13. Jensen
13
JENSEN
Maisy left town. She left me. The morning after she spent the night, I woke up to a cold, abandoned space next to me in the bed. More than a week has gone by, and I haven’t seen or heard from her.
After her fallout with Vera, and with Tatum fleeing to California when everything went sideways with Jake, Maisy has no reason to be in Walford. I’m not reason enough. Nevertheless, I watch the dot on my phone. She’s in Austin now, but she might as well be a million miles away.
I wish I could count the situation with her as my only source of stress, but that’s far from the truth. My brother hates me. Javi’s frustrated with my increasing forgetfulness. My fellow business owners won’t stop hounding me about running in the damn mayoral election. Plus, I’m making mistakes and shirking my responsibilities left and right. Worst of all, I’m letting people down, me included.
“There’s a nurse I work with at the hospital. She’s—” Lucy grimaces when I cut a sharp glare her way. “Sorry. I just want to see you happy.”
“I’m happy.”
Why do people insist on playing matchmaker? Am I wearing a sign that says, “Lonely. Send wife ASAP,” or something?
“You’re full of crap,” Lucy says, nudging my knee with hers to avoid jolting my upper body.
We’ve been sitting in the waiting room at her dad’s medical office for over an hour while Vera gets examined. The receptionist lady keeps stealing glances at me. I have the face of an amateur boxer who somehow survived ten rounds in the ring with a seasoned professional.
Much of the swelling has gone down in the past week, but the bruises persist in various stages of discoloration. I removed the butterfly stitch Lucy applied to my eyebrow, and I can breathe better thanks to the lessening ache in my ribs. All in all, I’m healing…on the outside.
“Are you ever gonna talk about her? Or will you go on pretending no one knows?”
I gaze sidelong at Lucy. She’s sitting with one leg tucked under her on the small sofa we’re occupying. Her black leggings, long grey sweater, and ponytail are a casual departure from her usual put-together style. Apparently, she dressed for comfort knowing we’d be here a while.
“Knows what?” I ask.
“Maisy.”
I swear, if Brody opened his big mouth to Rock, he better find somewhere safe to hide in Walford.
Relaxing back on the small couch, I cross my arms and ankles to appear at ease. Steady. “What about Maisy?”
“Jensen.” Lucy sighs, shaking her head. “At Vera’s house this morning, you stared at the photo wall for a long time. You’ve been helping her for years, and not out of the pure goodness of your heart. And you’ve glared at Maisy’s Instagram post at least fifty times since we got here.”
I squirm in my seat, uncomfortable under her keen observation. “So?”
“So…those are examples from today alone.”
“I look after them for Logan. Don’t read too much into it.”
“Oh, well that makes sense,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She jerks her chin at the cell phone in my hand. “For what it’s worth, she’s even prettier when she smiles. And her boyfriend is very handsome. They make a cute couple.”
A scowl must’ve slipped onto my face because Lucy giggles at me. Maisy’s Instagram post from last night has been tormenting me all day. She rarely uses social media. So when the notification appeared on the fake account I created to follow her, I immediately looked.
The close-up photo of her and some guy with prominent dimples, smiling with their cheeks pressed together, almost had me throwing my phone across the room. I’m trying everything to get a few minutes of her time and rebuild our connection. Meanwhile, she’s running around with Graham and Dimple Face and god knows who else.
I side-eye Lucy, who looks pleased with herself for getting a reaction from me, and wonder if I should ask for advice. A woman’s advice. She’s my closest female friend, and she’s married to a man with the emotional range of a rock. Pun definitely intended. By all logical reasoning, Lucy’s an expert on dealing with closed-off people.
Steadying my breaths, I focus on putting the right words together in my mind. How can I explain the connection Maisy and I have to Lucy? How do I make her understand the stakes and what Maisy means to me?
I clear my throat as if preparing for a grand oration. Then I speak the first words I can conjure with absolute certainty. “She’s mine.”
The tips of my ears burn, and Lucy presses her lips together, shaking her head as her shoulders quake with amusement.
Finally, she controls her reaction enough to insult me by saying, “You sound like Rock.”
I scoff, affronted by the comparison. “I’m nothing like Rock. Dude’s a caveman.”
With raised eyebrows, she asks, “Oh really? Have you ever in your life thrown a woman over your shoulder?” Maisy, when we were teenagers. “Carried her out of a room while she cursed and yelled at you?” Maisy, many times. “Kissed her as a way to exert your dominance in the relationship?” Maisy, two months ago. “Been so jealous or overprotective, you wanted to smash someone’s face in?” Movie-star Graham and Dimple Face are my most recent targets in a long line of guys.
Shit. I act like a caveman . What’s worse, I’m so bad with words I probably sound like one too. “Maisy mine. Me love Maisy.”
I drag a hand through my hair and sag my shoulders in defeat. Then I do the one thing that goes against my nature: I ask for help. “What should I do, Lucy? How do I get a woman who’s afraid of being hurt to listen? To hand over her heart to the guy who broke it?”
“Have you told her how you feel?” she asks.
“She won’t let me. I ask her for five minutes, and she shuts me down every time. She’ll only listen to me if I don’t talk about my feelings. Even then I’m lucky if she grants me a few seconds to speak.”
Lucy turns her body to face me on the couch. “Look. When Rock got injured and knew his football career was over, he shut me out. Well, he tried to. I showed up at his apartment?—”
“I don’t want the details.”
“—and gave him no choice but to accept facts. We talked through how his plans had to change but also how great the future could be if he opened himself up to other possibilities.”
Speak of the devil…the cell phone in her lap lights up with a text message from Rock, his hundredth today. The message preview says, “ Kiss it better, Nurse Mama.” She swipes the screen, and I hiss and slide a protective hand over my crotch when the attached photo opens.
“Pretend you didn’t see that,” she says, stuffing the phone beneath her thigh.
I’m rocking side to side with sympathy pain. “I can never unsee that. Why would he do that to himself?”
“Because I told him to.”
“Forget I asked,” I say with a full-body shudder. “Back to Maisy.”
“Right. Anyway, I didn’t give Rock a choice. I went cavewoman on him and metaphorically threw him over my shoulder. He had a good long cry, then he made the conscious decision to embrace a different future than the one he planned. And now he’s happy.”
I would never describe Rock as a happy man. Perhaps he’s a bundle of joy on the inside. Also…
“Did you say he cried?”
“You’re missing the point. Paint a picture of the future for Maisy. A better future that involves the two of you together. If she can envision being safe and happy with you, she’ll come around.”
“What if I never see her again?” My stomach twists at the thought of Maisy never returning to Walford. I ball my hands into fists, battling the urge to self-soothe.
“Do you have her number? You could try calling her.”
Maisy changed her phone number after she moved to California, but I convinced Vera I needed it in case of an emergency. Somehow, I’ve managed to go all this time without calling or texting Maisy, a herculean feat worthy of Nobel prizes.
“I do, but I doubt she’ll answer.”
Lucy squeezes my hand, and I glance around the waiting room in case Rock jumps out from behind a plant and tries to pummel me. “Don’t give up,” she says. “It’ll be worth the wait.”
The wait . Thirteen years I’ve waited and wondered and dreamed. But mostly, I’ve replayed the day on the porch—the day I fucked up—on repeat, wishing I could’ve been brave. Wishing I could’ve found all the words she wanted to hear and take back the words she didn’t deserve, including the lies I told.
Regret sucks the soul dry when you’ve lived with it as long as I have. I committed a crime against the nature of us, and Maisy sentenced me to the harshest punishment possible: a lifetime of love in solitary confinement. Now I’m begging her pardon.
For the next half hour, I consider all the options and ponder the best way to paint a picture of the future. An honest, perfect picture to convince Maisy of our inevitable forever. Imagining our ideal partnership and way of love is the easy part. The problem lies in my shitty presentation skills.
As I’m about to download the Pinterest app because I’m that desperate, Dr. Garcia escorts Vera into the waiting room. He’s a sharp-dressed man with dark eyes similar to Lucy’s and silver strands peppering his neat black hair. Unfortunately, his unreadable facial expression tells us nothing.
Vera’s walking well enough on her own today, which I interpret as a positive sign. But then I catch the subtle look Dr. Garcia gives Lucy. So subtle, I almost miss the slight downturn of his mouth. With his vast experience, he likely has a diagnosis in mind, one he won’t share until it’s confirmed.
He addresses Vera but speaks loud enough for me and Lucy to hear. “I will contact you to schedule a follow-up appointment after you complete the bloodwork and imaging I’ve ordered. Be patient. This journey may take longer than you hope. Once we reach a conclusive diagnosis, we will discuss treatments and a management plan.” Dr. Garcia pats her on the arm. “You and I will be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, Vera. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to call my office if you have questions.”
I’m hung up on the phrase management plan, meaning Vera will never recover. She’ll have to live with whatever afflicts her forever.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her dazed eyes linger on Dr. Garcia’s face before she turns and walks out the door toward the lobby of the medical building.
Lucy and her dad carry on a hushed argument in Spanish. His tone becomes firm at the end, shutting down whatever she’s asking.
She sighs and says, “Let’s go, Jensen,” then trails after Vera.
I shake Dr. Garcia’s hand and thank him, ignoring the way his eyes sweep over my bruises. When I catch up with Lucy, I ask, “What did he say?”
“That he couldn’t discuss anything with me. I may be a nurse, but I’m not her nurse.”
“What do you think is wrong?” I keep my tone low so Vera won’t hear me. My meddling wouldn’t please her.
“I don’t want to speculate,” Lucy replies. “We’ll wait for the official diagnosis and hope Vera fills us in. Like my dad said…patience.”
With a sigh, I rush ahead to hold the door open for the ladies. The day has dragged by. The appointment took longer than expected, and now we face a two-hour drive back to Walford. Looks like I’ll need Javi’s help at the bar once again.