12. Maisy
12
MAISY
Jensen’s house reminds me of a time capsule. Stepping into the entryway is like stepping into the past. Outdated wall paneling darkens the living room. Bookcases display family photos, trinkets, and his mother’s collection of trade paperbacks from her favorite authors. Christine Holloway was an avid reader and enjoyed many genres of fiction. She was also one of my favorite people to grace this planet, always ready with an encouraging word or a warm hug. The only noticeable differences in the house are the hardwood floors in place of the carpet and a few pieces of newer furniture. Otherwise, little has changed.
I glance at Jensen, who moves slowly while shutting the door behind me. When Tatum sent me a text message saying the shit hit the fan between her and Jake, I didn’t realize Jensen was “the fan.” The swelling, cuts, and bruises on his face look downright painful. And his ribs? God, it’s hard to believe he’s standing upright, much less walking around.
“Why don’t you go sit down and let me take care of you?” I ask, battling the urge to reach for him. He’s too big for me to carry, but I’m damn close to trying.
“If I sit down, I can’t get back up.” He attempts to cross his arms to portray aloofness—he can’t. Wincing, he lowers them back to his sides.
His T-shirt cuts across his chest, only covering his left pectoral muscle and shoulder, like he couldn’t work his right arm into the shirt. Black ink spreads across much of his torso in various patterns and images. Only black. Not a single drop of color aside from the damage Jake inflicted.
Even with the blooming discoloration, Jensen’s matured body surpasses all standards of beauty, with a drool-worthy Adonis belt and lickable abs. I bite my lip and turn away before I’m tempted to run my tongue along the grooves between each one, causing him more pain.
Toeing off my shoes, I ask, “What can I do?”
“Why are you here, Maisy?” Defeat rings through his question.
“Tate told me what happened, and I thought you might need a friend. Neither of us were aware of this,” I say, waving a hand at his injuries.
“A friend.” His tone is dismissive, but his eyes burn with longing—chartreuse rings of hope crying out for me.
“We used to be friends,” I say. “Let me be one, just for today, and cook you a meal. Have you eaten?”
He responds with a subtle shake of his bowed head.
I nod toward the kitchen, keeping my voice light. “Come on. We’ll put some food in you.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be right back.”
With my heart lodged in my throat, I watch him shuffle down the hallway, his steps rigid and body stiff. Then I drag in a fortifying breath and scrounge through the sparse kitchen cabinets and refrigerator, finding the ingredients for spaghetti and not much else.
He returns with his shirt fitting properly and a bandage on his eyebrow. Each groan he’s unable to stifle when he sits at the island punches me in the gut. I want to take away his pain and heal his wounds—the ones inside and outside—but I don’t have magical powers. Hopefully, a home-cooked meal will be enough to lift his spirits.
Observing me as I move about his kitchen, he says, “I didn’t know you can cook.”
I chew my lip, unsure which direction to take this conversation. My instinct to strike low and harsh battles my instinct to be open with him like old times. I go with the first option, but deliver my strike with a gentle blow.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say, glancing at him while stirring the sauce.
He absorbs my statement for long seconds before asking, “Who taught you?”
“I taught myself. Someone had to feed me when Vera quit her parenting job.”
“I would’ve fed you,” he says, his voice just above a whisper.
“Judging by your empty cabinets, I doubt that.” Wiping my hands on a towel, I avoid meeting his gaze. “I don’t want to talk about the past.”
“The past is all we have together. It’s all you left me with.”
“And you need to let it go,” I say, stripping all emotion from my tone. I dish our food onto plates, pour us each a glass of water, and sit next to him. “Eat up.”
We eat in silence, and I try to focus on anything other than his struggle to raise the fork to his mouth. I would offer to feed him, but we need to maintain boundaries.
“How’s the movie going?” he asks.
Unused to people outside my friend circle asking about my life, I fail to hide the flicker of surprise in my eyes. “It’s good. We’ll be done in a couple of weeks, then it’s back to California.”
I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye and notice his tightened features. The same tightness grips my stomach. Our visceral responses to each other have never been the issue. The verbal responses, or lack thereof, are what broke our bond.
After a few hesitant beats, he asks, “What happens next?”
Next . Choosing to ignore the double meaning behind his question, I opt for the safe route and stick to the discussion regarding my career.
“I have a project in Philadelphia later this month. It’s a four-day shoot for a music video. Then I wait until the next gig comes along.”
Jensen sets his fork on his plate and reaches for his water. He spins the glass on the counter three times before bringing it to his lips. I hold the bottom and lift it higher for him.
His throat flexes with each swallow. “Thanks,” he says.
I clear my own throat and take the glass from him before stacking our dishes. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m proud of you, Maisy.”
My hands still at his whispered words. The sincerity in them draws my gaze to his, and my eyes burn as I fight back tears.
His voice breaks with emotion when he adds, “Really proud.”
We stare into each other’s glistening eyes, lost to faraway moments in a shared timeline. A time when we felt like the only ones in the room as we nurtured the invisible tether binding us.
Now we are the only two people here, light-years apart and living in opposing worlds. He’s planted firmly in Walford, his path ending at a self-constructed roadblock. I’m untethered and adrift, forging a new path for myself in the great big world. Yet somehow, we’re both lost.
“I’ll clean this up, then we’ll get you to bed,” I say, closing the shutters and blocking the light shining on our peaceful moment.
A shaky, pained sigh leaves his chest before he nods and makes his way to the bedroom.
The cherry-stained furniture, which belonged to Jensen’s parents when they slept in this room, hasn’t moved in over twenty years. Each piece claims the spot assigned to it when they first purchased the king bed, long dresser with mirror, and matching nightstands. Even the floral wallpaper his mother hung remains, a gross violation when paired with his solid black bedding and curtains.
He sits on the mattress as I prepare the bed for him. When I pull back the black duvet, I hold in a surprised gasp at the sight of the pillowcases. They can’t be a coincidence. Coincidences don’t exist between us, a fact I try my best to ignore.
“They’re satin,” I say, maintaining my composure as I complete my task.
When I was thirteen, I embarked on a mission to tame my curls and conducted hours of online research. Sleeping with a satin pillowcase was one of many solutions I tried, and one of the few that helped.
The tips of Jensen’s ears flush a deep red, a sign of embarrassment, and he adjusts his hair to cover them. “They keep my hair from getting frizzy.”
Instead of mentioning the obvious—his lifelong observance of me—I tease him. “I never realized you were so vain.”
“I have amazing hair. It deserves special treatment.”
“You do have fabulous hair.”
“So do you.”
God, his reverence turns me inside out. I need him to dial back the way his voice drops lower when he says something sweet. It’s too much.
Fighting through the pain, he reaches up to brush my curls aside and cups my face in his hand, and I let him. “Come home to me, Maisy. Please.”
“Jensen.” I groan his name, allowing my eyes to fall shut for a second as I relish his touch. “Don’t ruin this by begging for things I can’t give you.”
“I’m sorry.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb once, twice, three times before pulling away. His apology has layers and could cover a multitude of transgressions, but I’m not in the right headspace to examine the deeper meanings.
“Let’s get your shirt off and get you into bed.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I’m fine sleeping in it. Taking it off would hurt too much.”
My brain trips over his strange phrasing, but I drop the issue.
Grunting and groaning with every movement, he slides between the sheets and settles onto his back. Jensen’s a stomach sleeper, so this position isn’t comfortable for him even without the bruised ribs.
“What else do you need before I go?” I tuck an extra pillow beside him in case he tries to roll over.
He wraps his long fingers around my wrist. “Stay with me. Please. I don’t want you driving this late at night. It’s not safe.”
Sighing, I avoid looking him in the eye, afraid of the desperation I’ll find there. I could lie and tell him I’m staying at Vera’s or Tatum’s, but neither of them needs me. Tonight, Jensen does. His need wafts from him, stronger than the spicy cologne lingering on his bedsheets. Plus, he’s a worrier, and I won’t cause him more worry after what he’s been through in life.
“Okay. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Please,” he whispers with a gentle squeeze on the wrist I haven’t yanked from his grasp. “Be here with me. Just for tonight.”
No one sees the wounded and vulnerable side of him. Only me. He may not express his exact needs through words, but I somehow know because I know him. Once upon a time, we communicated through the silence stretching between us, even from afar. We felt each other on a deeper level, and his unspoken cry for help tonight tugs at me in a familiar way.
Maisy 14⒈／⒉; Jensen, 18
A crowd gathers in the hallway lined with lockers as students peer over the shoulder or head of the person standing in front of them. Being small has its advantages, so I twist and turn through the gaps until I reach the front. My cheeks flame with humiliation as I take in the scene.
“Stay away from her,” Jensen growls. He has Peyton Riggs pinned against a locker by the throat.
“It’s just a stupid dance,” Peyton chokes out.
“Stop!” I shout.
A hush falls over the crowd. Few of these people have heard me speak because I keep to myself, so the power in my voice surprises them.
Jensen looks at me without releasing my date to the upcoming spring dance. He must see the hurt in my eyes because his hold on Peyton loosens. “Maisy?—”
“Let him go,” I say, cutting him off. “And mind your own business.”
“Yeah. It’s not like you’re her brother. And Logan’s fine with it,” Peyton argues.
Jensen’s nostrils flare like he’s preparing to unleash a ball of fire straight into Peyton’s face. “Oh yeah? Did Logan hear the shit that came out of your mouth?”
Peyton pales, fear flashing in his eyes.
“What?” I ask, realizing I don’t have a clue what I walked into.
He huffs and shoves at Jensen. “Forget it, man. She’s not even worth it.”
My breath hitches, and tears well in my eyes. I thought Peyton was different from the other boys…nicer. It’s the only reason I asked him to the dance.
Jensen, nose-to-nose with the younger boy whose feet aren’t touching the ground, drops his voice dangerously low and says, “She’s worth more than a million of you, you piece of shit.”
Unable to bear further humiliation, I sprint to the nearest bathroom. It’s all too much. The public rejection. Peyton’s scorn. Jensen’s meddling and wrath. It’s not the first time he’s interfered in my dating life, causing boys to run the other way. Logan’s my brother, and he couldn’t care less about the boys I like.
I’m hiding in the stall when the creaky door and sure footsteps announce his arrival. He never just lets me go.
“Birdie.”
“Go away.” Between sniffles, I wipe my nose with toilet paper.
His feet shuffle under the stall door until he’s facing it straight on, then something thumps against the metal, likely his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I scoff. “No, you’re not. You got what you wanted, right? You win.”
“That’s not true. You’re the winner here. Trust me.”
“What did he say?” I ask.
“What?”
“Peyton. What did Peyton say?”
Jensen sighs. “I’ll tell you if you open the door and let me see you.”
“No.” There’s not a chance in the world I can face him as he deals another blow to my self-esteem. It’s nearing extinction already.
Teenage boys, and most girls, are the worst. If they’re not whispering inappropriate comments about the size of my growing boobs, they’re using me to gain access to Logan. I had hoped to find a little freedom to explore my individuality in high school, a laughable notion now that I have a semester of ninth grade under my belt. Logan’s the most popular kid on campus, and I’m nothing more than his unremarkable sister.
A growl of displeasure comes from Jensen before he says, “Peyton had a bet going with his dickhead friends. They bet he couldn’t?—”
“Never mind. I don’t want to know,” I say, holding back the sob stuck in my chest.
He blows out a forceful breath, relieved he doesn’t have to repeat what he overheard. “You deserve respect, birdie. Never give assholes like Peyton a second thought. And never settle for less than a guy who’ll worship at your feet.”
A laugh punches through my quiet cries. “God, you’re so dramatic.”
He doesn’t laugh. In fact, he says nothing for a few seconds. “I mean every word.”
Silence hangs between us, littered with unasked questions and uncertain paths forward. He may have crossed a line, but neither of us will find out for sure.
“I have to get to the gym,” he mutters. With football season over, the players hang out in the weight room after school.
His shoes disappear, and the door swishes as it opens and closes. I count to three, then exit the stall and yank a paper towel from the holder to wipe the mascara smudged beneath my eyes. After taking a few deep breaths and telling my reflection in the mirror that I’m worthy of love, I leave the restroom, thankful the hallway is mostly empty as I aim for the parking lot. Because I missed the bus, I mentally prepare for the long walk home.
At the double doors leading to the gym, two police officers and the principal, Mr. Olson, are talking to Jensen. Sensing me, he turns his head, and every cell in my body goes on high alert. Shock and devastation mar his features, leaching all the color from his beautiful face. Swaying on his always-steady feet, he’s nanoseconds away from collapsing. I can feel the message he’s sending me with his tortured eyes. “Help me, birdie. I need you.”
I drop my backpack and run to him as fast as my legs will carry me, catching him as his knees hit the tile.
Battered and broken after what happened with Jake, Jensen lies in his dead parents’ bed. Because he hides his weaknesses from everyone, he’d be alone in his suffering if I hadn’t shown up tonight. Aside from his parents, I’m the only person to see him fully exposed that I know of, and I can’t deny him the peace of mind he seeks from me.
Relenting to his request for me to stay, I lock up the house and turn off most of the lights. After a quick trip to the restroom, where I decide against removing my makeup, I climb into bed and face him with my cheek on the soft satin pillow.
“Can I ask you something?” His words drag with exhaustion.
Despite the moonlight and the streetlamp outside casting a glow across his profile, I can’t tell if his good eye is open. I wonder if he’s staring at the ceiling while I stare at his swollen left eye.
When I hum my affirmative response, he asks, “Do you think about me?”
Every day for twenty-eight years.
“You were a big part of my childhood. I don’t have many memories that don’t include you. So yeah, when I think back on that time in my life, you come to mind.”
“I come to mind,” he murmurs. For a thoughtful minute, only the sound of his shallow breathing fills the room. Then he whispers, “Sweet dreams, birdie.”
I often dream of you, and those dreams are the sweetest.
“Good night, Jensen.”