Page 38 of Run to Me

“There’s a nurse I work with at the hospital. She’s—” Lucy grimaces when I cut a sharp glare her way. “Sorry. I just want to see you happy.”

“I’m happy.”

Why do people insist on playing matchmaker? Am I wearing a sign that says, “Lonely. Send wife ASAP,” or something?

“You’re full of crap,” Lucy says, nudging my knee with hers to avoid jolting my upper body.

We’ve been sitting in the waiting room at her dad’s medical office for over an hour while Vera gets examined. The receptionist lady keeps stealing glances at me. I have the face of an amateur boxer who somehow survived ten rounds in the ring with a seasoned professional.

Much of the swelling has gone down in the past week, but the bruises persist in various stages of discoloration. I removed the butterfly stitch Lucy applied to my eyebrow, and I can breathe better thanks to the lessening ache in my ribs. All in all, I’m healing…on the outside.

“Are you ever gonna talk about her? Or will you go on pretending no one knows?”

I gaze sidelong at Lucy. She’s sitting with one leg tucked under her on the small sofa we’re occupying. Her black leggings, long grey sweater, and ponytail are a casual departure from her usual put-together style. Apparently, she dressed for comfort knowing we’d be here a while.

“Knows what?” I ask.

“Maisy.”

I swear, if Brody opened his big mouth to Rock, he better find somewhere safe to hide in Walford.

Relaxing back on the small couch, I cross my arms and ankles to appear at ease. Steady. “What about Maisy?”

“Jensen.” Lucy sighs, shaking her head. “At Vera’s house this morning, you stared at the photo wall for a long time. You’ve been helping her for years, and not out of the pure goodness of your heart. And you’ve glared at Maisy’s Instagram post at least fifty times since we got here.”

I squirm in my seat, uncomfortable under her keen observation. “So?”

“So…those are examples from today alone.”

“I look after them for Logan. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Oh, well that makes sense,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She jerks her chin at the cell phone in my hand. “For what it’s worth, she’s even prettier when she smiles. And her boyfriend is very handsome. They make a cute couple.”

A scowl must’ve slipped onto my face because Lucy giggles at me. Maisy’s Instagram post from last night has been tormenting me all day. She rarely uses social media. So when the notification appeared on the fake account I created to follow her, I immediately looked.

The close-up photo of her and some guy with prominent dimples, smiling with their cheeks pressed together, almost had me throwing my phone across the room. I’m trying everything to get a few minutes of her time and rebuild our connection. Meanwhile, she’s running around with Graham and Dimple Face and god knows who else.

I side-eye Lucy, who looks pleased with herself for getting a reaction from me, and wonder if I should ask for advice. A woman’s advice. She’s my closest female friend, and she’s married to a man with the emotional range of a rock. Pun definitely intended. By all logical reasoning, Lucy’s an expert on dealing with closed-off people.

Steadying my breaths, I focus on putting the right words together in my mind. How can I explain the connection Maisy and I have to Lucy? How do I make her understand the stakes and what Maisy means to me?

I clear my throat as if preparing for a grand oration. Then I speak the first words I can conjure with absolute certainty. “She’s mine.”

The tips of my ears burn, and Lucy presses her lips together, shaking her head as her shoulders quake with amusement.

Finally, she controls her reaction enough to insult me by saying, “You sound like Rock.”

I scoff, affronted by the comparison. “I’m nothing like Rock. Dude’s a caveman.”

With raised eyebrows, she asks, “Oh really? Have you ever in your life thrown a woman over your shoulder?” Maisy, when we were teenagers. “Carried her out of a room while she cursed and yelled at you?” Maisy, many times. “Kissed her as a way to exert your dominance in the relationship?” Maisy, two months ago. “Been so jealous or overprotective, you wanted to smash someone’s face in?” Movie-star Graham and Dimple Face are my most recent targets in a long line of guys.

Shit. I act like a caveman. What’s worse, I’m so bad with words I probably sound like one too. “Maisy mine. Me love Maisy.”

I drag a hand through my hair and sag my shoulders in defeat. Then I do the one thing that goes against my nature: I ask for help. “What should I do, Lucy? How do I get a woman who’s afraid of being hurt to listen? To hand over her heart to the guy who broke it?”

“Have you told her how you feel?” she asks.

“She won’t let me. I ask her for five minutes, and she shuts me down every time. She’ll only listen to me if I don’t talk about my feelings. Even then I’m lucky if she grants me a few seconds to speak.”