10. Maisy
10
MAISY
After dropping off Graham at Pam’s house, where we plan to have dinner before Tatum’s show, I check on my mother. It’s been over a month since I last saw Vera, and I don’t know if her health is improving. I’m not even aware if she’s seen a doctor yet. Whenever I ask, she gives clipped responses and steers the conversation away from medical-related topics.
Walking into her kitchen, I’m met with a shocking scene. She’s huddled in a corner against the cabinets, crying.
“Hey,” I say. Approaching with caution, like she’s a wounded animal, I step around the counter into the U-shaped kitchen. “Why are you on the floor?”
She thumbs the tears from her cheeks. “I tripped. Just give me a minute.”
I scan the area around her and squat down to pick up the pieces of a broken plate. One piece has a spot of blood on it. “I’ll get the first aid kit,” I say, laying the shards on the counter.
Neither of us speaks while I patch the cut on her hand. It’s been years since my mother has touched me or I’ve touched her. Her skin’s cold, and I’m concerned the arctic temperatures inside the house exacerbate her condition—whatever it may be.
Vera remains in the same spot after I put everything away and sweep up the dish fragments. “You can go now.”
“Do you need help getting up? Can you walk?” I lean the broom against the refrigerator to deal with later.
“I’m fine,” she insists without looking at me.
Her stubbornness masks her wounded pride, so I pray to the universe for patience and offer my help again. “Don’t you need to get ready for work? Maybe you should call in sick tonight. Where’s your phone?”
I search the countertops and table for her phone, but it’s not there. Vera picks at her fresh bandage, refusing to cooperate or meet my gaze.
An exasperated sigh escapes me. “I don’t have time for this, Vera. Tell me what you need me to do, then I’ll do it and go.”
The promise of my departure puts her at ease, which is just sad. For some reason, she’s upset with me seeing her like this. It’s obvious she needs help, but she won’t accept it from me.
Her head falls against the cabinet. “Call Jensen or Lucy.”
“Lucy?” I ask, the confusion evident in my tone.
“She’s a nurse.”
“Yeah, I know who she is. I didn’t realize you did.”
Angry eyes meet mine head-on, the impact as blunt and powerful as her next words. “You’re never around long enough to learn anything about me.”
My jaw hits the floor, and my temper hits the ceiling. What is she implying here? Is she honestly saying I’m to blame for our lack of a relationship? After years of her ignoring me, she has the audacity to accuse me of being negligent. The nerve. For the first time in my life, I lose my shit and yell at my mother.
“Are you serious right now? I ’ m never around? You ignored me my entire childhood. All you cared about was your precious son and his football career. You’ve never shown a lick of interest in me, and you wonder why I never stick around? God, you really are?—”
Strong arms surround me and lift me off the ground. I kick against the barrier at my back, already knowing who it is.
“Put me down!” I shout.
Jensen hauls me toward the front door. “You’re yelling at a scared woman who’s lying helpless on the floor. Think about what you’re doing.” His calm voice caresses my ear, only pissing me off further.
“Fuck you, Jensen. Put me down!” I struggle against him, attempting to jab him with an elbow, but he holds firm.
“Shh. You’re okay, birdie,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”
“What are you—? Don’t you fucking shush me, asshole!” I buck wildly, growling in frustration because he has the upper hand physically. “Let me go!”
He sits on the refurbished bench—the one where we ended—with me in his lap. “Let it out.”
“What?”
It’s then I realize I’m crying. God, I’ve cried more in the last three months than I have in my entire life. What is wrong with me?
“You’re okay,” he says, rocking back and forth like I’m a baby in his arms.
“Who cares if she’s scared? What about me? She never cared about my feelings.”
“I know, but you’re not her, Maisy.” He brushes the curls from my face. “Don’t let her drag you down to her level.”
I stare at his tattooed forearm pressing down on my thighs, keeping me in place. “What did I ever do to her? Other than being born, which I never asked for.”
“Listen to me.” He pinches my chin, bringing us eye to eye, and I shrink under the intensity of his gaze—bright enough to overpower the breadth of the sunny March sky. “You’re a gift she doesn’t deserve.”
Pushing against his chest with my shoulder, I say, “Stop. Don’t say things like that.” I can’t bear it.
“It’s true,” he insists.
I rub the space between my eyes, clearing Vera’s bitterness and Jensen’s nonsense from my head. “What are you even doing here?”
“I check on her sometimes. Thought I’d stop by before Tate’s show tonight. It’s a good thing I did.”
“You have better things to do. Like getting ready for the show. It’s gonna be huge.”
He touches his forehead to my temple, and his breath dances across my cheek. “I’m right where I need to be.”
“Jensen.” My sigh sounds more like a whimper.
“I mean it, Maisy. Nothing on this earth is more important than you.”
“Let go of me. Please,” I beg.
Exhausted, I give him a weak shove to escape his physical hold, though we both know I’m speaking of his emotional one. As expected, he doesn’t budge.
“Five minutes,” he whispers in my ear. “Just five.”
I’m irritated that he showed up here, shut down my tantrum, and now has the audacity to demand his five fucking minutes. I pull back so I can look him straight in the eye while delivering a cutting truth.
“Five minutes may not seem like much to you, but believe me, it’s a long time. And it goes by painfully slow when your heart’s being broken. I would know. We sat in this exact spot when you did it the first time.”
His eyelids collapse shut under the weight of his regret. “Birdie.”
The way he groans my name sounds dangerous and tempting, made worse because he’s squeezing my inner thigh and smells like a sinful mistake. I need out of this situation. Now.
“I want to make everything right between us,” he says.
“There is no us , Jensen. There never was.” My unyielding tone forces him to loosen his grip, allowing me to break free. I rise to my feet and retreat several paces to safety. “I need to go. Tate’s waiting for me.”
“I’m waiting for you, Maisy,” he calls as I slip into the car. The engine drowns out anything else he says before I slam the door and speed away.
“Oh my gosh! Were you crying?” Tatum asks when I lumber into her bedroom at Pam’s house.
Bypassing her outstretched arms, I fall face down on her bed and let out a long groan. “Apparently, I’m a crier now,” I mumble into a pillow. Shades of blue decorate her small room, a choice I’ve never understood since her favorite color is purple.
A heavy weight drapes across my back, squishing me into the mattress. The weight smells an awful lot like bergamot and a pain in my ass.
“Get off me,” I grumble to Graham.
“I’m comforting you,” he says. “Like a sexy weighted blanket.”
“You’re suffocating me.”
“Maisy.” Tatum’s voice drips with concern. She joins us on the bed and snuggles next to me. “Was it your mom?”
I turn my head and meet her blue gaze. “Isn’t it always?”
Graham whispers in my ear, “You smell like a man. It’s a distinct smell. Like a unique blend of muscles and mega?—”
“Get off!” I yell, pushing up with my butt as hard as I can.
He laughs and rolls to the side, sandwiching me between him and Tatum.
“What? What did I miss?” She darts her eyes between us, eager to be in the know.
I flip over and pin my glare on Graham, who winks and smiles devilishly. “Nothing. Graham’s being a crunt.”
“Can we not make that a word?” she asks, crinkling her nose.
Moving on to a different topic, I eye her tank top and panties. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
We have a couple of hours until her show, but I’ll do anything to keep the attention off me. The last thing I want right now is to delve into what went down at Vera’s house.
“Why were you crying?” she counters. Dammit.
I sit up and shrug, pretending the encounter with Vera doesn’t bother me too much. “Vera pissed me off. Turns out, I’m an angry crier. Who would’ve thought?”
Tatum narrows her gaze at me, not buying the lie or my blasé attitude. But she knows me well enough to sense when I won’t budge if she pressures me to talk about certain subjects.
She sighs in resignation. “Help me find something to wear.”
Graham and I squeeze into the tiny closet with her. Every sweater she owns hangs from the rods, testing their weight-bearing capacity. It’s a mess of colors, patterns, and materials even I can’t wrap my mind around, and I’m someone who loves bright and bold aesthetics.
While examining the disaster, Graham bobs his head like he’s preparing himself for the challenge of picking out a shirt. “Margarita time?” he asks me.
“Yep.”
The sound of her whining follows us to the kitchen where Pam’s cooking. Graham gets to work mixing strawberry margaritas, and I dive into the appetizers.
“Want to fill me in?” he asks in a soft voice so Pam won’t overhear. She’s busy swapping out the cookie sheets in the oven.
“Nope.” I reach over and push the button on the blender to stop him from asking more questions.
We stare at each other until he puts an end to the whirring noise and says, “Just so you know, friends often ask friends for advice. That’s how friendship works.”
He pours the drink mixture into a huge plastic cup, filling it to the brim. We’re staying the night at Pam’s after the show, assuming Tatum will sleep at Jake’s and her bed will be free, so neither of us has to drive. Although, we do have to leave early in the morning, so I’ll keep my partying at a minimum.
“Friends also know when to back off.” Stealing his drink, I toss a cheese-filled jalape?o in my mouth and sit at the kitchen table, ready to put the entire day behind me and enjoy Tatum’s first hometown show in over a decade.
Graham joins me at the table, setting down his smaller cup with a straw poking out of it. He leans over and taps a finger on the end of my nose.
“You don’t have to do life alone,” he whispers. Then he licks my cheek and, laughing, scoots his chair away before I can smack him in retaliation. Lovable jerk.
He’s right. I know he is. But I won’t be the annoying, needy friend who makes everything about herself. If I hang my burdens around other people’s necks, they’ll grow tired of me, and I’ll end up alone anyway. Yes, my outlook on relationships derives from childhood insecurities, but facts are facts: unconditional love is a lie. So I move about in the background and make myself useful to keep my place in our group. I can handle my problems just fine on my own.
“Tequila shots?” I ask, hoping he’ll join me in forgetting the day.
He gives me a pointed look and a reminder of our conversation after karaoke night. “You made me promise to keep you dry.”
I smirk and raise my cup in the air. “Make no mistake, my friend. Around you, I’m dry as a desert.”
Grinning, he bumps his cup against mine. And just like that, my troubles with Vera and Jensen disappear.