6. Maisy
6
MAISY
With Tatum’s tea growing cold in the cupholder, I cruise around town, debating on whether I should go support my friend or check on my mother first. Jensen knows of my flimsy relationship with Vera, so he must have real concerns about her health if he thinks she needs my help.
If she’s sick, I’ll face two battles: an internal one because I’ll feel obligated to care for her, and an external one because the woman who birthed me is the most stubborn person on the planet. But Vera gave me life—the least I can do is check on the quality of hers.
Parked in the driveway, I flex my fingers on the steering wheel and inhale a deep breath through my nose, then let it flow between my lips. Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.
She shouldn’t be surprised to see me. In our short text conversation yesterday, I told her I’d drop by and pick up my mail. Still, coming here never gets easier. Nor does the trek up the porch steps, slipping the key into the lock, or walking into the gloomy house.
Chilly air greets me because Vera refuses to pay a few extra dollars to run the central heating. Wrapped in a blanket on the couch, she watches a home decorating show on TV and doesn’t acknowledge me. Not that I expect her to. History has proven the chances of her engaging with me are slim.
I remove my coat and boots, a sign that I’m planning to stay for a while. Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice. “I heard you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m better.” The tired words travel through the room on her raspy voice.
“You’re not.” I move closer, rubbing my arms for warmth. “Jensen said you need a doctor.”
Her gaze drifts my way but doesn’t land on me. I narrow my eyes and assess her, noting something isn’t right. Her pupils look strange, and the slight movements of her eyeballs indicate they’re not settling on their target.
“Can you see me?” I ask.
“Of course I can. Don’t be silly.”
Her tone isn’t cruel or biting, but I flinch at the word I associate with her dismissal of my feelings. Without meaning to, Vera wields that throwaway word like a sword, cutting me deep every time.
“Of course you’re coming to Logan’s game. Don’t be silly.”
“Are you sure those pants go with that top? They look kind of silly together.”
“There’s no reason to cry. It’s just a silly doll.”
As a child, when Logan destroyed one of my dolls, like an annoying brother does, I would become unbearably upset. Vera never admonished him, and she’d laugh off my reaction as being silly . She never stopped to consider why my dolls held such importance to me. They were my only friends. My only escape. My warm make-believe in this house of cold reality.
If anyone cared enough to realize that fact, they would’ve understood why I’ve loved working for Tatum all these years. Not only is she my best friend who accepts me as I am, she spent the last nine years as my living doll. I could dress her, style her hair, do her makeup—all with full creative control because she trusted me to make her look and feel amazing. She offered me purpose and escape, and none of it was make-believe. I’m good at what I do, and I’m determined to prove my talent to the world.
But the woman sitting on my childhood couch doesn’t care. If she cared about my career, she’d ask about it. If she cared about my love for my dolls, she would’ve saved them for me when she cleared out my old bedroom. Still, I come home every year because I care that she lost a son.
Long seconds of silence pass between us after her unwitting, invisible slap. I never speak up for myself for fear of upsetting her, which is why I refuse to cower before anyone else. No one gets to make me feel small the way Vera Donovan does.
Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.
“My mistake,” I say.
She changes the subject, jarring me from my mini emotional meltdown. “Are you sleeping here? If so, grab an extra blanket. I’m not turning on the heat.”
“No. I have somewhere to be.” While putting on my boots, I make one last attempt at kindness. “Do you need me to do anything before I go?”
Based on her sigh, my persistence exasperates her. “I’m fine, Maisy. You can go.” She grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the television, drowning me out.
Minutes later, my car idles beside the curb at Pam’s house, where Tatum expects me. My head spins from the encounters with Jensen and Vera. They’re extreme opposites on the want spectrum. One wants my time and attention; the other wants nothing to do with me.
My instincts tell me to stand in the middle and not move in either direction. The middle ground is safe, far from the heartbreak waiting on both ends of the spectrum. I know what to expect from Vera, and I’m well-trained in shuffling around in the neutral zone where she’s concerned. Jensen, however, is a wild card. The kiss today proves as much.
The kiss .
I press my fingers to my lips and flatten my other hand on my belly. Desire thrums as my mind replays what happened. He overwhelmed me—overpowered me—in the dark depths of the alley . The scary thing is I let him. What’s worse, I liked it.