Page 52 of The Way the Heart Breaks: Jade’s Story

Lucas runs a hand over his head. “Football’s been life for me. You breathe and sleep it since you could walk; you’d better make your mark.”

“Hell yes,” I agree.

Lucas shakes his head, looking at Alex. “Team looked strong already, or I wouldn’t have chosen it.”

“You chose Blue Valley?” Alex asks.

“We were heading to Lansing, based on stats, until our coach hit some of your practices and looked over Blue Valley’s stats.” He smirks. “Stats were not good, but you held your own last season. Only a couple wins, but not one blow out. Coach Saville watched a few practices, and he thought this was a better option for Tommy and I.”

“So, you two are a couple?” Ryan jabs.

“On the field, we’re magic.” I wink at him. “Have no fear, we’re in an open relationship. He’s free to throw you his ball if you’re open.”

13

CHURCH

Jade

“Jade,” Dad calls up the stairs as I’m digging through the closet for a lightweight cardigan for church. “You’re gonna be late.”

I’m coming, I’m coming, I think as I pull the sky-blue cardigan from a hanger and shrug it on over my cream-colored sundress. Tiny blue forget-me-nots are scattered across the fabric, so faint they almost disappear unless the light catches them just right.

I glance in the mirror. Jasper's cross rests against my collarbone, Jason's leather bracelet circles my wrist. A little mascara. Lip gloss. Not too much, just enough.

The girl staring back doesn't look broken. She looks alive.

I grab my Bible and head downstairs.

And stop halfway. Dad is standing by the front door. Not in jeans, not in work boots, not in one of the stained T-shirts he wears while disappearing into projects he doesn't actually care about.

Church clothes. Dark slacks, button-down shirt, tie.

My chest tightens so fast it hurts. The last time I remember seeing him dressed for church was that Christmas Eve. He'd made it through the opening hymn, half a prayer before he'd gotten up and walked out because he hurt so much, he had to leave. That was the last time my dad went to church.

Now he stands there awkwardly, adjusting his cuff like he's forgotten how, like he's been away a long time, off and on, but at least he stayed.

His eyes find mine, for a second neither of us says anything, until mine fill. “Dad...”

His expression softens. “Oh, baby girl.”

I take another step down, then another, and suddenly I'm crying. Not hard, not the ugly kind, just enough that everything blurs.

Dad crosses the room before I can wipe the tears away. He cups the back of my head and presses a kiss to my forehead, the way he used to when I was little.

“I know,” he says quietly.

I laugh through a sniffle. “You hate ties.”

“I do.”

“You said they were tiny nooses.”

“They are tiny nooses.”

That earns a real laugh.

His smile wavers.