9. Jensen
9
JENSEN
“A little higher on the left,” Tom says.
I raise the corner of the new sign for his awning a fraction of an inch. My biceps burn from holding the plastic monstrosity in the air while balancing on a ladder. We’ve been at this for a while, and my body’s stiff because it’s the end of February and too cold to be outdoors.
“That’s too far. Down a little,” he instructs.
Wrangling my frustration, I lower the corner to the starting height from half an hour ago. I’ve held the sign in this exact spot at least twenty times.
“Perfect!” he shouts, as if I didn’t already know. “Now everyone will stop calling my bakery a donut shop.”
“You’re the one who left the donut on the building for twenty years after you bought the place,” Lydia says from below me while holding the ladder.
I stand on my tiptoes to screw the sign into place. Thankfully, I’m steady and light on my feet for a guy my size, a trait developed from years of running drills on the football field.
Tom makes a harrumph sound. “It’s a bakery, and now everyone will remember.”
“You still sell donuts,” Eddie points out. Tendrils of cigarette smoke snake through his nostrils. The skinny military veteran co-owns the Noon Moon Café with his wife, Sonja, and he takes countless smoke breaks each day.
“And pastries, cakes, and muffins,” Tom reminds us.
I climb down the ladder and stand beside the group on the curb. Any activity on Main Street, no matter how exciting or mundane, becomes a spectator sport, drawing all the business owners out of their stores.
We cross our arms and stare at the sign. No one says a word because we’re not brave enough to suffer Tom’s ire should we crack jokes about the giant pink muffin displayed above his shop. What’s worse, he was going for a tan shade so it appears baked, but the paint came out looking more like peachy flesh.
“Looks good,” Menchy says. He tilts his head to one side and rubs his stubbled chin. “Adds character to the street.”
Lydia turns away to smother her giggles with a glove. The muffin sign has to be the tackiest thing any of us have ever seen.
“I need to get back to my kitchen.” Eddie crushes his cigarette butt on the edge of a trash bin and tosses it inside. He waves over his shoulder as he strolls away.
“Same here. My muffin’s getting cold,” Lydia says, snickering.
I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re terrible.”
She leans in, keeping her voice low so only I can hear. “That sign’s terrible. Who approved it?”
“No telling. I thought we had a zoning board to vote on signage.”
“My money’s on the drunk idiot. That’s why we need you, Jensen. Save us all and put your name on the ballot.”
Need.
My pulse races, battling against the pressure to answer the town’s plea for help. “I still have time to decide.”
“Don’t take too long. We’re counting on you,” she says. “Oh, that reminds me. Have you signed up as a vendor for the May festival?”
“I haven’t yet, but I will.”
At every festival, I set up a beer cart on the street and prop the bar doors open, allowing people to wander in and out while we host trivia contests, karaoke, and other entertainment.
“Can you manage the raffle box this year?” she asks. “We’ll set up a table next to your cart, and you can put your sign-up sheet for karaoke on the table too.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
She gives my arm a friendly squeeze. “Fantastic. See you later, honey.”
“See ya.” I join Menchy, who’s gathering the tools he let us borrow. “I’ll help you carry everything back to your store.”
He grunts. “Much appreciated.”
“Yoo-hoo!” a shrill voice sings.
“Christ,” Menchy whispers, busying himself with the tools, his movements hurried.
Evelyn Truman saunters our way with her ancient miniature poodle tucked under an arm. The dog’s shaking like a leaf. “Hello, Menchy,” she purrs.
Ms. Truman, once widowed and twice divorced, flirts with every eligible bachelor in town, cycling through them with the seasons. She targeted me last summer, and I barely escaped with my life. Her overpowering perfume almost suffocated me whenever she shoved her cleavage in my face. Her target for the winter is Menchy, much to his dismay.
“Evelyn.” He dismisses her with a curt nod and says to me, “Grab that end of the ladder.”
We set about our task, leaving Evelyn and Tom behind to admire his muffin. Once Menchy and I put everything away in his hardware store, I step outside. The business owners have all retreated to their shops, and Evelyn’s gone.
Jake and Tatum stroll down the sidewalk with their arms linked and their heads close together. Aside from his lean build and darker shade of green eyes, Jake’s a replica of me with shorter hair and no beard, though his jaw usually has stubble because he can’t be bothered to shave every day.
They were high school sweethearts, but their relationship ended ten years ago after she moved to California and ghosted him. While I’m happy they’re working things out, I’m also worried. Jake moves fast and has no brakes where Tatum’s concerned, and she wrecked him once already. Unbeknownst to him, I know the reason she ended things without warning. My involvement in their breakup is an unfinished piece of business and a betrayal that haunts me to this day. When—not if—Jake finds out, I could lose my brother’s love and respect.
“Where are you two headed?” I ask, trying to appear nonchalant.
This is the first time I’ve faced them together since Tatum returned to Walford, and her anxiousness is feeding mine. She toys with the long braid draped over her should, a subconscious habit revealing her discomfort.
“Coffee shop,” Jake says.
The way he reverently mentions coffee in his raspy voice brings a smile to my face. He’s been a coffee drinker since he was thirteen, an addiction he shared with our dad. Knowing Jake, he’s already downed a thermos and two mugs of it today. I have no idea how he stands still after consuming large quantities of caffeine.
“How are things going with you?” I ask Tatum.
“Good. I’m finally settling in here.” She forces a smile, which Jake notices, drawing her to his side with an arm around her shoulders.
Tatum’s going through a rough time with her music career hanging in the balance. It must be stressful being a famous pop star who’s hiding in a small town after a public meltdown. On top of that, she’s keeping a devastating secret from Jake. That’s a lot for one person to handle.
Because I have my own secrets and can’t help myself, I ask, “And Maisy? Is she coming to see you soon?”
Sorrow washes over Tatum’s face, and I curse myself for causing her mood shift. “I hope so. She said she’s coming to my show next weekend, but we’ll see. I miss her.”
As do I, Tate. As do I.
Sensing her distress over being separated from her friend, Jake says, “Come on, baby. Let’s get you some tea.” Guiding her away, he tips his chin at me. “See ya later.”
“See ya.”
I linger with my hands buried in my pockets, watching them enter The Drip, their favorite hangout from back in their school days. Maisy and I never had a special place. We didn’t run around together or socialize in the same groups, but we weren’t purposely hiding our friendship. If anything, neither of us made our connection public because we, ourselves, didn’t understand its meaning.
Our strong bond thrived in the background, but Maisy deserves better than secrets and shadows. The problem is she never believed she was worthy of better. I want to prove her wrong. If she’ll open herself up to me again—heart and soul—I’ll show her what unbound love looks like. I’m willing to beg for the opportunity to prove I’m still the person she had faith in once upon a time. All I need is one chance to right my wrongs. Then our wandering souls can rest.
“You good, bro?” Brody startles me out of my daze, stopping inches away from me.
I rub my beard. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Well, you might want to get out of the street.” He points at my unlaced boots.
I’m standing in the street about three feet from the curb. When I step onto the sidewalk and head toward Bruno’s, he walks alongside me, matching my stride.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks.
“My to-do list,” I lie, my gaze locked on my destination.
His head bobs in my periphery. “I bet you have a long list.”
“Yep.” I side-eye him then check my watch. “You and Rock meeting up?”
Once football season ends, Brody and Rock meet at the bar after school. Their dates often coincide with the nights Lucy works a shift at the hospital in a town about thirty minutes away from Walford.
“Yes, sir. Fries with my guys.”
“It’s one guy. And don’t call me ‘sir.’” Stealing another peek at him, I notice he cut his shaggy hair, styling it neatly to one side.
“Cool.” He’s quiet for all of three seconds before he asks, “Want to talk about her?”
My steps falter before coming to a full stop. “Excuse me?”
“Obviously, you’re thinking about a woman. You’ve got that look.”
I cross my arms. “What look?”
He slips his hands in the front pockets of his khaki pants and shrugs. “The lost-puppy look.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re describing yourself.”
“And I’m almost one hundred percent sure I saw you sneaking out of that alley”—he points to the alley in question—“with a curly-headed bombshell who has fuckable knockers.”
I fist his shirt and yank him nose-to-nose with me as a growl leaves my chest. “Don’t disrespect her, Brody. You might get away with being a pig toward other women, but you don’t talk about her. Ever.”
His big grin tells me I played right into his childish hands. “I knew it.”
“Hey!” The deep, booming voice comes from nearby. We turn our heads to find Rock barreling toward us so fast his ass must be on fire. He gestures between me and Brody with a stiff finger. “What is this?”
“Nothing.” I release Brody with a shove. “This idiot has a death wish.”
A deranged grin spreads across Rock’s freckled face. “My money’s on Brody.”
I jerk my head back in disbelief and retrieve my buzzing phone from my back pocket.
Lucy
My dad can see Vera for a consult next month. Have her call and confirm the appointment. I’ll drive her there if you can’t.
When the phone number to the doctor’s office pops up, Brody peers over my shoulder and asks loudly, “Why is Lucy texting you?”
Two things happen at once thanks to that shit-stirring asshole. Rock lunges for my phone with murder in his eyes, and I duck while throwing an elbow into Brody’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. While he catches his breath, Rock and I are engaged in a schoolyard tussle on the sidewalk.
“Boys!” Menchy barks from across the street.
We freeze. I’m palming Rock’s face while his knee hangs in midair, his cheap shot to my nuts disrupted. Meanwhile, Brody’s standing to the side, casually scrolling through my text messages. When did he get my phone?
“Give me that.” I snatch the phone out of his hand and give him another shove.
Jake needs to find new friends who act their goddamn age. These two are always causing trouble. They’ll still be putting each other in headlocks for no reason when they’re eighty years old. Idiots .
A scowling Menchy marches our way while tightening his apron strings. “What the hell are you boys doing? Families are walking around here. Kids.” He waves an arm toward the one kid standing a block away, not paying us any attention.
We mumble our apologies, though Rock doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic. His clenched jaw and fiery eyes indicate he isn’t finished with me.
“Do better. Act like men, not barbarians.” Menchy’s searing gaze peruses each of us from head to toe.
“Yes, sir,” we say in unison.
Satisfied with our response, he stomps back to his hardware store where he keeps a watchful eye on Walford.
I’ve done nothing to earn a reprimand since I was a little kid. A sour knot forms in my gut from the disapproving and, worse, disappointed look on Menchy’s face. My anxiety level spikes, and my hand twitches with the need to tug at my hair and self-soothe. I rake my fingers through the strands in consolation, hiding my vulnerability from Rock and Brody.
People believe I’m unflappable. In truth, my insides flap like a motherfucker when I’m overcome with strong feelings. But I’ve learned to control my impulsive reactions to them to avoid curious stares or probing questions. Somehow, Brody found the one button that, when pushed, forces me to shed my cool demeanor. Maisy.
I rest my twitchy hands on my hips and inhale slow breaths, my gaze fixed on my boots. “Lucy’s helping with Logan’s mom,” I say with a practiced calm. Steady should be my middle name since I don’t have one. I’ve been mastering steadiness since I was a boy.
Sadly, the use of Logan’s name instead of Maisy’s garners more respect in this situation. When dealing with someone as volatile as Rock, who was a college football star himself, I have to be strategic in my efforts to lower the tension.
I lift my head and meet his stare in challenge. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Fine,” he says, cracking his knuckles.
Rolling my eyes, I walk away, but the buffoons trail behind me because we’re all headed for the same place.
Rock’s belief that I need permission to talk to Lucy, or vice versa, is preposterous. He’s a caveman by every definition of the word, but I won’t tolerate his jealousy and temper tantrums if they’re directed at me. Lucy’s my friend, and I won’t cower to her brutish husband.
Once we’re inside Bruno’s, they place their orders, and we go our separate ways. While I prep their drinks behind the bar, they chat away like nothing happened outside. But something did happen. Brody called me out about Maisy. I wonder how much he saw that day, what he suspects is happening between us, and when he’ll open his big mouth to others.
I’ve never made my thoughts or feelings about Maisy obvious or acted openly flirtatious or affectionate with her. The fact that Brody—who meets my unflinching gaze—suspects something bothers me. Mostly because his suspicions, should he share them with anyone else, could become rumors. And rumors will push her even farther away from me.
I need to be more careful. Apparently, people in Walford are paying close attention.
Speaking of attention…I pull out my phone and check the tracking app. It’s a habit now, a source of comfort. When the blinking dot shows Maisy on the film set or at the house she’s renting, I’m relieved she hasn’t flown too far away. Still, she’s not close enough.