My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade

silverware. “So you said earlier that you usually do frozen food and sandwiches for dinner.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMe too. Do they have a Potbelly Sandwich Shop in town?”
    He nodded. “Over on the south side near Fourth and Riverbend.”
    â€œOh good. Have you had their Italian on white bread with the pickles and hot peppers?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou should, it’s incredible.” She carried their dishes to the sink. “What about cereal? You ever eat that for dinner?”
    â€œAbout once a week.”
    â€œMe too. What about canned vegetable soup?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSame here. Chinese takeout?”
    â€œSometimes.” That was a lie. He didn’t want to tell her that even stopping at a restaurant for takeout got him all kinds of attention he didn’t want.
    She started wiping off the plates with a long-handled scrub brush. “At home in Dallas I’ll get Chinese some, but I get Mexican more. We have unbelievable Mexican food in Dallas. There’s none here in Redbud, though, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    Matt took a sip of coffee, torn. He wanted to hightail it out. But just how rude would it be for him to leave her with the entire mess to clean up? He eyed the pile of dishes and could hear his mother in his head, schooling him on manners. She’d be devastated if she knew he’d left without at least offering to help.
    Resigned, he walked to the sink and nodded to the dirty dishes she was working on. “I can do this part.”
    â€œIt’s okay, really. You don’t have to help me clean up.”
    â€œI don’t mind.” Another lie. And another thing he’d gotten out of the habit of—saying what he really felt.
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWell, thanks.”
    He rolled up his sleeves and began slotting the dishes into the dishwasher while Kate moved around the kitchen putting things away. They worked in companionable silence until the job was done.
    As he drove home afterward, he thought back over the evening. Cooking. The way the food had tasted. The things they’d talked about. Mrs. Donovan. Kate. He’d come away from it all okay. But his instincts were telling him that it would be safer, much safer, for him to refuse their dinner invitations from now on.
    The two of them were welcome to their nightly dinners, but they were going to have to count him out.

    The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
    Despite Matt’s good intentions, he came for dinner the next night.
    And the next.
    Mrs. Donovan, a lady he’d thought to be a sweet and gentle person, flatly refused to accept the fact that he wouldn’t be coming for more of her cooking lessons. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince her otherwise.
    On Saturday and Sunday he gratefully retreated to his solitary life. He didn’t have to go to Chapel Bluff for two whole days, didn’t have to cook, didn’t have to speak, didn’t have to shield himself from Kate’s hazel gaze.

    Nothing like a brisk walk in the company of seventy-year-olds to make a person feel like a fitness slacker.
    It was Sunday, and Kate and the others had been to church that morning. Gran, Velma, and Peg went to different congregations because they each had to attend, obviously , the church they’d gone to since babyhood. Next they’d done what any sane Christian rushed to do after worship: They’d changed out of their church clothes. Then they’d met at Peg’s for lunch. And now, because it was a pristine day and because the older people got, the more they grumbled after big meals about needing to “walk it off,” they’d set out into the woods behind Peg’s house. Their party included the regulars: Kate, the three “girls,” Peg’s husband, William, and the still-haven’t-figured-out-how-he-fit-into-the-group Morty.
    The weather was painfully pretty. Sunny and clear,