her chin trembling as the strongest little girl I’d ever known threw her arms around me. Something in my chest clicked. I could never have been her mother—biologically speaking, the age gap between me and my oldest siblings was larger than the one between me and Tillie—but she still felt like she’d always been mine. Like I was always supposed to raise this girl, be the one cheering from every auditorium, the one curling her hair in the mornings.

Yes, I loved Ollie—with every ounce of my soul and every scrap of my patchwork heart. But I fell for Matilda Hart first.

With a sniffle, I pulled her in tight, holding both of them against my chest as tears spilled down my cheeks—harder, the tighter they held me. My waterworks turned into a laugh when their little brother decided he didn’t like being crammed in his womb condo and used my belly like a punching bag.

“Woah!!” Beau shouted, maximum enthusiasm and volume engaged, as his little hands rushed to the swell of my stomach—right as Tillie did the same.

“He’s like a little gymnast,” Tillie said, dead serious.

“Or a fighter!” Beau crowed, wide-eyed. “You see how fast ‘dere hands move!”

“He can be whatever he wants to be,” I told them, smiling. “Just like both of you.”

“Hmm. I wonder if he’ll like me.”

“You’re his big brother,” I reassured. “You’ll bicker like you do with Tillie, but he’ll love you more than anybody. Just be ready for him to think everything you own is his. And everything Sissy or Daddy or I own too.”

“Hmm,” he huffed. “We’ll jus’ have’ta teach him.”

“Exactly,” I said, dropping a kiss to Tillie’s head as she disentangled herself—clearly at her limit for affection. Blinking more than usual, both kids returned to their pages as the music shifted, little hands gluing and sticking with renewed focus.

Curiosity got the better of me as I set down the book and peered over Beau’s shoulder. “Can I see?”

“Yeah!” he blurted, turning proudly to hold up his work. Equal parts monster trucks and dirt, glitter rainbows and unicorns—and Ollie never batted an eye.

“I love your photos!” I said, sneaking a kiss onto his squishy little cheek.

“Mine too?” Tillie asked, handing her page over.

I looked down, grinning at their little faces, until a prickle of awareness spider-walked up my spine. My throat tightened.

The photo of Tillie and Beau at the park had a black sedan parked in the background. Feeling borderline crazy, I flipped back to Beau’s page—this one outside the art museum, both kids covered in paint, their smiles squinty from the sun—and there it was again. Same style car, parked at the curb.

A memory struck. The day of the anatomy scan—when preggo-brain had me crying over spilled pakoras—and a man standing beside a black sedan. A bearded man. Towering. Smiling.

My chest flushed with warmth, and my bones felt too tight, like my skin couldn’t hold the pressure.

Coincidence. It had to be coincidence.

But…the “funny guy” at the park had a “fuzzier face than Maverick,” Beau said. Dread—thick and oily—settled in my stomach as I flipped through the rest of our pages.

Disney World. Siesta Key. Our own backyard. Me and Ollie at the butterfly migration. Tillie in full recital costume. And in the background—blurred but unmistakable—was that same black sedan. Always just far enough away to miss.

My heart galloped as my mind jumped.

The bridge.

Royce.

---