31. Maisy
31
MAISY
Is it wrong to side-eye a babbling baby? Probably. In my defense, it’s difficult to carry on a conversation with my lunch companions when the baby distracts them every five seconds. Tatum and Lucy coo whenever Marcella makes an unintelligible noise. We’ve been at the Noon Moon Café for ten minutes and haven’t even ordered our food yet.
Tatum’s been pressuring me for weeks to join her and Lucy for lunch. Pam also urged me to go, reminding me to “embrace it.” Since becoming her temporary roommate, she repeats the phrase often, encouraging me to open up and allow people into my life without questioning their sincerity or intentions.
Heeding Pam’s advice, I’ve embarked on a season of yes , so here I am. Starving. I wonder if the plush toy shoved in the baby’s mouth is a sign that she’s hungry too.
“Are you ladies ready to—” Sonja cuts herself off with a sharp gasp. “Maisy Donovan? Oh my goodness, look at you! Get up here and give me a hug.”
Not waiting for me to stand on my own, she pulls me from my chair with surprising strength for a woman her age. As she squeezes me in a tight hug, the star pendant hanging from her neck digs into my cheek. In my periphery, I catch Tatum squinting at me, no doubt realizing I never called Sonja last month about the dress alterations. I made the adjustments myself.
“Good to see you,” I say, wiggling out of Sonja’s embrace.
The combined scents of fried food and cloying, floral perfume cling to her dress and white hair, and I drag in a breath of fresh air when she lets me go. Tatum snickers from her seat at the table, and I shoot her a withering glare. Discreetly, of course.
“Aren’t you a lovely sight? Eddie!” she yells toward the serving window. “Come out here and say hello to Maisy Donovan!”
I wait for her to add the qualifier of Vera’s daughter or Logan’s little sister to the end of my name, but she doesn’t. And I can’t help but stand a little taller and straighten my shoulders. Everyone in the café stares at me, but I’m not meeting their gazes with a scowl like the teenage Maisy did back in the day.
The swinging door opens, and Eddie appears with a hair net covering his bald head and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He narrows his eyes at me, grunts, and retreats to his kitchen.
“He agrees with me. You’re a doll,” Sonja says with her warm smile in place. “We’ve all been so proud of you and Tatum. I followed all your adventures around the globe. Reminds me of when Eddie and I drove around the country in our van in the ’70s. Such good times,” she adds, a faraway gleam brightening her grey eyes.
Some might argue travel is travel, but a hippie van full of stoners and a private jet full of Scrabble players are far from similar.
Lucy tugs at my hand, urging me to sit down. I drop into my chair, grateful for her rescue from the curious stares and whispers.
Sonja readies her pen and pad. “What are you ladies having today?”
After we place our orders, Tatum and Lucy dive straight into pregnancy talk. I hum and nod in all the right places while they ramble on about cravings and hormones and the latest stroller recalls.
My eyes light up when a plate loaded with a burger and fries slides onto the table. While I stuff my face, they continue discussing all the must-have baby paraphernalia, but my thoughts drift to the idea of parenting.
Jensen’s stick-figure kids come to mind. He wants a family one day. Without a doubt, he’d be a wonderful father. I, on the other hand, fear I’m not equipped to meet the emotional needs of my hypothetical children. Not with my inability to express love. Hell, I’m failing with Jensen, and he’s a grown man who knows the ins and outs of how I operate. A baby wouldn’t understand why I’m closed off, even if I love him or her with all my heart.
Those worries aside, I’m focused on my goals—on establishing my freelance career. If kids are in my future, they’re many, many years down the road.
Feeling eyes on me, my gaze slides to the tiny human in the highchair. With auburn curls and little rosebud lips, Marcella’s cute, I guess. For a child. The snacks she was munching on earlier have disappeared from her tray, and her big brown eyes glance between me and my fries. I narrow my gaze at her, daring her to reach out and grab one.
“Maisy, don’t scare the baby,” Tatum chides.
“She’s eyeing my food.”
Lucy laughs. “She’s a Harrison. Their stomachs are bottomless pits.”
She digs around in a massive diaper bag and finds another package of snacks, dumping the contents on the tray. Marcella shoves a handful into her little mouth, fingers and all.
“Speaking of Harrisons,” Tatum mutters with a knowing grin. What she knows, I have no clue.
Lucy and I turn our heads toward the door, following Tatum’s line of sight. Rock plows through it, nearly bowling over another couple, and struts toward us.
“Tate. Maisy,” he says in curt greeting when he reaches our table.
I lift a haughty eyebrow and drag out the sound of his birth name. “James.”
Tatum gasps in shock as if I’ve provoked a wild beast. Lucy’s brows hit her hairline, surprised by my boldness. Her husband hates being called by his real name.
Meanwhile, Rock glares at me through ginger eyelashes before his mouth spreads into a wide, unhinged grin. “Ray of fucking sunshine. Still burning men to ashes. Who’s your next victim? I want in.”
“You’re still a brute,” I say, shaking my head.
Because my middle name is Rae, Rock began calling me ray of sunshine during our freshman year in high school. After the locker incident between Jensen and Peyton Riggs, I stopped accepting barbs from everyone and found my voice. Rock joked about my fiery tongue being hot enough to burn people. And because he loves mayhem and stirring up trouble, he became my hype man, cheering me on when I gave another student—mostly the boys—a tongue lashing.
“Should I be concerned?” Lucy asks, her eyes pinging between us. “Is this a friendly exchange, or…”
“We’re good,” Rock assures her.
He bends down to kiss his wife’s cheek and whispers in her ear. I don’t catch everything he says, but some words are crystal clear. Rope and lube are the specific ones that pique my curiosity. I glance at Tatum, who’s bright red in the face. She must’ve heard what I heard.
“Tonight,” Lucy says to Rock. “After Marcella falls asleep.”
“Fine.” He claims her lips in a searing kiss, shifting his body to conceal the not-so-subtle groping of her boob. Then he pecks Marcella on the head.
Lucy watches him leave, unaware of our presence as lovesickness confiscates her wits, so Tatum eloquently explains to me what I witnessed while fanning her face.
“Rock’s a horn-dog and makes Lucy have sex every day?—”
“He doesn’t make me,” she interjects with an eye roll.
“—and he hunts her down to confirm their nookie plans.”
Lucy giggles, unashamed. “You make it sound dubious. He doesn’t have to hunt me down. We share locations on our phones, so he knows where to find me. The only hunting we do is when I chase him around the yard.”
I do a double take, my eyes snapping to Lucy’s for two reasons. First, is she talking about a specific kink I’ve read about in my smutty books? If so, I’m pretty certain she said she does the hunting. Interesting.
Second, she said Rock pops up randomly because he tracks her location, which turns my thoughts to Jensen’s surprise appearances. The logical explanation to him knowing my whereabouts is that we live in a small town where everyone knows everything. Plus, he’s never had access to my phone without me being present, so there’s no way he could be tracking me. He wouldn’t. Right?
Tatum draws me out of my thoughts when she asks, “Why do you chase him?”
For some reason, I’m inclined to protect her innocence. “You don’t want to know, Tate. Trust me.”
“I do want to know,” she insists. “Lucy’s been teaching me about all kinds of things I’ll never do with Jake. Someone has to educate me since you never would.”
Exasperated with her misguided perception of my love life, I spill the truth and burst her bubble. “Because I don’t have a lot of experience, Tate. You have this grand idea that I’m sexually free or awakened or whatever you want to call it, but I’m not.”
“But the roadies,” she accuses.
“One roadie. The same roadie on every tour until he quit before the last one.”
Her eyes bulge before she screeches, “You lied to me?”
I shush her, my gaze darting around to confirm no one overheard, and lower my voice to a whisper-yell. “Keep your voice down. Geez. I never lied, and my number doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m not the liberated woman you think I am.”
Lucy, witnessing our exchange with keen interest, lifts a sleepy Marcella from the highchair and cradles her, patting her on the butt. How nice would it be to check out of this conversation and take a nap?
Tatum argues, “It matters, Maiz. Since the day we met, I’ve shared every detail of my life with you because you’re my best friend. And best friends tell each other everything.” Her voice thickens, a sign she’s on the verge of crying.
“Please don’t cry in a restaurant,” I beg, grabbing her hand. Public displays of emotion, affection, or otherwise make me extremely uncomfortable.
Wiping her nose with a napkin, she corrects me. “It’s a café.”
“Whatever. Just please don’t cry. I’ll let you ask one question, anything you want, if you bring back happy Tate.”
“Anything?” She perks up, the swift uptick in her mood both a relief and warning bell.
I concede, my shoulders slumping. “Sure. Anything.”
She leans across the table and whispers, “Has anything else happened with you know who ? Did you talk everything through? Are you together now?”
“‘You know who’ is Jensen,” I inform Lucy. Might as well get all the knowledge in the open if we’re planning to make this ladies lunch thing official. Answering Tatum, I say, “That was three questions. And yes.”
“Yes to which one?”
“Take your pick.”
Her face lights up, eager for explicit details. When she realizes those details are not forthcoming, she scrunches her nose, and her woeful tone drips with disappointment. “You’re no fun.”
“You know what is fun? Whatever involves rope and lube.” Tilting my head at Lucy, I arch an eyebrow and ask, “Care to share?”
She smirks, her eyes twinkling as she relaxes into her chair with Marcella napping in her arms. “Sharing goes both ways at this table, like an information exchange. Tate pays with behind-the-scenes stories of her tours. What’s your currency?”
Oh, I like Lucy. She’s got sass, wit, and confidence, three of my favorite female personality traits. I’m already looking forward to the next lunch date with these two.
Highly interested in learning more about the juicy education she’s giving Tatum, I return Lucy’s sly smile. “I can pay in beauty tips and services. Count me in.”