Page 34 of Run to Me

MAISY

Jensen’s house reminds me of a time capsule. Stepping into the entryway is like stepping into the past. Outdated wall paneling darkens the living room. Bookcases display family photos, trinkets, and his mother’s collection of trade paperbacks from her favorite authors. Christine Holloway was an avid reader and enjoyed many genres of fiction. She was also one of my favorite people to grace this planet, always ready with an encouraging word or a warm hug. The only noticeable differences in the house are the hardwood floors in place of the carpet and a few pieces of newer furniture. Otherwise, little has changed.

I glance at Jensen, who moves slowly while shutting the door behind me. When Tatum sent me a text message saying the shit hit the fan between her and Jake, I didn’t realize Jensen was “the fan.” The swelling, cuts, and bruises on his face look downright painful. And his ribs? God, it’s hard to believe he’s standing upright, much less walking around.

“Why don’t you go sit down and let me take care of you?” I ask, battling the urge to reach for him. He’s too big for me to carry, but I’m damn close to trying.

“If I sit down, I can’t get back up.” He attempts to cross his arms to portray aloofness—he can’t. Wincing, he lowers them back to his sides.

His T-shirt cuts across his chest, only covering his left pectoral muscle and shoulder, like he couldn’t work his right arm into the shirt. Black ink spreads across much of his torso in various patterns and images. Only black. Not a single drop of color aside from the damage Jake inflicted.

Even with the blooming discoloration, Jensen’s matured body surpasses all standards of beauty, with a drool-worthy Adonis belt and lickable abs. I bite my lip and turn away before I’m tempted to run my tongue along the grooves between each one, causing him more pain.

Toeing off my shoes, I ask, “What can I do?”

“Why are you here, Maisy?” Defeat rings through his question.

“Tate told me what happened, and I thought you might need a friend. Neither of us were aware of this,” I say, waving a hand at his injuries.

“A friend.” His tone is dismissive, but his eyes burn with longing—chartreuse rings of hope crying out for me.

“We used to be friends,” I say. “Let me be one, just for today, and cook you a meal. Have you eaten?”

He responds with a subtle shake of his bowed head.

I nod toward the kitchen, keeping my voice light. “Come on. We’ll put some food in you.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be right back.”

With my heart lodged in my throat, I watch him shuffle down the hallway, his steps rigid and body stiff. Then I drag in a fortifying breath and scrounge through the sparse kitchen cabinets and refrigerator, finding the ingredients for spaghetti and not much else.

He returns with his shirt fitting properly and a bandage on his eyebrow. Each groan he’s unable to stifle when he sits at the island punches me in the gut. I want to take away his pain and heal his wounds—the ones inside and outside—but I don’t have magical powers. Hopefully, a home-cooked meal will be enough to lift his spirits.

Observing me as I move about his kitchen, he says, “I didn’t know you can cook.”

I chew my lip, unsure which direction to take this conversation. My instinct to strike low and harsh battles my instinct to be open with him like old times. I go with the first option, but deliver my strike with a gentle blow.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say, glancing at him while stirring the sauce.

He absorbs my statement for long seconds before asking, “Who taught you?”

“I taught myself. Someone had to feed me when Vera quit her parenting job.”

“I would’ve fed you,” he says, his voice just above a whisper.

“Judging by your empty cabinets, I doubt that.” Wiping my hands on a towel, I avoid meeting his gaze. “I don’t want to talk about the past.”

“The past is all we have together. It’s all you left me with.”

“And you need to let it go,” I say, stripping all emotion from my tone. I dish our food onto plates, pour us each a glass of water, and sit next to him. “Eat up.”

We eat in silence, and I try to focus on anything other than his struggle to raise the fork to his mouth. I would offer to feed him, but we need to maintain boundaries.

“How’s the movie going?” he asks.

Unused to people outside my friend circle asking about my life, I fail to hide the flicker of surprise in my eyes. “It’s good. We’ll be done in a couple of weeks, then it’s back to California.”

I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye and notice his tightened features. The same tightness grips my stomach. Our visceral responses to each other have never been the issue. The verbal responses, or lack thereof, are what broke our bond.