Page 18 of Run to Me

For longer than I should allow, I lose myself in his pleading eyes and so desperately want to give him those five minutes and more. But I opened my heart to him once before, asking for his honesty, and he ruined me with a deadly combination of lies and silence.

Jensen would hold too much power over me if I were to give in to him. My future’s on the line—success is within my grasp—and I won’t let anyone in this godforsaken town slow me down. So I shake my head, offering him the only thing I can: rejection.

“I don’t have anything left to give you. Not even one more second.” When I turn to go, he grabs my arm to stop me. My eyes dart to the offending hand grasping my elbow before I glare at him. “Don’t touch me like you have the right. We aren’t friends anymore. We aren’t anything.”

Releasing me, his face twists in agony like I’ve gutted him with a jagged blade. My rioting heart aches as well. Despite my anger, it’s difficult to walk away and surrender him to all the places where I tell myself he belongs. In the shadows. In the past. In my dreams.

I’m near the end of the alley when he calls out to me, stopping me in my tracks. “Vera’s sick. She’s been sick for a while but won’t tell me what’s wrong. It’s not a cold or the flu like she claims. It’s serious.”

With my back to him, I study the concrete beneath my red Doc Marten boots and ask, “How do you know?”

“I went by her house yesterday. She wet herself while she was sleeping on the couch. And her balance has been off, like her body doesn’t work right.”

I noticed that too, the day she stumbled in the guest bedroom. She was acting strange, and Vera would never miss work for a common cold. Only a serious illness or injury would keep her at home.

Jensen continues, the sound of his voice drawing closer. “She needs help, Maisy. More than I can give her. I’m trying to find her a doctor, but I can only do so much. She needs you. I nee⁠—”

“See?” I cut him off, glancing over my shoulder. “You’re capable of stringing words together after all. Gold star.”

The last thing I see before striding away is crushing dejection, an expression he wears whenever we cross paths. I notice it on his face because I’m the one who keeps putting it there.

6

MAISY

With Tatum’s tea growing cold in the cupholder, I cruise around town, debating on whether I should go support my friend or check on my mother first. Jensen knows of my flimsy relationship with Vera, so he must have real concerns about her health if he thinks she needs my help.

If she’s sick, I’ll face two battles: an internal one because I’ll feel obligated to care for her, and an external one because the woman who birthed me is the most stubborn person on the planet. But Vera gave me life—the least I can do is check on the quality of hers.

Parked in the driveway, I flex my fingers on the steering wheel and inhale a deep breath through my nose, then let it flow between my lips. Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.

She shouldn’t be surprised to see me. In our short text conversation yesterday, I told her I’d drop by and pick up my mail. Still, coming here never gets easier. Nor does the trek up the porch steps, slipping the key into the lock, or walking into the gloomy house.

Chilly air greets me because Vera refuses to pay a few extra dollars to run the central heating. Wrapped in a blanket on the couch, she watches a home decorating show on TV and doesn’t acknowledge me. Not that I expect her to. History has proven the chances of her engaging with me are slim.

I remove my coat and boots, a sign that I’m planning to stay for a while. Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice. “I heard you weren’t feeling well.”

“I’m better.” The tired words travel through the room on her raspy voice.

“You’re not.” I move closer, rubbing my arms for warmth. “Jensen said you need a doctor.”

Her gaze drifts my way but doesn’t land on me. I narrow my eyes and assess her, noting something isn’t right. Her pupils look strange, and the slight movements of her eyeballs indicate they’re not settling on their target.

“Can you see me?” I ask.

“Of course I can. Don’t be silly.”

Her tone isn’t cruel or biting, but I flinch at the word I associate with her dismissal of my feelings. Without meaning to, Vera wields that throwaway word like a sword, cutting me deep every time.

“Of course you’re coming to Logan’s game. Don’t be silly.”

“Are you sure those pants go with that top? They look kind of silly together.”

“There’s no reason to cry. It’s just a silly doll.”

As a child, when Logan destroyed one of my dolls, like an annoying brother does, I would become unbearably upset. Vera never admonished him, and she’d laugh off my reaction as being silly. She never stopped to consider why my dolls held such importance to me. They were my only friends. My only escape. My warm make-believe in this house of cold reality.

If anyone cared enough to realize that fact, they would’ve understood why I’ve loved working for Tatum all these years. Not only is she my best friend who accepts me as I am, she spent the last nine years as my living doll. I could dress her, style her hair, do her makeup—all with full creative control because she trusted me to make her look and feel amazing. She offered me purpose and escape, and none of it was make-believe. I’m good at what I do, and I’m determined to prove my talent to the world.