Page 93 of Run to Me

“You could never disappoint me, J. I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“I think you’re pretty perfect too, birdie.” He falls silent for a minute, deep in thought before his glassy eyes capture mine. “Make me a promise?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you’ll be my friend even when I mess up. Promise you’ll never leave me.”

I lie down beside him in the grass and link our hands together, giving his a firm squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

An hour passes as we lie under the sun, chatting about everything and nothing of importance to keep his mind off his perceived failures. And I vow, here and now, to be a safe place for Jensen whenever he needs to unravel.

That day was the first of many when I helped Jensen deal with his overwhelming mind. He sought me out whenever his head spiraled—his words, not mine—and quickly became reliant upon me. Like I was a safety net or a balm to his unhinged thoughts. Probably not the healthiest friendship between a couple of teens, especially since I also found sanctuary in him when I encountered bad days at school or home.

We cheered each other up, finding tiny pockets of joy in the bleakness. Evidently, that bleakness remained with us during our years apart, and I consider whether our separation was the cause or the effect. Maybe a little of both.

31

MAISY

Is it wrong to side-eye a babbling baby? Probably. In my defense, it’s difficult to carry on a conversation with my lunch companions when the baby distracts them every five seconds. Tatum and Lucy coo whenever Marcella makes an unintelligible noise. We’ve been at the Noon Moon Café for ten minutes and haven’t even ordered our food yet.

Tatum’s been pressuring me for weeks to join her and Lucy for lunch. Pam also urged me to go, reminding me to “embrace it.” Since becoming her temporary roommate, she repeats the phrase often, encouraging me to open up and allow people into my life without questioning their sincerity or intentions.

Heeding Pam’s advice, I’ve embarked on a season of yes, so here I am. Starving. I wonder if the plush toy shoved in the baby’s mouth is a sign that she’s hungry too.

“Are you ladies ready to—” Sonja cuts herself off with a sharp gasp. “Maisy Donovan? Oh my goodness, look at you! Get up here and give me a hug.”

Not waiting for me to stand on my own, she pulls me from my chair with surprising strength for a woman her age. As she squeezes me in a tight hug, the star pendant hanging from her neck digs into my cheek. In my periphery, I catch Tatum squinting at me, no doubt realizing I never called Sonja last month about the dress alterations. I made the adjustments myself.

“Good to see you,” I say, wiggling out of Sonja’s embrace.

The combined scents of fried food and cloying, floral perfume cling to her dress and white hair, and I drag in a breath of fresh air when she lets me go. Tatum snickers from her seat at the table, and I shoot her a withering glare. Discreetly, of course.

“Aren’t you a lovely sight? Eddie!” she yells toward the serving window. “Come out here and say hello to Maisy Donovan!”

I wait for her to add the qualifier of Vera’s daughter or Logan’s little sister to the end of my name, but she doesn’t. And I can’t help but stand a little taller and straighten my shoulders. Everyone in the café stares at me, but I’m not meeting their gazes with a scowl like the teenage Maisy did back in the day.

The swinging door opens, and Eddie appears with a hair net covering his bald head and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He narrows his eyes at me, grunts, and retreats to his kitchen.

“He agrees with me. You’re a doll,” Sonja says with her warm smile in place. “We’ve all been so proud of you and Tatum. I followed all your adventures around the globe. Reminds me of when Eddie and I drove around the country in our van in the ’70s. Such good times,” she adds, a faraway gleam brightening her grey eyes.

Some might argue travel is travel, but a hippie van full of stoners and a private jet full of Scrabble players are far from similar.

Lucy tugs at my hand, urging me to sit down. I drop into my chair, grateful for her rescue from the curious stares and whispers.

Sonja readies her pen and pad. “What are you ladies having today?”

After we place our orders, Tatum and Lucy dive straight into pregnancy talk. I hum and nod in all the right places while they ramble on about cravings and hormones and the latest stroller recalls.

My eyes light up when a plate loaded with a burger and fries slides onto the table. While I stuff my face, they continue discussing all the must-have baby paraphernalia, but my thoughts drift to the idea of parenting.

Jensen’s stick-figure kids come to mind. He wants a family one day. Without a doubt, he’d be a wonderful father. I, on the other hand, fear I’m not equipped to meet the emotional needs of my hypothetical children. Not with my inability to express love. Hell, I’m failing with Jensen, and he’s a grown man who knows the ins and outs of how I operate. A baby wouldn’t understand why I’m closed off, even if I love him or her with all my heart.

Those worries aside, I’m focused on my goals—on establishing my freelance career. If kids are in my future, they’re many, many years down the road.

Feeling eyes on me, my gaze slides to the tiny human in the highchair. With auburn curls and little rosebud lips, Marcella’s cute, I guess. For a child. The snacks she was munching on earlier have disappeared from her tray, and her big brown eyes glance between me and my fries. I narrow my gaze at her, daring her to reach out and grab one.

“Maisy, don’t scare the baby,” Tatum chides.