Page 39 of Run to Me

Lucy turns her body to face me on the couch. “Look. When Rock got injured and knew his football career was over, he shut me out. Well, he tried to. I showed up at his apartment⁠—”

“I don’t want the details.”

“—and gave him no choice but to accept facts. We talked through how his plans had to change but also how great the future could be if he opened himself up to other possibilities.”

Speak of the devil…the cell phone in her lap lights up with a text message from Rock, his hundredth today. The message preview says, “Kiss it better, Nurse Mama.” She swipes the screen, and I hiss and slide a protective hand over my crotch when the attached photo opens.

“Pretend you didn’t see that,” she says, stuffing the phone beneath her thigh.

I’m rocking side to side with sympathy pain. “I can never unsee that. Why would he do that to himself?”

“Because I told him to.”

“Forget I asked,” I say with a full-body shudder. “Back to Maisy.”

“Right. Anyway, I didn’t give Rock a choice. I went cavewoman on him and metaphorically threw him over my shoulder. He had a good long cry, then he made the conscious decision to embrace a different future than the one he planned. And now he’s happy.”

I would never describe Rock as a happy man. Perhaps he’s a bundle of joy on the inside. Also…

“Did you say he cried?”

“You’re missing the point. Paint a picture of the future for Maisy. A better future that involves the two of you together. If she can envision being safe and happy with you, she’ll come around.”

“What if I never see her again?” My stomach twists at the thought of Maisy never returning to Walford. I ball my hands into fists, battling the urge to self-soothe.

“Do you have her number? You could try calling her.”

Maisy changed her phone number after she moved to California, but I convinced Vera I needed it in case of an emergency. Somehow, I’ve managed to go all this time without calling or texting Maisy, a herculean feat worthy of Nobel prizes.

“I do, but I doubt she’ll answer.”

Lucy squeezes my hand, and I glance around the waiting room in case Rock jumps out from behind a plant and tries to pummel me. “Don’t give up,” she says. “It’ll be worth the wait.”

The wait. Thirteen years I’ve waited and wondered and dreamed. But mostly, I’ve replayed the day on the porch—the day I fucked up—on repeat, wishing I could’ve been brave. Wishing I could’ve found all the words she wanted to hear and take back the words she didn’t deserve, including the lies I told.

Regret sucks the soul dry when you’ve lived with it as long as I have. I committed a crime against the nature of us, and Maisy sentenced me to the harshest punishment possible: a lifetime of love in solitary confinement. Now I’m begging her pardon.

For the next half hour, I consider all the options and ponder the best way to paint a picture of the future. An honest, perfect picture to convince Maisy of our inevitable forever. Imagining our ideal partnership and way of love is the easy part. The problem lies in my shitty presentation skills.

As I’m about to download the Pinterest app because I’m that desperate, Dr. Garcia escorts Vera into the waiting room. He’s a sharp-dressed man with dark eyes similar to Lucy’s and silver strands peppering his neat black hair. Unfortunately, his unreadable facial expression tells us nothing.

Vera’s walking well enough on her own today, which I interpret as a positive sign. But then I catch the subtle look Dr. Garcia gives Lucy. So subtle, I almost miss the slight downturn of his mouth. With his vast experience, he likely has a diagnosis in mind, one he won’t share until it’s confirmed.

He addresses Vera but speaks loud enough for me and Lucy to hear. “I will contact you to schedule a follow-up appointment after you complete the bloodwork and imaging I’ve ordered. Be patient. This journey may take longer than you hope. Once we reach a conclusive diagnosis, we will discuss treatments and a management plan.” Dr. Garcia pats her on the arm. “You and I will be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, Vera. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to call my office if you have questions.”

I’m hung up on the phrase management plan, meaning Vera will never recover. She’ll have to live with whatever afflicts her forever.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Her dazed eyes linger on Dr. Garcia’s face before she turns and walks out the door toward the lobby of the medical building.

Lucy and her dad carry on a hushed argument in Spanish. His tone becomes firm at the end, shutting down whatever she’s asking.

She sighs and says, “Let’s go, Jensen,” then trails after Vera.

I shake Dr. Garcia’s hand and thank him, ignoring the way his eyes sweep over my bruises. When I catch up with Lucy, I ask, “What did he say?”

“That he couldn’t discuss anything with me. I may be a nurse, but I’m not her nurse.”

“What do you think is wrong?” I keep my tone low so Vera won’t hear me. My meddling wouldn’t please her.