Page 59 of Run to Me

Rattled by these thoughts, I poke at the lasagna with my fork, avoiding their gazes. “Thanks, but I’ve got everything under control.”

A petite woman crosses Vera’s front lawn. She has black hair, a fair complexion, and a red-lipped smile aimed at me. Inside the truck, where she can’t hear me, I groan because I’m being forced to dust the cobwebs off my friendliness. I slide out of the driver’s seat and shut the door when my shoes meet the ground.

“Hi, Maisy,” she says with an eager wave and an unnecessary amount of cheer before pointing to herself. “I’m Lucy. We met at the Christmas festival a while back.”

“I remember.” I try to smile, truly, but I’ve seen my fake smile in the mirror, and it’s not a pretty sight.

She gestures with a thumb over her shoulder. “I was just checking on your mom. She’s in her bedroom watching TV. She told me about her upcoming appointment with my dad, so I put a sticky note with the details on the fridge in case she forgets to mention it.”

Obviously, Lucy knows my mother well. Vera won’t forget; she simply won’t say. I found out she had an imaging appointment and a follow-up with her primary doctor, but I had to pry the information out of her. She wouldn’t even say who drove her to those appointments.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Unfortunately, Lucy doesn’t interpret my gratitude as her cue to walk away. “Tate said you can’t join us for lunch today, but maybe another day now that you’re back?”

“I’m not back.” When her grin falters, I add, “But I’ll think about it.”

“Great!” she exclaims, pleased with my amended answer. “And let me know if you need any more help with Vera. My schedule is pretty flexible.”

“Sure thing,” I say.

As she drives away, I wonder why everyone is so eager to help Vera. Playing back Lucy’s words, as well as Pam and Tatum’s from yesterday, I realize they offered to help me, not my mother. Their generosity ignites a strange warmth in my chest, and I enter the house with renewed determination.

After an hour of vacuuming, dusting, and wiping counters without a single word exchanged between me and Vera, I hit my tolerance for the day and leave. On my way out, I find a flyer for a cleaning service taped to the front door, and I laugh at the irony. If only it had been there an hour ago.

On autopilot, I drop onto the bench on the porch and sag against the blue siding. I’m tired and overwhelmed by all the recent changes and events in my life. Vera’s stubbornness exasperates me, and I’m afraid my career may never take off. On top of everything, my conflicted heart calls out to Jensen, tired of fighting against his pull.

I told him to wait for me to reach out, but I haven’t yet. With Tatum’s wedding approaching, I can’t avoid him forever, because we both have parts to play in her big day.

My phone buzzes with a notification, and I find two unread emails in my inbox. The first is from Tasha, the stylist on the Marzan project, letting me know of a music video being filmed in Las Vegas. An up-and-coming director leads the June project, and she needs a crew. Say no more. I open the link and complete the application for the makeup artist position.

The second email sends my heart rate into a frenzy. Giddy, I kick my feet and suppress a squeal as I read through the details. A photographer who works with one of my favorite designers—a woman who dressed Tatum for a few star-studded events—needs a makeup artist for an editorial photo shoot. Two days in New York, all expenses paid, and I leave the day after the wedding.

The artist originally booked had to cancel for undisclosed reasons, and the photographer needs to fill the spot ASAP. I don’t care if I’m a second or third choice. My response is an immediate yes. This could be my big break into editorial makeup—my dream career.

Music videos and film productions are good gigs, but the fashion and beauty industries are where I want to establish myself. The offer couldn’t have come at a better time. It’s what I need to remind myself of my goals.

When I realize where I’m sitting—in my favorite spot where I spent many afternoons daydreaming about my future—my excitement wanes. This is also the spot where I forced Jensen’s hand thirteen years ago, ruining what we had together. The vivid details from that day haunt me on a repeating loop. Whenever I replay it in my mind, I wish for the details to change. I wish for him to be brave and honest, but I also wish for me to be more mature and reasonable. To unmake the decision I made to walk away.

The blame for how our friendship ended doesn’t fall squarely on him, and I’ll admit my years-long cold shoulder may have been harsh. Perhaps it’s time I take another step toward mending our relationship. We once supported each other wholeheartedly, sharing our wins and losses, as good friends do. I miss his unwavering support and encouragement. I miss him.

With that thought in mind, I pull out my cell phone again and send him a text message.

Me

I landed an editorial makeup gig.

His response arrives before I can blink.

Jensen

This is a good thing?

Me

The best.

Jensen