Page 69 of Run to Me

“Nope. She’s the one, Javi. And I won’t lose her again.”

23

MAISY

Two weeks after Tatum’s wedding, she flounces into my bedroom at Pam’s house. Wearing a strapless dress and a look of steely determination on her sunburned face, she plops down on the mattress next to me. I’ve been hiding here since I returned from New York and California. While I’m still recovering from my wounded pride after the bathroom incident with Jensen, I’m also deciding my future.

Do I stay in Walford or not? Do I give in to my longing for Jensen or not?

“I’m back,” she announces. “Now talk, missy.”

I sit up and cross my legs, looking her over from head to toe. “How was the honeymoon? You look like a tomato.”

“We forgot our sunscreen on the last day at the beach. Jake got a tan, and I got this.” She points to her blistered nose and shoulders covered in a coat of aloe vera gel. “No more avoiding the topic. Tell me everything.”

While on her honeymoon, she sent me dozens of text messages, prying for information about what happened with Jensen at the wedding. I ended up blocking her number so she’d focus on her husband instead of me. I’ve also been drowning in guilt for ruining my part on her special day.

“I’m sorry about not giving the speech, Tate,” I say, gathering my hair into a ponytail on top of my head and securing it with the scrunchie from my wrist.

She flaps a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. You hate public speaking, and no one even noticed. Jake’s speech was enough.”

“Still, you asked me to do something, and I didn’t come through for you.”

“You came through for me every day of every year since we met. Seriously, Maiz, I’m not upset at all. In fact”—she drags out the last word and waggles her flaky eyebrows—“I’m mega curious to know where you went with Jensen.”

A scowl hides my amusement. “Who explained it to you?”

“Graham,” she chirps, a pleased grin stretching her lips because she’s finally in on the mega joke.

Resigned that I’m not escaping this room without telling her the truth—and ready to unearth part of my history with Jensen because I’m feeling lost—I blow a forceful breath, puffing out my cheeks. “I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning,” she says.

“Which one?”

My question leaves her speechless, so I make the choice and recount every interaction I’ve had with him since December, when I showed up at Bruno’s. I explain how he insists on inserting himself into my life at every opportunity. What I don’t share is how he knocks down my walls, one by one, until I’m left with nothing but the frightened girl who laid her heart on the line only to have it crushed. Many tears flow throughout my retelling of events, and several of them are mine.

Tatum asks, “Have you and Jensen ever…I mean, was there anything going on when you were younger?”

“No. We were just friends.” Without overthinking, I let the truth spill out of me, an admission long overdue and freeing to my soul. “We were close friends actually. I’d say he was my best friend until you came along.”

A few other kids were nice to me, and I hung out with classmates at school functions, but no one knew me like Jensen did. Jake was a close second on the friendship scale because our families spent time together before my parents divorced. But Jensen and I had an inexplicable connection. We have a connection, as he likes to remind me.

“What changed between then and now? No offense, but you don’t treat him like a friend.”

“I know,” I admit, averting my eyes to keep Tatum from seeing my deep regret.

Shunning Jensen, treating him with contempt and scorn, assaults my heart at every turn. We both deserve better, but I’m unsure how to do better. I need help—maybe some advice. But first, I’ll have to explain to Tatum what happened that day on the porch.

Maisy, 15½; Jensen, 19

Fifteen days ago, the last day I saw my brother alive, a boy ripped out half of my heart. A boy currently stepping onto the porch of my little blue house near the edge of town, wearing unlaced combat boots and a bandage over the newest tattoo on his left forearm.

Jensen doesn’t know I overheard him telling Logan I’m crazy. That I’m obsessed with him. He doesn’t know how much his words hurt me. I’ll never tell him, because doing so will make me look weak. And I am not weak.

“Hey,” he says, slipping his fingers into the front pockets of his fitted jeans. He jerks an elbow at the space next to me on the wooden bench. “Can I sit?”

Despite my racing heart, I shrug a lazy shoulder. “Sure.”