Run To Me
1. Maisy
1
MAISY
I bless the Welcome to Walford sign with a manicured middle finger because fuck this place.
“That’s not very nice.” The soft voice scolding me from the passenger seat belongs to Pam Wakefield, the kindest woman on the planet and my best friend’s aunt.
“Sorry,” I say with an unapologetic shrug. “It’s tradition.”
The corners of her mouth twitch as she gazes out the window of my rental car. “This town loves its traditions.”
Tucked away in the Texas Hill Country, Walford is the kind of town that brainwashes people into believing a utopia exists. Three thousand people have fallen for its charming facade with the seasonal decorations and the festivals and the friendly, supportive neighbors. If you ask me, it’s all a lie.
I flick my turn signal and make a left into the modest neighborhood behind Main Street. “Are you glad to be home?” I ask.
Pam isn’t a fan of traveling and prefers to spend her days in Walford, where she’s lived since birth. I can’t share the sentiment. If my mother lived anywhere else, I’d visit her more than once a year.
“I am, but I’m guessing you’re not,” Pam says.
“This isn’t my home anymore.”
After high school, I stuck around Texas long enough to earn my cosmetology license, then hopped on a plane and joined my best friend, Tatum Wakefield, in California. A year later, she became an overnight pop superstar and hired me as her makeup artist, hair stylist, and personal assistant.
The years we spent touring the world together were wild, to say the least. So wild, her career imploded. Now Tatum’s returning to Walford while she picks up the pieces. A return I wanted to protest. Loudly. Because I’m still her assistant, I’ve come here to prepare things for her arrival. There’s not much to do, if I’m honest, but I’m serious about my job and take pride in my work. With any luck, I’ll be out of Walford by lunch tomorrow.
Pam’s serene expression never falters when I stop the car in front of her house. Her brown bob grazes her chin when she tilts her head, studying me with tired blue eyes. I’m sure my eyes are also heavy with exhaustion. We’ve been in three different time zones in the past four days. Discreetly exfiltrating a world-famous pop star from rehab and moving her from one coast to the other is no simple task.
“How are you feeling about all this?” she asks.
By this she means the drastic upheaval of life as I know it. With Tatum’s career in tatters, my schedule cracked wide open. Luckily, my other friend, Graham Kingston, secured the funding to make his first movie and offered me a job. He’s one of Hollywood’s biggest actors, but his dream is to direct films. Because of his tight budget, he needs someone who can manage both wardrobe and makeup. I jumped at the chance to help one of my closest friends and keep busy while Tatum’s on hiatus.
Answering Pam’s question, I say, “I’m nervous, but I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’m branching out on my own.”
Her brows cinch together. “What do you mean?”
“My friends keep giving me jobs. I know they aren’t hiring me out of pity or anything, but I haven’t earned the opportunities, you know?”
In the beauty and entertainment industries, jobs are often won through a combination of connections and reputation. I’ve worked hard on the latter, behaving professionally and showcasing my skills, but I struggle with the former. I’m grateful to have made connections through Tatum and Graham, but I yearn to make a name for myself, independent of my association with them. Right now, I’m a nobody.
Pam isn’t someone who expresses her opinions freely, so I sit up straight and pay attention when she lets out a disappointed sigh. “Maisy Donovan, don’t believe for one second you haven’t earned your way. Your friends celebrate your talent by supporting you. Wouldn’t you do the same for them?”
“Of course I would. But how can I find out if I’m talented if I’m never tested by people who don’t know me? I want to leave my mark, Pam, and do it on my merit.”
She gives my hand a heartfelt squeeze. “Your time will come. Until then, walk through every door, no matter who opens it. You’ll know when you’ve found your place because you’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on to it. But”—she holds up a finger when I open my mouth to speak—“you have to open up to people. Show them the wonderful person you are on the inside. I promise you, it’s not as scary as you think.”
I purse my lips and slide my gaze to the dormant rose bushes near her kitchen window. Roses are my kindred spirits, all thorny and wild. Beautiful to admire, but dangerous to touch. If people look too closely, they may not like what hides beneath the pretty petals and foliage, which is why I have trouble letting people in. There’s something prickly about me that turns people off once they uncover it, though I’ve never been able to pinpoint what it is.
Pam disrupts my thoughts by asking, “Are you staying with me tonight?”
My heavy sigh drowns out the radio playing in the background. “No. I’ll stay at Vera’s. Tick off the box for my annual visit.”
“You make it sound like a doctor’s exam.”
I arch a sculpted eyebrow. “She’d have to show interest in me to examine me.”
“Try being nice to her, okay? Not for her sake, but for yours.”
To keep from badmouthing my mother, I hold my tongue and pop the trunk so Pam can grab her bag.
As she opens the passenger door, her mouth stretches into a wide yawn. “I’m going straight to bed. Thank you for giving me a ride.”
“Any time,” I say before she closes the door and waves.
After leaving Pam’s neighborhood, I aim my headlights at the western side of Walford, where the homes are older, most of them in some state of disrepair. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I silently curse the pedestrians moseying across Main Street. They ogle the Christmas decorations strangling the lampposts and muddying up the shop windows.
Why must I be force-fed all this holiday spirit? It’s cheerful, welcoming, peaceful. All the things I’m not. And if these damn pedestrians don’t pick up the pace, I risk being seen by the one person I avoid in this town.
I tap my thumbs on the horn and steal a glance at the tinted windows of Bruno’s Bar. Is he in there? I wonder if he’ll recognize me now that I’ve added chunky pink highlights—this year’s color—to my brown curls. Knowing him, he could pick me out of a lineup from a thousand yards away without a scope. He’s always been aware of me, and these people need to move their merry butts before he senses my presence and chases me down.
When the gawkers are close enough to the curb, I skirt around them and drive to my mother’s place. According to the clock on the dashboard, she’ll be leaving for work soon. She’s been an emergency services dispatcher my whole life, preferring the night shift so she could spend her days doting on my brother, Logan. Now she spends her days in perpetual mourning.
Logan gave this town hope until his bright future was cut short. On a Spring Break trip during his freshman year of college, he went cliff diving at a popular lake with friends. A reckless combination of alcohol and jumping from high, rocky places ended his life. The tragic accident also marked the official end of my existence as Richard and Vera Donovan’s daughter. Not that they ever knew I existed. Before and after their amicable divorce, their lives centered on Logan and his football career. I was their invisible tagalong.
Parked in front of Vera’s house, I close my eyes and chant my mantra, preparing to face the woman who doesn’t see me.
Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.
I trudge through the yard and glance at the giant oak tree where I spent many afternoons on the swing Logan made from rope and a wood plank. It was the only nice thing he ever did for me. In the years following his death, the swing disappeared along with everything else that was mine inside the house.
One year I came to visit and learned Vera discarded my belongings without asking if I wanted to salvage anything. I was angry at first. Then I realized, other than the dolls I treasured as a kid, nothing was worth salvaging. Not in this house. And not in this town.
My annual check-ins are obligatory to the woman who birthed me. Some small part of me feels guilty about cutting myself off from a mother who lost her only other child. The larger part of me wants to rip off the bandage and walk away for good.
Another deep breath, and I shove the key into the lock and enter the little blue house of unhappiness.
“Vera,” I say, not expecting an answer as I close the door behind me.
Her voice comes from the kitchen. “Maisy?”
Wearing a pastel bathrobe, she’s seated at the table with a steaming mug clutched in her hands. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is a mess, and her silver roots need a touch-up. Grief has carved deep lines around her eyes and mouth, aging her beyond her fifty-three years, and her skin has taken on a sickly pallor from a lack of sun. She used to care about her appearance, but gave up on hair maintenance and skincare after Logan died.
Her thin eyebrows lift in surprise at the sight of me. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“Last-minute trip,” I say. Even if I had made my travel plans weeks ago, I wouldn’t give advance notice of my arrival. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”
“I’m not feeling well, so I took the night off.” She brings the mug to her lips and asks, “How long are you staying?”
“Just tonight. I’ll be gone before lunch tomorrow.”
She nods and continues sipping. Our conversation has reached its end, so I adjust the duffel bag on my shoulder and head down the hallway. She never asks how I’m doing or where I’ve been. I doubt she knows where I live or remembers I turned twenty-eight over the summer. We might as well be strangers.
In my old bedroom, which is now a guest room, I toss my bag on the bed and sigh. The space once filled with bold patterns and bright colors now resembles the rest of the house’s decor: grey and lifeless.
After using the restroom, I wash my hands and stare blankly at the mirror until a knock on the door startles me.
“Maisy,” Vera says. “Don’t let the water run. The bills don’t pay themselves.”
The bills don’t pay themselves. I often heard my parents use this phrase. They spent every penny they earned on football camps, uniforms, private coaching, and all the gear fanatic parents need to show their support. Meanwhile, I couldn’t forget to switch off a light or leave the stove burning for too long without being reminded of the damn bills.
I shut off the water and dry my hands before opening the door and slipping past her. “Sorry.”
She lingers in the hallway and rubs her lips together, like she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say to me. My parents and I have nothing in common aside from the few traits I inherited from them. Vera passed down her big boobs, pouty lips, and stubbornness. Richard gifted me his hazel eyes, pointy chin, and propensity to bury emotions.
Even in appearance, our differences outweigh our similarities. I don’t have my mother’s ivory skin tone or my father’s rich bronze complexion. The freckles on my nose and cheeks are a genetic mystery, and neither of them passed down their tall height to me. At five feet even, I’m the shortest member of my family by far.
I’ve learned to work with what the good Lord gave me. My exterior trappings—the perfect makeup, bright clothes, and colorful hair—express who I am and how I feel about myself on the outside. I’m comfortable with my looks and confident in my style. Beneath the surface is where my insecurities steal power from me. So I use my surly personality to protect the vulnerable, lonely woman cowering on the inside.
After a minute of searching, Vera finds a neutral topic. “I saw Tatum on the news a few months ago. Is it true her label dropped her?”
“Yep. She’s coming to Walford, and I’m here to get things ready for her.” I unzip my bag and root around inside, pretending to look for something important.
“Does this mean you’re out of a job?”
“I have a career, Vera, not a job. And I already have something lined up in Austin starting next week.”
“Well, that’s good,” she says, fiddling with the belt on her robe.
A seedling of hope sprouts in my chest when I think she might ask for more details. She doesn’t. Instead, her gaze sweeps around the room like she’s never been in here before.
Too many seconds pass without us speaking, forcing me to break the awkward silence. “I noticed the front porch.”
Someone replaced the rotted planks, gave the railing a fresh coat of white paint, and re-stained the bench that had been broken once. Too bad my most—and last—vulnerable moment in life, which occurred on that bench, couldn’t be hosed off with a power washer.
“Jensen’s doing,” she says. Of course it was . “I don’t know how I would manage without his help. He offered to paint the front door after winter. I’m thinking red might be a nice color.”
My response is a disinterested hum. Her effort to make small talk surprises me, but I’m not at all interested in hearing about the man she’s discussing.
“You don’t need his help with everything. Hire a professional, and I’ll pay for it. I have plenty of money.” I unfold my pajamas and lay them flat on the bed to keep my hands busy.
“He offers. Jensen’s been a good friend to our family, and it won’t hurt you to show some gratitude.”
“He was Logan’s friend, not mine. Jensen and I were never close.”
The lie I’ve told myself for well over a decade leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. My stomach twists whenever I hear Jensen Holloway’s name, similar to the way Vera’s expression drops at any mention of Logan.
“At least I have someone I can rely on.” The resentful edge in her voice implies she’s upset with me , as if I’m the unreliable one in this relationship. Rich, coming from the most oblivious parent in the world.
“You rely on him too much. He’s not your son.”
Her tears surface as quickly as my regret. I may have grown up without love, but I’m not heartless. My need to provoke her for a reaction stems from a childhood spent overlooked by my parents. I want my mother to feel something for me besides indifference.
With a crestfallen expression, she turns to leave but stumbles and catches herself on the doorframe. Closing her eyes, she inhales a deep breath while steadying her legs.
I sit up straighter and frown at her near tumble to the floor. “What’s wrong with you?”
She presses her fingertips to her forehead. “Just a bit lightheaded. I’m going to lie down.” With stilted, careful steps, she disappears down the hallway.
Perplexed, I’m staring at the space where she stood when my cell phone buzzes. Swiping it off the nightstand, I open the group chat that never sleeps.
Tate
Do you think it’ll be cold in Texas this winter? How many sweaters should I bring?
Tatum wears the ugliest sweaters. I once stopped her from buying a brown one with a smiley face so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a walking poop emoji.
Me
None.
Graham
Do NOT bring the orange one with the green stripes. It’s criminal.
Me
Wear a coat if you’re cold.
Tate
I’ll pack them all just in case.
Graham
GIF of drowning man yelling for help
Tate
Maisy, did you make it to Walford okay?
Me
Yep.
Tate
Don’t sound so excited.
Me
neutral face emoji
Graham
Oh, look! She’s smiling!
Tossing aside my phone, I fall back on the bed and scrub my hands over my face, not caring if I smear my makeup. It’s coming off soon anyway, and I don’t plan on seeing anyone else tonight. Well, I hadn’t planned on it, but the chat with Tatum reminds me not everyone will welcome her back to Walford with open arms. Not after she ghosted them a decade ago. A couple of people deserve a head’s up so her arrival doesn’t blindside them. Unfortunately, one of those people is the man I vowed never to speak to again.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the ceiling.
My conscience won’t allow me to sit by and let others suffer, even if I had no part in causing their misery. If I’m able to make someone’s life a little less problematic, I try. However, softening the blow of Tatum’s past catching up with her will place me directly in my past’s line of fire. Oh, the things I do for my friends.
Snagging my wallet and keys, I barge out of the house and drive to Main Street. Then I cruise around until a parking space becomes available in front of the Noon Moon Café. Since it’s a Friday night in early December, everyone who attended the football game will be inside Bruno’s Bar, my destination. Everyone will witness the moment I break my years-long vow of silence.
On the sidewalk outside the bar, I breathe deep and shake out my hands, mustering the courage to face Jensen. I’ve been able to avoid him for this long because I keep my distance from Walford. Yet here I am, strolling into his territory like willing prey.
As soon as I open the door, a pair of striking chartreuse eyes capture me in their sights. I spit a quiet curse, annoyed because the universe checked off the items on my wish list when it created Jensen Holloway, only to up the ante with an attractiveness that improves with age.
I haven’t seen him up close since I was fifteen. He looks like the handsome guy who smashed my heart into pieces, but now he’s more. A short beard covers his sharp jawline, and his dark, wavy hair flows past his ears. Tattoos decorate the mounds of hard muscle wrapped in a tight black shirt and jeans—muscle he’s added to his tall, broad frame since I last saw him. And those plush lips parted in surprise? I despise the unwelcome flutters the sight of them stirs in my belly.
The whole image of thirty-one-year-old Jensen does things to me. I’m ashamed to admit I want him to do things to me. Thankfully, my stubborn inner bitch sends me an important reminder and bolsters my contempt: He hurt you, Maisy. Give him hell.