45. Jensen
45
JENSEN
“What the hell?”
Lying in the middle of Maisy’s childhood bed, staring at the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers, I ignore Jake.
A loud gasp pierces the brief silence. “Oh my gosh,” Tatum whispers. “Is this?—”
“Maisy’s old bedroom,” he answers.
A pause hangs in the air. I assume they’re taking everything in. The twin bed with neon purple and yellow bedding. The zebra-print papasan chair. The white dresser covered in cosmetics. And the most alarming sight to someone who doesn’t know our history—Maisy’s dolls. Twenty-seven of them in perfect alignment on her bookshelves.
“She saw this.” Tatum’s strained voice sounds appalled. Disgusted.
Jake shoves my feet. “Jensen, you need to explain this to me.”
“Get out,” I say, my tone lifeless. I don’t want them here. They don’t belong in this room. No one does.
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“It’s like a shrine,” Tatum says.
The sound of things being moved around, picked up, and set down rattles me. I pop up, feeling wild and untethered. “Don’t touch anything!”
Jake steps in front of Tatum, hands raised. “Whoa, man. I get that you’re upset, but don’t yell at Tate.”
“Please don’t touch anything,” I say. “Please. It’s all perfect.”
It was until I wrecked everything, including my relationship with Maisy. I haven’t had a chance to put everything back where it belongs—to put everything right. I’ll clean up the mess after they leave. Anything I broke, I’ll find a way to mend.
They share a concerned look before Tatum cautiously steps through the rubble of my life and sits on the edge of the bed. “Jensen, let us help you. Talk to us.”
I fall backward, my head landing on the pillow. Maisy’s hot pink satin pillow. The bright colors and loud patterns aren’t comforting, but they’re a comfort to me.
To get them out of my sacred space, I give them a half-honest excuse for having her things. “Her mom wanted to throw it all away. I offered to haul everything to the dump but decided to keep it here instead.”
Tatum’s hand rests on my shin, her touch hesitant. “Lots of parents turn their kids’ rooms into guest rooms once they leave.”
“Birdie grew up there. These are her things. Her choice was taken from her. What if she wanted to keep some of it, like her dolls? She loved these dolls, so I kept them safe for her.”
Jake’s sigh is so heavy, the weight of it crushes my chest. “You’re my brother, and I love you, so I’m going to be very real with you right now. This isn’t okay.”
Unable to face the inevitable disgust or disappointment in his eyes, I stare at the ceiling and offer an argument in my defense. “You built a house for a girl you never thought you’d see again. It’s the same thing.”
“It’s not the same. You know it isn’t. I lived in the house, welcomed people inside. I didn’t hide it from anyone because I felt no shame in it. The fact you’ve had this hidden for years tells me you know it’s wrong. Deep down, you do.”
I roll onto my side, refusing to explain myself to either of them. “Call Javi.”
They’re both quiet for so long, I chance a peek. Tears are streaming down Tatum’s face. She’s worried about Maisy, but she’s also sad for me. Jake stares at the comforter, avoiding my gaze. My own brother can’t even look at me.
After a few minutes of tense silence, apart from the sniffles, Tatum gets up and moves about the room, careful not to step on the mess I made on the floor. “Is there more than this room and the board?”
“What board?” Jake asks.
“Behind the door,” she whispers. Apparently, her eyes did a full sweep of my shame.
Jake looks over his shoulder at the cork board hanging on the wall. Inching closer to it, he examines the contents pinned with thumbtacks. Everything from a copy of Maisy’s state-issued cosmetology license to Tatum’s concert schedules over the years. Anywhere in the world Maisy went, I kept tabs—or tried to—because I was proud of her.
There are printouts of any photo published with her standing next to or behind Tatum. I yearned to catch the tiniest glimpse of Maisy because I missed her.
“You called her ‘birdie’ earlier,” Tatum says gently, as if speaking to a frightened child. “I’ve never heard you call her that before.”
Our nicknames are special. We got used to sharing them in secret. It became second nature to not say them in front of other people. Maisy slipped in front of Graham on karaoke night months ago. Today is my first time referring to her as birdie to someone else, as far as I know.
Jake whips his head around, eyes wide with realization. “Your tattoo.”
Turning my back on them again, I say, “I don’t need this right now. I’m not a freak of nature that you can sit here and pick apart.”
“We’re not picking things apart. We’re piecing it all together, man. It’ll help if you tell us what’s happening. The day after the wedding, you told me you’ve loved Maisy since you were kids. Is this love? Or does this all go away because she finally gave in?”
Outraged, I spring to my feet and get in his face. “Fuck you, Jake. She was—this isn’t—I had her right—you don’t know—fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I yell, ripping out my goddamn hair, wishing it was my stupid, incapable brain I could wrench from my skull.
“Tate, go downstairs.” His command is sharp, and he guides her behind him with one arm shielding her. From me.
Without hesitation, she rushes out of the room. And that one moment—seeing my pregnant sister-in-law’s terrified face as she flees for her safety—finally does me in.
I lose all feeling, all control, and go completely numb. No words, no thoughts, no light as I fall into the pit. Jake catches me by the shoulders, directing my body so it crashes to the bed and not the floor.
“Jensen,” he says, his urgent voice as distant as my muted soul. “What’s happening? What should I do?”
In my head, I answer him. Call Javi.