Page 28 of Run to Me

My dad can see Vera for a consult next month. Have her call and confirm the appointment. I’ll drive her there if you can’t.

When the phone number to the doctor’s office pops up, Brody peers over my shoulder and asks loudly, “Why is Lucy texting you?”

Two things happen at once thanks to that shit-stirring asshole. Rock lunges for my phone with murder in his eyes, and I duck while throwing an elbow into Brody’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. While he catches his breath, Rock and I are engaged in a schoolyard tussle on the sidewalk.

“Boys!” Menchy barks from across the street.

We freeze. I’m palming Rock’s face while his knee hangs in midair, his cheap shot to my nuts disrupted. Meanwhile, Brody’s standing to the side, casually scrolling through my text messages. When did he get my phone?

“Give me that.” I snatch the phone out of his hand and give him another shove.

Jake needs to find new friends who act their goddamn age. These two are always causing trouble. They’ll still be putting each other in headlocks for no reason when they’re eighty years old. Idiots.

A scowling Menchy marches our way while tightening his apron strings. “What the hell are you boys doing? Families are walking around here. Kids.” He waves an arm toward the one kid standing a block away, not paying us any attention.

We mumble our apologies, though Rock doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic. His clenched jaw and fiery eyes indicate he isn’t finished with me.

“Do better. Act like men, not barbarians.” Menchy’s searing gaze peruses each of us from head to toe.

“Yes, sir,” we say in unison.

Satisfied with our response, he stomps back to his hardware store where he keeps a watchful eye on Walford.

I’ve done nothing to earn a reprimand since I was a little kid. A sour knot forms in my gut from the disapproving and, worse, disappointed look on Menchy’s face. My anxiety level spikes, and my hand twitches with the need to tug at my hair and self-soothe. I rake my fingers through the strands in consolation, hiding my vulnerability from Rock and Brody.

People believe I’m unflappable. In truth, my insides flap like a motherfucker when I’m overcome with strong feelings. But I’ve learned to control my impulsive reactions to them to avoid curious stares or probing questions. Somehow, Brody found the one button that, when pushed, forces me to shed my cool demeanor. Maisy.

I rest my twitchy hands on my hips and inhale slow breaths, my gaze fixed on my boots. “Lucy’s helping with Logan’s mom,” I say with a practiced calm. Steady should be my middle name since I don’t have one. I’ve been mastering steadiness since I was a boy.

Sadly, the use of Logan’s name instead of Maisy’s garners more respect in this situation. When dealing with someone as volatile as Rock, who was a college football star himself, I have to be strategic in my efforts to lower the tension.

I lift my head and meet his stare in challenge. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Fine,” he says, cracking his knuckles.

Rolling my eyes, I walk away, but the buffoons trail behind me because we’re all headed for the same place.

Rock’s belief that I need permission to talk to Lucy, or vice versa, is preposterous. He’s a caveman by every definition of the word, but I won’t tolerate his jealousy and temper tantrums if they’re directed at me. Lucy’s my friend, and I won’t cower to her brutish husband.

Once we’re inside Bruno’s, they place their orders, and we go our separate ways. While I prep their drinks behind the bar, they chat away like nothing happened outside. But something did happen. Brody called me out about Maisy. I wonder how much he saw that day, what he suspects is happening between us, and when he’ll open his big mouth to others.

I’ve never made my thoughts or feelings about Maisy obvious or acted openly flirtatious or affectionate with her. The fact that Brody—who meets my unflinching gaze—suspects something bothers me. Mostly because his suspicions, should he share them with anyone else, could become rumors. And rumors will push her even farther away from me.

I need to be more careful. Apparently, people in Walford are paying close attention.

Speaking of attention…I pull out my phone and check the tracking app. It’s a habit now, a source of comfort. When the blinking dot shows Maisy on the film set or at the house she’s renting, I’m relieved she hasn’t flown too far away. Still, she’s not close enough.

10

MAISY

After dropping off Graham at Pam’s house, where we plan to have dinner before Tatum’s show, I check on my mother. It’s been over a month since I last saw Vera, and I don’t know if her health is improving. I’m not even aware if she’s seen a doctor yet. Whenever I ask, she gives clipped responses and steers the conversation away from medical-related topics.

Walking into her kitchen, I’m met with a shocking scene. She’s huddled in a corner against the cabinets, crying.

“Hey,” I say. Approaching with caution, like she’s a wounded animal, I step around the counter into the U-shaped kitchen. “Why are you on the floor?”

She thumbs the tears from her cheeks. “I tripped. Just give me a minute.”