Page 58 of Run to Me

“Your dress will be here later this week,” Tatum says. She spoons a second helping of homemade lasagna onto her plate and sprinkles half the bag of parmesan on top.

With Jake out of town for work, she spends her free time planning the wedding, eating, and inundating me and Pam with photos of her many online purchases.

“My dress?” I ask, my mouth stuffed with pasta as I side-eye her.

“Your maid of honor dress. Look.”

She taps her phone screen, then shoves an image of a blush pink dress in my face. I cringe at the color. It’s so pastel and girly.

“You hate it.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and I wonder if pregnancy hormones make her more sensitive than usual.

My gaze meets Pam’s, seeking rescue. Rather than throwing me a lifeline, she subtly shrugs, as if asking how I plan to salvage this.

“I don’t hate it, Tate. I’m worried about having alterations done in time,” I say, reassuring her with a partial truth.

I’m rarely able to wear long dresses straight off the rack. They require a full nip and tuck overhaul to fit me properly. Tatum hasn’t faced the fashion challenges that come with being short or curvy. She’s built like the mannequins all the couture designers use as dress forms, slender with narrow shoulders and hips. She also has long legs and not enough boob, ass, or thigh to cause a psychological meltdown in a fitting room.

“You have plenty of time,” she says, her mood perking back up. “Sonja will make your dress fit perfectly, and she works fast.”

Besides owning and managing the Noon Moon Café, Sonja runs a tailoring business from her home. She’s especially skilled with formal gowns and has stuck her needle in every prom dress to come through Walford in the past twenty years.

“You’re right. I’ll give her a call.”

Lie. I won’t call her. Pam has a sewing machine, and I’m more than capable of handling my own dress alterations. I’ll also need to dye my hair because there’s no way in hell I’m wearing a poofy pink bridesmaid gown while sporting pink highlights in my curls. I’ll look like a cupcake.

“No need. You’re coming to lunch with me and Lucy tomorrow. You can get on her schedule then.”

“I can’t tomorrow.”

She frowns. “Why not? You’ve been here for days, and you never go anywhere.”

A sigh escapes me, my annoyance with reality prevalent. “I’m cleaning Vera’s house.”

“That’s nice of you,” Pam says.

Unable to accept her compliment, I keep quiet and shovel food into my mouth. Honestly, I haven’t figured out my reasons for helping Vera. Maybe I’m selfish and want her to acknowledge me. Maybe I know she’s a stress cleaner, but she can’t physically do it herself.

Vera’s need to clean stems from more than stress these days. Before Logan died, she kept the house sparkling to a shine, not a speck of dust in sight. After his death, cleanliness became an obsession, and I wonder if scrubbing baseboards and polishing doorknobs affords her a modicum of control. If that’s the case, my efforts won’t mean anything to her regardless of the reason I’m doing it.

“Do you know what’s wrong with her yet?” Tatum asks.

“No. She has a follow-up appointment with Lucy’s dad in a few days, and I’m hoping we learn the diagnosis so I can get on with my life.”

Pam dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “What will you do if she needs long-term care?”

I ask myself this question daily. Based on my limited internet research of Vera’s symptoms, she appears to be facing some major life changes and may need ongoing help. Whether that help comes from me is yet to be determined. I don’t allow my mind to travel that far ahead in the future, a future where I’m stuck in this crappy town.

I answer Pam’s question with a careless shrug. “Ship her out to sea?”

While she hums in quiet disapproval, Tatum gasps in alarm. “Maisy! She’s your mother!”

“Someone forgot to tell her that. She can’t expect me to show up for her when she never showed up for me. I’ll do whatever’s needed to get her situated, then I’m done.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you with Vera?” Pam asks. I have trouble looking her in the eyes after behaving like a cold-hearted bitch in her sweet presence.

“Or me,” Tatum says. “Whatever you need, we can help.”

It’s one thing for someone to know how I feel about Vera. It’s another thing to witness my bitterness toward her firsthand. The thought makes my stomach churn. Her lack of interest in me is embarrassing, as unintentional as it may be. And I’m equally ashamed of how I lash out to garner a reaction from her.