3. Maisy
3
MAISY
The modern, three-bedroom home Graham rented for us sits in one of Austin’s secure, affluent neighborhoods. Surrounded by mini mansions, the house belongs to one of his friends who moved here from California several years ago and scooped up properties before real estate prices skyrocketed.
With Graham out of town for meetings, I have the house to myself for the week. I’m enjoying the downtime, a concept Tatum clearly despises. She’s bored in Walford, and we’ve been on a video call for over an hour because she declared it a virtual New Year’s Eve pajama party. It’s the middle of the day, but she’s wearing her favorite unicorn onesie. To make her happy, I threw on a satin pajama set that has a black rose pattern.
She gathers her long, honey-brown hair into a messy knot on top of her head. “When are you coming to see me again?”
An obnoxious sound echoes from my plastic cup when I suck the last of my strawberry slush drink through the straw. “I saw you three days ago.”
Tatum persuaded me to attend the festival Walford hosted on the Saturday after Christmas. I suffered through the nightmare to please her, and now I’m recovering from the festivities, which included another encounter with Jensen. I didn’t speak to him, reclaiming my vow of silence.
Yet, when he stared at me with his unrelenting gaze, all the sounds of merriment faded away, leaving only his voice in my head calling me birdie.
When I was nine, I went through a phase of wearing cute barrettes and headbands to keep my hair out of my face. The ones with birds were my favorite, so I wore them the most. Jensen gave me the nickname, which made me feel special even though he only used it in secret.
Hearing him call me by the old nickname a few weeks ago affected me more than it should have. Something quieted inside me, giving way to a long-lost sense of belonging. He felt too familiar. The drawl of his deep, gruff voice. The spicy, musky scent of his cologne. His intrusive presence overwhelms me. He’s too much, yet a small part of me craves more.
Tatum drags me from my thoughts and back to the topic of my next visit to Walford. For added effect, she throws in a pouty bottom lip and makes puppy-dog eyes with her baby blues. “You’re on a break from filming until next week, so you should spend it with me. It’s not like you’ll have to see your mom if you stay at Pam’s.”
I let her assume my mother’s the sole reason I avoid Walford. She knows nothing about me and Jensen. I’ve never told anyone about our secret friendship or how I used to believe in love because of him. I thought he viewed me as someone important, the same as I felt about him. However, after a few contentious minutes on a rickety porch—when he stomped all over my heart and proved my faith in him was misplaced—I no longer believe.
“I have things to do.” I ditch the straw, pop the lid off my cup, and gulp down the ice in the bottom.
“Like what? It’s not like you have a social life. Or a sex life.” She says the last part in a dramatic whisper.
I offer her a teasing smirk. “How would you know?” When she rolls her eyes, I add, “You have an unhealthy obsession with other people’s carnal activities.”
Her button nose crinkles with a quick shake of her head. “Ew. Carnal .”
“Let me rephrase. You have an unhealthy obsession with other people fucking.”
A blush surfaces on Tatum’s pale cheeks, and I chuckle at her discomfort. Sex talk embarrasses her, and I get a kick out of her prudishness.
In truth, tumbleweeds have been rolling through my deserted sex life for far too long. So there’s nothing to report to Tatum on that front. She believes I have an exciting, salacious love life, and I haven’t set the record straight.
I’ve never been in a relationship, and casual flings aren’t my thing. I prefer a partner with no strings attached, but those are hard to come by. The men I meet tend to cling to me before the first kiss, and I have zero tolerance for emotional entanglements when all I’m after is a decent tangle between the sheets.
Other than a years-long booty call with the roadie who claimed my virginity—just to get the deed over with—on Tatum’s first tour, I haven’t allowed a man to get past first base. My arrangement with the roadie was ideal. He never expected more than a hookup, and we had no contact between tours. Unfortunately, he didn’t join us on the last one, so I haven’t seen him in almost two years.
“I’m a curious person. And best friends are supposed to talk about stuff.” Tatum waves a hand, but honestly, I think she’s fanning her heated face. When I don’t respond, giving her a blank stare, she shifts onto her stomach and grumbles. “Fine. What are your plans tonight?”
This is my first New Year’s Eve alone since high school. With the recent changes in my life, I should prepare for long periods with only myself as company. I’ll count this week as a practice run.
I hold up the TV remote and say, “Partying like a rock star,” then wince at my insensitive choice of words.
Tatum’s pop star life got the better of her, and she’s dealing with the fallout. Thankfully, she’s unbothered by my comment and lets it skate right past her.
“You used to be fun,” she complains, resting her chin in her hand.
I scowl, offended by the accusation. “When have I ever been fun?”
“In Rio?”
“We swore to never bring up Rio. What happens at Carnival stays at Carnival.”
“Your naked boobs happened at Carnival.” In a classic Tatum move, she grins and shimmies her narrow shoulders.
“I honored the meaning behind the festival: overindulgence.”
“You overindulged everyone with your big boobies. I thought Marcus’s carotid artery was gonna burst open.”
Marcus is Tatum’s head of security. Translation: he’s a stick-in-the-mud and wouldn’t know a good time if it hit him in the face with a baseball bat. I adore him regardless.
My cell phone pings with a text message. I glare at its location on the coffee table, so far out of reach, but retrieve it anyway.
Miggy
Pic please.
Miguel Espinoza, who I dubbed Miggy , is Graham’s ex-boyfriend and one of my dearest friends. Despite ending their relationship a year ago, he asks me to send daily photos of Graham in secret.
Me
He’s in Cali.
Miggy
Where? Why? For how long?
Me
I’m not doing this. CALL HIM.
“Who are you texting?” Tatum asks. She has an overwhelming fear of missing out.
“Miguel.”
“Tell him I said hi and that I miss him.”
I don’t need to look at the screen to know she’s smiling. She does so freely and easily. The girl has a bigger heart than her slender frame should be capable of hauling around.
Me
Tate says hi and to CALL HIM.
Miggy
Witches.
“Miguel says hi,” I mutter, tossing my phone on the rug before glancing at the laptop.
Sure enough, she’s grinning from ear to ear, and her joy reaches out and tugs at my own lips. “Gosh, I hope they get back together soon. Our polyam fam isn’t complete without Miguel.”
I bite my lip to suppress the laughter brewing in my chest. Tatum often misuses words and phrases, which I find hilarious considering she’s a songwriter. Sometimes I correct her. Other times, like now, I sit back and enjoy her naivety.
“Did you hear back from Marzan?” she asks, changing the subject.
Now this brings a genuine smile to my face. Marion Kazan a.k.a. Marzan directs artistic and controversial music videos. He’s familiar with my work since he directed a few of Tatum’s videos in the past. When his team contacted me with an offer to join some upcoming projects as a makeup artist, I cried in Tatum’s face while she screamed for joy in mine.
I let the production team know I’m tied up with Graham’s movie until March, hoping my delayed availability wouldn’t ruin the opportunity for me. For the next forty-eight hours, I couldn’t eat or sleep while waiting for a response.
Shifting onto my side, I prop myself on an elbow. “Yes, I did. Marzan said I have the ‘it’ thing he’s looking for. He’s willing to go with his backup choice for the late January project and let me jump on board in March.”
“Oh my gosh, Maisy, that’s awesome!” She squeals and kicks her feet. “I’m so freaking happy for you!”
Tatum’s excitement coasts through my veins as she cries happy tears for me. It’s impossible not to match her level of enthusiasm, especially knowing she’s genuine in her support.
“Thanks. I’m so ready, Tate.” I swipe my cheek, surprised by my own tears of joy. “This is my chance to break out on my own. I’ll miss working with you, of course, but I need this.”
Her expression carousels through a plethora of emotions until she settles on pride. “The world has no idea what’s coming. A boss babe with magical brushes and a palette of colorful insults, like a rude fairy godmother.”
“Well, we’ll see about the magical brushes. You never know what crazy visions will flow from Marzan’s brain. I may not even need my makeup kit. Remember when he wanted you to dress as a cock and asked me to paint your face with a wet effect?”
“It was a rooster!” she exclaims, slapping a hand on the mattress.
“The concept was literally called ‘cock-tease.’ You were a cock.”
Flapping a dismissive hand, she says, “Whatever. At least he changed his mind to the Venus flytrap instead.”
Again, I smother my amusement at her innocent mind. Poor, sweet Tatum.
She narrows her eyes. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re always making fun of me, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“Good, because I’m ready to start the next episode of the show I’m watching.”
With another eye roll, she sighs. “Fine. Call me tomorrow.”
“Later.” I end the call and press play on the remote control, but my attention drifts to everything except the television.
The job with Marzan is a dream come true. As a makeup artist new to freelancing, I’m lucky to have projects on my schedule after filming for Graham’s movie ends. Like Pam suggested, I’ll seize every opportunity that comes my way because I’ve spent too much time relegated to the background.
Over the years, I’ve noticed two types of invisible people. Those who choose to disappear, hiding from the world around them. And those who long to shine but aren’t given a choice because they’re born under the imposing shadow of someone else. Growing up, I fit squarely into the latter group. My light flickered in the corner of my brother’s godly shadow, forgotten and unseen. Being born after Logan—my parents’ and Walford’s pride and joy—I had no choice but to accept my role in the family and the town.
Logan Donovan’s little sister.
Vera’s other child.
Crazy Maisy, his friends called me because of the colorful curls, vibrant clothes, and bold makeup I wore to gain attention.
However, one boy never made fun of me. He noticed me. He was nice to me. But much like my existence, his kindness toward me lived in the shadows.
Maisy, 7; Jensen, 10⒈／⒉
“Give it back, Logan! I’m telling Mom!” I yell from my chair at the kitchen table, hands clenched into frustrated fists.
“Like she’ll believe you,” he taunts, knowing he can do no wrong in my parents’ eyes. Even when he misbehaves, they never punish him or make him apologize.
With the doll head I got for my birthday gripped in his hand, he races into the living room and hurdles the couch before rounding the coffee table with the wonky leg.
“Go long, Jensen!”
Jensen inches closer to where I’m sitting and blocks my view of Logan. The plastic head wobbles as it sails through the air, its yellow nylon strands whipping around. Jensen catches it and fakes a move like they do in the football games on TV. Then he gracefully spins and sets the toy on the table.
“Hey! You’re no fun,” Logan whines from behind him.
“Let’s go out back and throw a real ball. Dolls are for girls. Are you a girl, Logan?” Jensen’s teasing puts a scowl on my brother’s face.
“Heck no. Let’s go. I’ve been working on my spiral.” Logan runs outside to the backyard where he and his friends play in the summer heat.
Jensen looks over his shoulder at me and grins like we’re sharing a secret.
“Thank you,” I whisper, giving him a shy smile in return. With hope blooming in my chest, I say, “Boys can play with dolls too.”
His weight shifts from one foot to the other, and his gaze softens. “Nah. Boys always ruin nice things.”
After he walks away, I slump in my chair, wishing I had a friend to play with. Someone nice, like Jensen.
Boys ruin things, a fact Jensen proved after Logan’s funeral. He obliterated my heart, so I cast him out of my life for good. In the months that followed, I felt utterly lonesome until Tatum came along during my junior year of high school. She’s the first and only friend I’ve ever made on my own.
I wasn’t forced into her life like I was with the other Walford kids, which is common in a small town, and no one introduced us. We shared a class together and developed a close friendship in the back of the classroom. When she invited me to join her in California, I didn’t hesitate. I abandoned the memories of my family and Jensen to the past and looked to the future.
Now I’m on a path toward success. If I allow Jensen to invade my life, I risk getting knocked off course. I’ll lose sight of my goals while dabbling in silly daydreams about a boy and a girl destined to be together, which I stupidly believed once. I’ll backslide into being the hopeless romantic who wrote Mrs. Jensen Holloway in all her notebooks, thinking one day he’d rescue me from my oblivious family like some fairytale hero.
Unlucky for him, I’m no longer a distressed damsel in need of rescue. I’ve become my own hero.