19. Maisy
19
MAISY
Seated at the kitchen table with Tatum and Pam, I check emails on my phone, something I do often in hopes another job opportunity comes my way. I’ve been in Walford for five whole days, and I’m already claustrophobic. Like the town’s spinning me in its web to trap me here. I haven’t left Pam’s house aside from one visit to check on Vera.
“Your dress will be here later this week,” Tatum says. She spoons a second helping of homemade lasagna onto her plate and sprinkles half the bag of parmesan on top.
With Jake out of town for work, she spends her free time planning the wedding, eating, and inundating me and Pam with photos of her many online purchases.
“My dress?” I ask, my mouth stuffed with pasta as I side-eye her.
“Your maid of honor dress. Look.”
She taps her phone screen, then shoves an image of a blush pink dress in my face. I cringe at the color. It’s so pastel and girly .
“You hate it.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and I wonder if pregnancy hormones make her more sensitive than usual.
My gaze meets Pam’s, seeking rescue. Rather than throwing me a lifeline, she subtly shrugs, as if asking how I plan to salvage this.
“I don’t hate it, Tate. I’m worried about having alterations done in time,” I say, reassuring her with a partial truth.
I’m rarely able to wear long dresses straight off the rack. They require a full nip and tuck overhaul to fit me properly. Tatum hasn’t faced the fashion challenges that come with being short or curvy. She’s built like the mannequins all the couture designers use as dress forms, slender with narrow shoulders and hips. She also has long legs and not enough boob, ass, or thigh to cause a psychological meltdown in a fitting room.
“You have plenty of time,” she says, her mood perking back up. “Sonja will make your dress fit perfectly, and she works fast.”
Besides owning and managing the Noon Moon Café, Sonja runs a tailoring business from her home. She’s especially skilled with formal gowns and has stuck her needle in every prom dress to come through Walford in the past twenty years.
“You’re right. I’ll give her a call.”
Lie. I won’t call her. Pam has a sewing machine, and I’m more than capable of handling my own dress alterations. I’ll also need to dye my hair because there’s no way in hell I’m wearing a poofy pink bridesmaid gown while sporting pink highlights in my curls. I’ll look like a cupcake.
“No need. You’re coming to lunch with me and Lucy tomorrow. You can get on her schedule then.”
“I can’t tomorrow.”
She frowns. “Why not? You’ve been here for days, and you never go anywhere.”
A sigh escapes me, my annoyance with reality prevalent. “I’m cleaning Vera’s house.”
“That’s nice of you,” Pam says.
Unable to accept her compliment, I keep quiet and shovel food into my mouth. Honestly, I haven’t figured out my reasons for helping Vera. Maybe I’m selfish and want her to acknowledge me. Maybe I know she’s a stress cleaner, but she can’t physically do it herself.
Vera’s need to clean stems from more than stress these days. Before Logan died, she kept the house sparkling to a shine, not a speck of dust in sight. After his death, cleanliness became an obsession, and I wonder if scrubbing baseboards and polishing doorknobs affords her a modicum of control. If that’s the case, my efforts won’t mean anything to her regardless of the reason I’m doing it.
“Do you know what’s wrong with her yet?” Tatum asks.
“No. She has a follow-up appointment with Lucy’s dad in a few days, and I’m hoping we learn the diagnosis so I can get on with my life.”
Pam dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “What will you do if she needs long-term care?”
I ask myself this question daily. Based on my limited internet research of Vera’s symptoms, she appears to be facing some major life changes and may need ongoing help. Whether that help comes from me is yet to be determined. I don’t allow my mind to travel that far ahead in the future, a future where I’m stuck in this crappy town.
I answer Pam’s question with a careless shrug. “Ship her out to sea?”
While she hums in quiet disapproval, Tatum gasps in alarm. “Maisy! She’s your mother!”
“Someone forgot to tell her that. She can’t expect me to show up for her when she never showed up for me. I’ll do whatever’s needed to get her situated, then I’m done.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you with Vera?” Pam asks. I have trouble looking her in the eyes after behaving like a cold-hearted bitch in her sweet presence.
“Or me,” Tatum says. “Whatever you need, we can help.”
It’s one thing for someone to know how I feel about Vera. It’s another thing to witness my bitterness toward her firsthand. The thought makes my stomach churn. Her lack of interest in me is embarrassing, as unintentional as it may be. And I’m equally ashamed of how I lash out to garner a reaction from her.
Rattled by these thoughts, I poke at the lasagna with my fork, avoiding their gazes. “Thanks, but I’ve got everything under control.”
A petite woman crosses Vera’s front lawn. She has black hair, a fair complexion, and a red-lipped smile aimed at me. Inside the truck, where she can’t hear me, I groan because I’m being forced to dust the cobwebs off my friendliness. I slide out of the driver’s seat and shut the door when my shoes meet the ground.
“Hi, Maisy,” she says with an eager wave and an unnecessary amount of cheer before pointing to herself. “I’m Lucy. We met at the Christmas festival a while back.”
“I remember.” I try to smile, truly, but I’ve seen my fake smile in the mirror, and it’s not a pretty sight.
She gestures with a thumb over her shoulder. “I was just checking on your mom. She’s in her bedroom watching TV. She told me about her upcoming appointment with my dad, so I put a sticky note with the details on the fridge in case she forgets to mention it.”
Obviously, Lucy knows my mother well. Vera won’t forget; she simply won’t say. I found out she had an imaging appointment and a follow-up with her primary doctor, but I had to pry the information out of her. She wouldn’t even say who drove her to those appointments.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Unfortunately, Lucy doesn’t interpret my gratitude as her cue to walk away. “Tate said you can’t join us for lunch today, but maybe another day now that you’re back?”
“I’m not back.” When her grin falters, I add, “But I’ll think about it.”
“Great!” she exclaims, pleased with my amended answer. “And let me know if you need any more help with Vera. My schedule is pretty flexible.”
“Sure thing,” I say.
As she drives away, I wonder why everyone is so eager to help Vera. Playing back Lucy’s words, as well as Pam and Tatum’s from yesterday, I realize they offered to help me , not my mother. Their generosity ignites a strange warmth in my chest, and I enter the house with renewed determination.
After an hour of vacuuming, dusting, and wiping counters without a single word exchanged between me and Vera, I hit my tolerance for the day and leave. On my way out, I find a flyer for a cleaning service taped to the front door, and I laugh at the irony. If only it had been there an hour ago.
On autopilot, I drop onto the bench on the porch and sag against the blue siding. I’m tired and overwhelmed by all the recent changes and events in my life. Vera’s stubbornness exasperates me, and I’m afraid my career may never take off. On top of everything, my conflicted heart calls out to Jensen, tired of fighting against his pull.
I told him to wait for me to reach out, but I haven’t yet. With Tatum’s wedding approaching, I can’t avoid him forever, because we both have parts to play in her big day.
My phone buzzes with a notification, and I find two unread emails in my inbox. The first is from Tasha, the stylist on the Marzan project, letting me know of a music video being filmed in Las Vegas. An up-and-coming director leads the June project, and she needs a crew. Say no more. I open the link and complete the application for the makeup artist position.
The second email sends my heart rate into a frenzy. Giddy, I kick my feet and suppress a squeal as I read through the details. A photographer who works with one of my favorite designers—a woman who dressed Tatum for a few star-studded events—needs a makeup artist for an editorial photo shoot. Two days in New York, all expenses paid, and I leave the day after the wedding.
The artist originally booked had to cancel for undisclosed reasons, and the photographer needs to fill the spot ASAP. I don’t care if I’m a second or third choice. My response is an immediate yes. This could be my big break into editorial makeup—my dream career.
Music videos and film productions are good gigs, but the fashion and beauty industries are where I want to establish myself. The offer couldn’t have come at a better time. It’s what I need to remind myself of my goals.
When I realize where I’m sitting—in my favorite spot where I spent many afternoons daydreaming about my future—my excitement wanes. This is also the spot where I forced Jensen’s hand thirteen years ago, ruining what we had together. The vivid details from that day haunt me on a repeating loop. Whenever I replay it in my mind, I wish for the details to change. I wish for him to be brave and honest, but I also wish for me to be more mature and reasonable. To unmake the decision I made to walk away.
The blame for how our friendship ended doesn’t fall squarely on him, and I’ll admit my years-long cold shoulder may have been harsh. Perhaps it’s time I take another step toward mending our relationship. We once supported each other wholeheartedly, sharing our wins and losses, as good friends do. I miss his unwavering support and encouragement. I miss him.
With that thought in mind, I pull out my cell phone again and send him a text message.
Me
I landed an editorial makeup gig.
His response arrives before I can blink.
Jensen
This is a good thing?
Me
The best.
Jensen
Congratulations, birdie. I’m happy for you.
Chewing my lip, I consider how to respond. I shouldn’t say I want to jump into his arms and let him spin me around in celebration and plant a big kiss on my smiling lips. Such romantic gestures are better left to someone else’s dreams, not mine. Instead, I keep my message simple.
Me
Thank you.