Page 3 of Run to Me

“Yep. She’s coming to Walford, and I’m here to get things ready for her.” I unzip my bag and root around inside, pretending to look for something important.

“Does this mean you’re out of a job?”

“I have a career, Vera, not a job. And I already have something lined up in Austin starting next week.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says, fiddling with the belt on her robe.

A seedling of hope sprouts in my chest when I think she might ask for more details. She doesn’t. Instead, her gaze sweeps around the room like she’s never been in here before.

Too many seconds pass without us speaking, forcing me to break the awkward silence. “I noticed the front porch.”

Someone replaced the rotted planks, gave the railing a fresh coat of white paint, and re-stained the bench that had been broken once. Too bad my most—and last—vulnerable moment in life, which occurred on that bench, couldn’t be hosed off with a power washer.

“Jensen’s doing,” she says. Of course it was. “I don’t know how I would manage without his help. He offered to paint the front door after winter. I’m thinking red might be a nice color.”

My response is a disinterested hum. Her effort to make small talk surprises me, but I’m not at all interested in hearing about the man she’s discussing.

“You don’t need his help with everything. Hire a professional, and I’ll pay for it. I have plenty of money.” I unfold my pajamas and lay them flat on the bed to keep my hands busy.

“He offers. Jensen’s been a good friend to our family, and it won’t hurt you to show some gratitude.”

“He was Logan’s friend, not mine. Jensen and I were never close.”

The lie I’ve told myself for well over a decade leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. My stomach twists whenever I hear Jensen Holloway’s name, similar to the way Vera’s expression drops at any mention of Logan.

“At least I have someone I can rely on.” The resentful edge in her voice implies she’s upset with me, as if I’m the unreliable one in this relationship. Rich, coming from the most oblivious parent in the world.

“You rely on him too much. He’s not your son.”

Her tears surface as quickly as my regret. I may have grown up without love, but I’m not heartless. My need to provoke her for a reaction stems from a childhood spent overlooked by my parents. I want my mother to feel something for me besides indifference.

With a crestfallen expression, she turns to leave but stumbles and catches herself on the doorframe. Closing her eyes, she inhales a deep breath while steadying her legs.

I sit up straighter and frown at her near tumble to the floor. “What’s wrong with you?”

She presses her fingertips to her forehead. “Just a bit lightheaded. I’m going to lie down.” With stilted, careful steps, she disappears down the hallway.

Perplexed, I’m staring at the space where she stood when my cell phone buzzes. Swiping it off the nightstand, I open the group chat that never sleeps.

Tate

Do you think it’ll be cold in Texas this winter? How many sweaters should I bring?

Tatum wears the ugliest sweaters. I once stopped her from buying a brown one with a smiley face so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a walking poop emoji.

Me

None.

Graham

Do NOT bring the orange one with the green stripes. It’s criminal.

Me

Wear a coat if you’re cold.

Tate