Rustic Hearts

Sophie

 

I step out on the landing and look around to make sure the coast is clear. Then, I start down the steps and beeline for the porch when I hear the crunch of gravel under tires. I panic, thinking my aunts have forgotten something and returned, so I freeze.

A black Jeep comes flying down the drive. I don’t recognize it, so I start walking again, and just as I make it across the yard, a woman emerges from the driver’s side and slams the door shut.

I put on my polite smile and greet our guest, “Hi. How can I help you?”

She removes her shades, and it dawns on me. I’ve seen her before. This is Morgan. Braxton’s ex from the bar last night.

Great.

She looks me over, taking in his shirt that is several sizes too big and my bare feet. Then, her eyes follow the path I took from Braxton’s front door to here, and they flare.

“You can’t,” she sneers.

I shrug and continue toward the steps to the porch, and she calls after me, “But I can help you.”

At that, I take the first few steps up and turn to face her again, liking the advantage of looking down at her. “How’s that?”

“Just some friendly advice.”

I huff, “I don’t need any advice, but thanks.”

I turn and head up the steps toward the front door when she calls after me anyway, “You aren’t his type, and he will never want you for more than that.”

I look over my shoulder as she flits her hand out and gestures to my walk-of-shame appearance.

“He’s stubborn and set in his ways. He doesn’t like change, and he doesn’t give a damn about anyone who has dreams bigger than living in this Podunk town for the rest of their lives. You obviously don’t belong here, so he might play with you on his hook for a while, but he’ll toss you back.”

Before I can come up with a decent retort, she places her glasses on her head and struts off in the direction of Braxton’s steps.

What a bitch.

After I shower and shoot a few e-mails off to Charlotte, I run down to the kitchen to scrounge for breakfast, trying to avoid looking outside to see if Morgan’s Jeep is still here. It shouldn’t matter to me. Should it?

Ugh. I walk over to the window above the sink and look up to Braxton’s door. It’s closed, and I can’t see anything through his windows because of the sun’s glare.

She’s up there, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. I decide it’s not because I want him. It’s because she’s awful, and he deserves better.

I think he deserves better. When did I start caring about what Braxton Young deserves?

That kiss really messed with my head.

The front door opens and closes, and Elle walks into the kitchen and tosses her backpack onto the table.

“Is that Morgan’s car out front?” she asks as she grabs a muffin from a basket on the counter.

“Yep,” I say distractedly as I watch out the window, waiting for her to come down his stairs.

“Well, that didn’t take long.”

“What didn’t?”

“She wants him back so bad. I just can’t believe Braxton brought her home last night. I thought he was avoiding her. Guess she convinced him after all,” she keeps talking as she opens the fridge and comes out with orange juice and a stick of butter. “You want a glass?”

I nod in answer, and she pours us both juice, grabs a knife, and sits at the table.

“He didn’t.”

She looks up at me as she slathers the muffin with butter.

“Bring her home last night, I mean. He did drive her home from the bar, but he came back alone. She showed up about half an hour ago.”

“Hmm.” That’s her only reply.

“Do you think we should rescue him?” I ask, and she cuts her eyes to me.

“Rescue him?” she asks through a mouth full of muffin.

“Yeah, in case he wants to get rid of her and can’t find a good reason.”

She laughs around the muffin in her mouth, and it causes her to choke. She takes a sip of juice and answers me, “Braxton doesn’t need us to rescue him. Trust me. If he wants her gone, he has zero problems telling her to get lost. He’d even pick her up, set her on her ass outside, and slam the door in her face.”

“Oh.”

She gives me a quizzical look. “You okay? You’re acting fu

Am I?

“Fine. Actually, I think I’m a little hungover, to tell you the truth.”

“You know what helps with that? Junk food. Want to load up on snacks and veg out on the couch with me this afternoon?”

I shrug. “Sure. I was going to work a while, but maybe a day of rest is what I need. I can tackle all the things tomorrow.”

“Awesome.” She excitedly hops up. “I’ll raid the pantry and fridge, and you choose the DVDs.”

I take one last look out the window and head to the living room. If Morgan is what he wants, why should I care?

When Aunt Ria and Doreen return, they give us a passive-aggressive dressing-down for being out late and missing church.

I decide to go with the I slept over at Dallas’s house story when Aunt Doreen asks where I was this morning.

“You guys should have heard the sermon today. Reverend Burr was so insightful. He was preaching on the importance of grace and how we should forgive others just as we were forgiven,” Aunt Doreen shares.

Then, she gives me a pointed look.

“I’m forgiving when it’s deserved.”

“That’s the point, sweetheart. Grace is forgiving someone even when they don’t ask for it or deserve it. It releases you from the burden of carrying a chain of anger around your neck because carrying that heavy load does more damage to you than it does the person your angry with. It affects you physically and emotionally. It lives in every relationship you have.”

“I don’t think it’s as easy as the good reverend made it sound.”

“He didn’t say it was easy; he said it was possible. And sometimes, to realize it’s possible is all you need. Then, the power to hold on or let go lies in your hands and not in theirs any longer.”

“This is getting heavy. We need more cookies,” Elle says as she stands from the couch.

“Let’s pop a fresh batch into the oven and Bridget Jones’s Diary into the DVD player,” she suggests as she starts toward the kitchen.

“Sounds good to me,” Aunt Ria agrees, “I love that Colin Firth. His British accent gets me all kinds of tingly.”

“Me too,” we all say in unison.