Page 111 of Run to Me

Behind me, Jensen nods in encouragement. Tossing out the last of my reservations, I twist the knob and push open the door. Shock steals my breath as I take in the sight. The room has been cared for, judging by the lack of dust. However, everything looks like it did the last day Logan stood in the space and packed his bag for the trip to the lake.

Dirty socks lay on the floor next to the bed. An open soda can sits on the nightstand next to a couple of receipts and some loose change. The bed is unmade, the covers tossed back like he woke in a hurry that morning.

Jensen and I wander around the room, examining everything as if seeing it all for the first time. The closet door is open, revealing clothes draped on hangars and spilling out of the laundry hamper. Logan’s small but beloved sneaker collection is organized by color on a shoe rack. He loved displaying his favorite brands, which is why the famous logo on a shoe box covered by a pair of jeans draws my attention.

Pulling the box from the shelf, I know right away it doesn’t hold shoes. I flip the lid off and let it fall to the floor. A stack of birthday cards secured with a rubber band rests on top, not a shocking discovery. I set the cards on the shelf and riffle through dozens of photos from his football years.

In the photos, he stands in various poses with my parents, his coaches, and teammates. One picture catches my eye, because it appears to be the only one with me in the background. Jensen peers over my shoulder, studying it with me.

The image shows my dad walking next to Logan, who’s sweaty in his middle school uniform. Their wide smiles and arms draped across each other’s shoulders are expected. It’s an image I’d seen in real time, over and over again. The two of them celebrating the win as they walked toward the parking lot while my mom captured the moment with her phone’s camera.

What brings the tears to my eyes is the girl in the background, using her coat as a blanket while she sleeps on a bleacher. There’s no one around her. She’s all alone amid the revelry and excitement. Forgotten.

My familiar friend, rejection, sits heavy on my chest. I couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven when the picture was taken. I’m sure if I searched around the house, I’d find many more like it from the years before or after. And I’d ask myself the question I wanted to ask my parents, but never found the courage. What about me?

Jensen pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You deserved better.”

Sliding the box onto the shelf, I hold the photo higher and have a better look at my dad. I haven’t seen or talked to him in over a decade because I walked away after high school. Football stole my family from me first, followed by the selfish claws of grief. The only reason I’ve held on to my mother this long is because I lived with her when Logan died. I saw her every day and hoped she would step through the fog and see me in return. I never gave my dad the chance.

“I want to go see him.”

“Today?” Jensen asks, unable to hide the wariness in his tone.

I’m not often spontaneous, but I need closure. What better time than the present? I need to find out if Richard Donovan forgot about me like he forgot about the girl on the bleacher. I want to know if he’s ever tried reaching out to me like I reached for him when I was a child who craved a parent’s love.

“Right now,” I say, answering Jensen’s question.

Photo in hand, I push past him and storm out of the room without bothering to shut Logan’s bedroom door. Jensen’s on my heels, cursing as he rushes after me.

“Maisy.”

“I’m going,” I say, not giving him a chance to change my mind.

“Let me drive.”

“I’m going alone.”

He catches up to me and grabs my arm. “Dammit, Maisy, stop. Just take a breath.” When he reaches up to cup my face, I bat his hand away. “Birdie⁠—”

“Don’t touch me right now.” The longer I stand here, the more upset I become for reasons unclear to me. Perhaps I’m looking for a fight. A fight means there’s something worth fighting for.

Sensing my rising anger, Jensen pulls his keys from his pocket. “I’ll drive you. You don’t have to go alone.”

All I can manage is a stiff nod before he guides me to his Jeep.

Thirty-seven minutes later, I’m knocking on the front door of a simple brick home, one town over. Jensen stands a few feet behind me, his presence both a comfort and a menace. Tension emanates from him, as palpable as my own. When the door swings open, I stumble back a step, but he reaches out a hand to steady me.

“Maisy?” The friendly, baritone voice I remember singing to me when I was in preschool pitches high with surprise.

Richard Donovan looks almost the same as he did when I last saw him in person. His black hair is peppered with more white and thinner at the front. With his thick brows raised at the sight of me on his doorstep, the grooves in his forehead appear. A happy spark of recognition flashes in his hazel eyes when he notices Jensen. That spark upsets me, but his next words fill me with rage.

“Jensen, it’s so good to see you, man. Been a long time.” Smiling, Richard extends a hand.

I never expect Jensen to be rude and don’t fault him for accepting the handshake, though he does so with reluctance. His hesitation causes the happy spark in Richard’s eyes to die an instant death.

“Do you see me?” I ask, my jaw tight and hands fisted at my sides.

Startled by my question and obvious annoyance, Richard’s widened gaze bounces between me and Jensen. “I don’t understand.”