Page 103 of Run to Me

Pam chews while she thinks, then swallows her food and says, “Menchy should be able to help.”

“I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“There’s no harm in asking for his opinion. He may have some recommendations.”

I slump in my chair. “You’re right. Thanks.”

That wasn’t so hard.

During the remainder of our dinner, I update them on Vera’s diagnosis, earning more sympathetic looks from both women. Tatum leaves after we clean the kitchen, and I wait until nightfall to let myself into Jensen’s house.

With a few hours to kill until Bruno’s closes, I take a walk down memory lane, perusing the Holloway family photos on the shelves and the albums in the curio cabinet. I’m blanketed with warmth as I turn the pages, each one filled with images of a happy family. A family I so badly wanted to be part of when I was a young girl.

The Holloways were a team, sharing in their wins and losses. They hugged and laughed and encouraged one another. Jensen’s mom, Christine, was the sun, and the three special guys in her life orbited her, basking in her unconditional love and positivity.

To my surprise, several photos feature my family when my parents were still married. Before their divorce, the Donovans and Holloways enjoyed being together. Summer barbecues. Afternoon picnics and swimming at the river. Birthday parties for all the boys.

I trace one picture of me as a toddler, sitting in my dad’s lap as he grins at me. Joy and a popsicle stain color my cheeks. What happened to the happy girl smiling at the camera? I vaguely remember my parents adoring me in my early years. Dad singing made-up songs, and Mom smiling as she fixed my hair at her vanity. Then football happened.

Long before grief stole my parents from me, football captured all their attention once they discovered Logan had a natural gift. Contending with a sibling for a parent’s affection is one thing. Contending with a talented sibling is something else altogether. And in a state like Texas where football is a religion, I never stood a chance.

Saddened by the once upon a time glaring at me from this page, I turn to the next one and the next. A pattern forms—an undeniable truth that quells my rising sorrow. In almost every picture featuring me, Jensen’s nearby, his attention on me instead of the camera. Like he appointed himself my guardian, watching out for me with adoring smiles and diligent eyes. Always watching. Always ready to swoop in as my hero.

If I fell and scraped a knee, he was there in a flash with a bandage. If I lost a toy, he formed a search party of one. If everyone else had a slice of cake, a plate appeared in front of me, delivered by his hand.

As I flip through these albums, I chuckle to myself. He could’ve shown me these instead of making those terrible stick-figure drawings of us. Though I’m flattered by his effort to recreate the happy memories not captured on camera. He speaks loudest through actions, and his actions toward me have been telling our story for decades. It’s time I play a conscious role and write our story with him.

I put the albums away and crawl into bed, intent on reading until he arrives. I must’ve fallen asleep, however, because something wakes me in the middle of the night. Three o’clock in the morning, according to my phone. And the space beside me hasn’t been touched.

As I pad barefoot through the house, heavy metal music drifts from the garage, the volume low enough to avoid disturbing the neighbors. I crack the door open, allowing a sliver of light to spill into the space. It joins the dim glow coming from the lamp on a cheap folding table.

Jensen’s lying on the weight bench, pressing a loaded barbell at a furious speed. His arms shake from the strain, and I wonder how long he’s been in here working himself to exhaustion. Sweat drips onto the floor beneath the bench, his hair soaked, skin glistening. He’s shirtless, wearing only athletic shorts and sneakers. The muscles in his abdomen, arms, and neck tremble as he lowers the bar and pushes it up again. The scene before me is both familiar and heartbreaking as I watch him fight against whatever’s happening in his head.

He took my advice from that first day, when he showed up at my house in a panic, and began lifting weights to relieve stress. But I had no clue it got as bad as what I’m seeing right now while peering into the garage. I’ll take the fact he’s not shaped like a professional bodybuilder as a promising sign. He’s muscular, but not overly bulky. Weeks ago, he said he found other ways to stop his meltdowns before they get out of control. I can only hope his new coping methods are healthy because this scene isn’t.

Slipping through the door and leaving it cracked, I tiptoe toward the bench. Aware of my presence, he drops the barbell into the hooks on the rack. His fingers remain curled around the metal bar, and his arms hang loosely above his head.

I lean over him, face to face, our gazes connecting. “One word,” I say.

Chest heaving from exertion, he takes a few thoughtful seconds to find the right one. “Pressure.”

My nod conveys understanding. He needs me to pull him out of his head. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

36

JENSEN

My eyes track Maisy as she crosses the epoxy-coated floor and picks up my phone to pause the music. While she searches for whatever she’s intent on finding, I soak up the sight of her in a white ribbed tank top and black cheeky panties showcasing her perfect, round ass. If I had a pinup of her on my wall in this outfit, I’d never lift another weight in my lifetime. My hand would get enough exercise to eradicate my stress.

Habit had me changing clothes and making my way to the garage as soon as I got home from work. The night was going fine until Lydia and Lucy swept into the bar and declared themselves my campaign managers. They presented me with concepts for slogans, signs, and plastic buttons, and reality hit hard. I’m going along with this election charade because I’m too weak to voice what I want—to put myself first—and stop this train before it crashes. I won’t be the sole casualty when it does.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been in the garage, but my shaky arms indicate I’ve been lifting harder and longer than usual. If I had been thinking clearly, I would’ve found another outlet to relieve the tension. Namely, the alluring woman who fell asleep in my bed. I can be a real idiot sometimes.

A bratty smile touches Maisy’s lips—a sign she’s up to no good—when she finds her prize song. Heavy bass vibrates through the surround-sound speakers I’ve installed. It’s not my type of music, but I’ll play along with whatever game she has in mind. Still grinning with mischief, she saunters toward me, swaying her hips in time with the sultry beat.

“Hands,” she says, holding hers out to me.

I slide my palms against hers and let her guide me to the end of the bench. When I’m positioned where she wants me, seated with my hands flat on my thighs, she speaks in my ear so her voice carries over the speakers.