Page 10 of Run to Me

“The concept was literally called ‘cock-tease.’ You were a cock.”

Flapping a dismissive hand, she says, “Whatever. At least he changed his mind to the Venus flytrap instead.”

Again, I smother my amusement at her innocent mind. Poor, sweet Tatum.

She narrows her eyes. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re always making fun of me, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Good, because I’m ready to start the next episode of the show I’m watching.”

With another eye roll, she sighs. “Fine. Call me tomorrow.”

“Later.” I end the call and press play on the remote control, but my attention drifts to everything except the television.

The job with Marzan is a dream come true. As a makeup artist new to freelancing, I’m lucky to have projects on my schedule after filming for Graham’s movie ends. Like Pam suggested, I’ll seize every opportunity that comes my way because I’ve spent too much time relegated to the background.

Over the years, I’ve noticed two types of invisible people. Those who choose to disappear, hiding from the world around them. And those who long to shine but aren’t given a choice because they’re born under the imposing shadow of someone else. Growing up, I fit squarely into the latter group. My light flickered in the corner of my brother’s godly shadow, forgotten and unseen. Being born after Logan—my parents’ and Walford’s pride and joy—I had no choice but to accept my role in the family and the town.

Logan Donovan’s little sister.

Vera’s other child.

Crazy Maisy, his friends called me because of the colorful curls, vibrant clothes, and bold makeup I wore to gain attention.

However, one boy never made fun of me. He noticed me. He was nice to me. But much like my existence, his kindness toward me lived in the shadows.

Maisy, 7; Jensen, 10½

“Give it back, Logan! I’m telling Mom!” I yell from my chair at the kitchen table, hands clenched into frustrated fists.

“Like she’ll believe you,” he taunts, knowing he can do no wrong in my parents’ eyes. Even when he misbehaves, they never punish him or make him apologize.

With the doll head I got for my birthday gripped in his hand, he races into the living room and hurdles the couch before rounding the coffee table with the wonky leg.

“Go long, Jensen!”

Jensen inches closer to where I’m sitting and blocks my view of Logan. The plastic head wobbles as it sails through the air, its yellow nylon strands whipping around. Jensen catches it and fakes a move like they do in the football games on TV. Then he gracefully spins and sets the toy on the table.

“Hey! You’re no fun,” Logan whines from behind him.

“Let’s go out back and throw a real ball. Dolls are for girls. Are you a girl, Logan?” Jensen’s teasing puts a scowl on my brother’s face.

“Heck no. Let’s go. I’ve been working on my spiral.” Logan runs outside to the backyard where he and his friends play in the summer heat.

Jensen looks over his shoulder at me and grins like we’re sharing a secret.

“Thank you,” I whisper, giving him a shy smile in return. With hope blooming in my chest, I say, “Boys can play with dolls too.”

His weight shifts from one foot to the other, and his gaze softens. “Nah. Boys always ruin nice things.”

After he walks away, I slump in my chair, wishing I had a friend to play with. Someone nice, like Jensen.

Boys ruin things, a fact Jensen proved after Logan’s funeral. He obliterated my heart, so I cast him out of my life for good. In the months that followed, I felt utterly lonesome until Tatum came along during my junior year of high school. She’s the first and only friend I’ve ever made on my own.

I wasn’t forced into her life like I was with the other Walford kids, which is common in a small town, and no one introduced us. We shared a class together and developed a close friendship in the back of the classroom. When she invited me to join her in California, I didn’t hesitate. I abandoned the memories of my family and Jensen to the past and looked to the future.

Now I’m on a path toward success. If I allow Jensen to invade my life, I risk getting knocked off course. I’ll lose sight of my goals while dabbling in silly daydreams about a boy and a girl destined to be together, which I stupidly believed once. I’ll backslide into being the hopeless romantic who wrote Mrs. Jensen Holloway in all her notebooks, thinking one day he’d rescue me from my oblivious family like some fairytale hero.

Unlucky for him, I’m no longer a distressed damsel in need of rescue. I’ve become my own hero.