Page 2 of Run to Me

As she opens the passenger door, her mouth stretches into a wide yawn. “I’m going straight to bed. Thank you for giving me a ride.”

“Any time,” I say before she closes the door and waves.

After leaving Pam’s neighborhood, I aim my headlights at the western side of Walford, where the homes are older, most of them in some state of disrepair. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I silently curse the pedestrians moseying across Main Street. They ogle the Christmas decorations strangling the lampposts and muddying up the shop windows.

Why must I be force-fed all this holiday spirit? It’s cheerful, welcoming, peaceful. All the things I’m not. And if these damn pedestrians don’t pick up the pace, I risk being seen by the one person I avoid in this town.

I tap my thumbs on the horn and steal a glance at the tinted windows of Bruno’s Bar. Is he in there? I wonder if he’ll recognize me now that I’ve added chunky pink highlights—this year’s color—to my brown curls. Knowing him, he could pick me out of a lineup from a thousand yards away without a scope. He’s always been aware of me, and these people need to move their merry butts before he senses my presence and chases me down.

When the gawkers are close enough to the curb, I skirt around them and drive to my mother’s place. According to the clock on the dashboard, she’ll be leaving for work soon. She’s been an emergency services dispatcher my whole life, preferring the night shift so she could spend her days doting on my brother, Logan. Now she spends her days in perpetual mourning.

Logan gave this town hope until his bright future was cut short. On a Spring Break trip during his freshman year of college, he went cliff diving at a popular lake with friends. A reckless combination of alcohol and jumping from high, rocky places ended his life. The tragic accident also marked the official end of my existence as Richard and Vera Donovan’s daughter. Not that they ever knew I existed. Before and after their amicable divorce, their lives centered on Logan and his football career. I was their invisible tagalong.

Parked in front of Vera’s house, I close my eyes and chant my mantra, preparing to face the woman who doesn’t see me.

Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.

I trudge through the yard and glance at the giant oak tree where I spent many afternoons on the swing Logan made from rope and a wood plank. It was the only nice thing he ever did for me. In the years following his death, the swing disappeared along with everything else that was mine inside the house.

One year I came to visit and learned Vera discarded my belongings without asking if I wanted to salvage anything. I was angry at first. Then I realized, other than the dolls I treasured as a kid, nothing was worth salvaging. Not in this house. And not in this town.

My annual check-ins are obligatory to the woman who birthed me. Some small part of me feels guilty about cutting myself off from a mother who lost her only other child. The larger part of me wants to rip off the bandage and walk away for good.

Another deep breath, and I shove the key into the lock and enter the little blue house of unhappiness.

“Vera,” I say, not expecting an answer as I close the door behind me.

Her voice comes from the kitchen. “Maisy?”

Wearing a pastel bathrobe, she’s seated at the table with a steaming mug clutched in her hands. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is a mess, and her silver roots need a touch-up. Grief has carved deep lines around her eyes and mouth, aging her beyond her fifty-three years, and her skin has taken on a sickly pallor from a lack of sun. She used to care about her appearance, but gave up on hair maintenance and skincare after Logan died.

Her thin eyebrows lift in surprise at the sight of me. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Last-minute trip,” I say. Even if I had made my travel plans weeks ago, I wouldn’t give advance notice of my arrival. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”

“I’m not feeling well, so I took the night off.” She brings the mug to her lips and asks, “How long are you staying?”

“Just tonight. I’ll be gone before lunch tomorrow.”

She nods and continues sipping. Our conversation has reached its end, so I adjust the duffel bag on my shoulder and head down the hallway. She never asks how I’m doing or where I’ve been. I doubt she knows where I live or remembers I turned twenty-eight over the summer. We might as well be strangers.

In my old bedroom, which is now a guest room, I toss my bag on the bed and sigh. The space once filled with bold patterns and bright colors now resembles the rest of the house’s decor: grey and lifeless.

After using the restroom, I wash my hands and stare blankly at the mirror until a knock on the door startles me.

“Maisy,” Vera says. “Don’t let the water run. The bills don’t pay themselves.”

The bills don’t pay themselves. I often heard my parents use this phrase. They spent every penny they earned on football camps, uniforms, private coaching, and all the gear fanatic parents need to show their support. Meanwhile, I couldn’t forget to switch off a light or leave the stove burning for too long without being reminded of the damn bills.

I shut off the water and dry my hands before opening the door and slipping past her. “Sorry.”

She lingers in the hallway and rubs her lips together, like she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say to me. My parents and I have nothing in common aside from the few traits I inherited from them. Vera passed down her big boobs, pouty lips, and stubbornness. Richard gifted me his hazel eyes, pointy chin, and propensity to bury emotions.

Even in appearance, our differences outweigh our similarities. I don’t have my mother’s ivory skin tone or my father’s rich bronze complexion. The freckles on my nose and cheeks are a genetic mystery, and neither of them passed down their tall height to me. At five feet even, I’m the shortest member of my family by far.

I’ve learned to work with what the good Lord gave me. My exterior trappings—the perfect makeup, bright clothes, and colorful hair—express who I am and how I feel about myself on the outside. I’m comfortable with my looks and confident in my style. Beneath the surface is where my insecurities steal power from me. So I use my surly personality to protect the vulnerable, lonely woman cowering on the inside.

After a minute of searching, Vera finds a neutral topic. “I saw Tatum on the news a few months ago. Is it true her label dropped her?”