49. Jensen
49
JENSEN
“Jensen.” The mattress dips when Javi sits on the edge. “I’m turning on a light.”
The lamp on the nightstand illuminates my pit, and I drag the covers over my head. I’m comfortable hiding in the dark. Shame can’t find me here.
Javi’s tone is solemn, regretful, when he speaks again. “I should’ve paid closer attention. I’m sorry.”
He has nothing to apologize for. Nobody does. I’m the one who broke so many rules and lied to everyone I care about. I’m the disappointment. That reminder makes me think of…
“Maisy.” The blanket muffles my ragged whisper. Her name is the first word I’ve spoken since Jake confronted me in my secret room at Bruno’s.
“Let’s focus on you, man. Don’t worry about anyone else right now.”
“Please, Javi. I have to know.”
He hesitates, and I prepare myself for the worst. “She’ll be okay. Tatum and Pam are with her.”
Wait. Maisy should be in Jamaica right now. I told her to go. Surely, a week hasn’t passed already. I should feel a lot worse, physically, if I’ve gone seven days without food or water, which leaves only one explanation for her being in Walford.
I drag the blanket halfway down my face and squint against the harsh light. “She stayed?”
He nods, his gaze meaningful when he squeezes my leg. “She stayed.”
A choking noise catches in my throat, and my eyes sting with equal amounts of relief and guilt as I stare at the ceiling. “I messed up. I ruined everything. She?—”
“She needs you.”
Need .
The simple, four-letter word usually fills me with dread. However, when spoken in association with Maisy, I’m overcome with a profound sense of purpose. My stiff, unused joints ache when I push aside the covers and rise to a seated position, planting my feet on the floor.
With my elbows braced on my knees and hands buried in my greasy hair, I whisper, “What have I done?”
The shame overwhelms me. My heart races when I consider all the consequences of my actions. Layer upon layer of fear fills my head.
Sensing my increasing anxiety, Javi puts a hand on my shoulder. “Nothing that can’t be undone. Please, man, accept our help. You have more to lose than ever if you don’t.”
My birdie. She’ll fly away and never come back.
“I don’t want to be like this, Javi. My mind is…it’s broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Jake says from the doorway, his voice rough. Tired.
The sight of purple shadows beneath his eyes and his overgrown stubble elevates my level of guilt. He should be at home, living in newlywed bliss with his pregnant wife, but he’s losing sleep over me instead.
I track him with my gaze as he approaches and sits at my other side. “Jake, I?—”
“Don’t apologize.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Don’t say anything yet. Take a shower, get some food in you, then we can figure everything out.”
I nod in response.
Javi says, “Help is on the way. A friend of mine from Austin agreed to come and talk to you. She’ll be here within the hour.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m forcing myself to eat a sandwich at the kitchen island when Javi walks in with an older woman. She has long silver hair, coke-bottle glasses, and a shitload of beaded necklaces. First impression? She’s a witch, and Javi hired her to cast a spell on me. I wouldn’t put it past him.
The woman approaches me with a hand extended. “Jensen, I’m Dr. Marjorie Sims, a psychologist and a friend of Javi’s.”
Shaking her bony hand, I say, “Nice to meet you.”
“No, it’s not. I’m the last person anyone wants to meet.” She chuckles to herself, and I relax. Her directness and sense of humor put me at ease. They remind me of Maisy.
Dr. Sims joins me at the island and encourages me to finish eating while we chat. I agree to let Javi and Jake stick around for this first meeting.
We start with the common knowledge: the election, the room, Maisy. In fact, we spend half the afternoon discussing her. I explain how much I love her, how I scared her, how I lied to her. The doctor asks me pointed questions I’m not comfortable answering in front of my loved ones, but I do so anyway. If I plan to get better, I’ll need their support. If I want their support, they have to know some of my secrets.
When we circle back to the topic of the room, Dr. Sims asks, “How long ago did you move her belongings to the room?”
“Six years ago.”
“And how often did you go up there?”
Hesitating, I glance at the guys when I answer. “Before she came back to Walford, every day.”
Javi doesn’t react. His gaze remains glued to my face as he watches for any twitch or hint of a lie. Jake won’t even look at me. He rests his forearms on the countertop and stares at his clasped hands. I can imagine how each of my unveiled secrets horrifies him more and more. His eyelids shutter when I confess to tracking her phone, and his silent disapproval rings loud in my ears. Can’t say I blame him. I did some pretty appalling things.
Dr. Sims clearly has experience with people like me because she registers my worsening mood and the tension in the room. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in private? We’ll start with a virtual visit tomorrow. Once we sort out the pesky business side of things—insurance and paperwork and what not—we’ll schedule some in-person visits as well. Sound good?”
“Sure,” I say, walking her to the front door.
She smiles warmly at me and says, “Time and honesty. If you invest those two things into this process, you’ll get a lot more in return.”
I can only hope she’s right. As I’ve proven repeatedly, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep Maisy. Maybe this time I’ll succeed.
In my living room, I tape the bottom of a box I’ll use to store my mother’s knickknacks. Jake has been helping me pack away some of our parents’ belongings as part of my therapy. “I can only do one more today,” I say.
Three weeks have passed since all my secrets surfaced. With some therapy sessions under my belt, I’ve become better at vocalizing when I reach my limits. The four boxes stacked in the corner, filled with memories of my parents, represent my limit for today.
In our first week of sessions, Dr. Sims identified my fear of changing anything associated with my childhood or teenage years. Although she’s working with me to diagnose all of my struggles, she encouraged me to tackle this fear right away, claiming any progress is good progress. I agreed to make her recommended changes to my home, but I can only tolerate them in bite-size chunks.
She came at me fast and hard from the start. Fast, because she scheduled two office visits and one video session each week. Hard, because she implemented a six-week period of no contact with Maisy. Initially, the idea didn’t go over well with me, and I behaved like an addict during a hostile intervention.
Jake, Javi, and Trevor were here when I had my first virtual visit with the doctor in my bedroom. They got physical with me to keep me from running out the door and going straight to her. I was afraid if I let her out of my sight for too long, she’d leave me forever. Six weeks allows her ample time to realize I’m not worth keeping.
Once I calmed down enough to listen to reason, Dr. Sims explained how the no-contact approach is often used to break a patient’s bond with another person, like when someone has trouble getting over an ex-partner. In my case, however, she believes with Maisy out of my life temporarily, I can focus on my treatment with no distractions.
During the separation period, no one’s allowed to talk to me about Maisy, and I’m not allowed to ask about her. I go along with it, counting down the days until the six weeks come to an end. I’m playing by the rules for both our sakes because if I’m the best version of myself, I’ll be a better man for her.
Javi manages the bar alone for now. I’ve taken a leave of absence but will return to work next week. As far as everyone in town knows, I burned out and needed a long vacation. Javi and Trevor persuaded Tom to step forward as the next interim mayor, at least until the town’s government can sort out its special election process. I’m relieved they found a solution for now, but every day I seem to care less and less about the town’s collective needs. And I’m caring more and more about my own.
Standing by a shelf, Jake turns over a decorative glass bowl in his hands. Pensiveness crinkles his brow when he asks, “Do you think they’d be proud of the men we’ve become?”
Kicking the empty box aside, I shake my head. “Not me. Not yet. But they’d be damn proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you, Jensen. Proud you’re doing what needs to be done to unstick yourself.” He sets the bowl on the shelf and faces me, his expression pleading and eyes wet with unshed tears. “Don’t keep any more secrets from me. Believe I can handle the truth, no matter how hard it is for you to say or for me to hear. You don’t have to protect me anymore, especially from you.”
I draw him into a tight hug. “Sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you, Jake. I never meant to hurt you or anyone else, and I’m trying to do better. For you. For Maisy. For me.”
Clearing his throat, he pulls away. “Talk to us, okay? Give us the chance to protect you from yourself when you need help.”
“I promise.” I clamp a hand on his shoulder and give him a shake. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
Before he can respond, the front door flies open. “Knickers and knockers!” Brody shouts, backing through the doorway with an empty furniture dolly.
Per the doctor’s orders, I’m required to haul everything out of my house as soon as it’s packed up. This way, I don’t have a chance to reconsider getting rid of anything. The guys have been coming by to load up boxes at the same time each day because I need a routine. Javi’s at work already, so he assigned Brody to pickup duty this afternoon.
“What does that even mean?” Jake asks.
“It’s like saying ‘knock, knock’ but with panties and tits.”
“Dude. My question was rhetorical.”
“Bro. My answer wasn’t.” Brody parks the dolly and points to the stack of boxes. “Are these good to go?”
“I’m packing one more, so make yourself at home,” I tell him.
He grabs a drink from the fridge and settles into a recliner while Jake and I wrap and pack breakable items. Jake casts intermittent glances at Brody, so I look over my shoulder to find out what has him distracted.
Brody stares at nothing, his usual jovial expression wiped from his face, his eyes empty and distant. Jake and I share a wary look, communicating subtly with our shifting eyebrows about whether we should engage.
“I’ll pack the last of it,” I say, giving him the opening to check on his friend.
He drops onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, as if he’s been laboring hard all day. “What’s up, man?” he asks Brody.
I can’t see Brody’s face when he answers, but the melancholy in his voice is clear as day. “I’m tired of being alone.”
Jake chuckles, a forced reaction to hide his concern. “Alone? You’re never alone. You’ve got women all over you, left and right.”
“Funny how you believe that,” Brody says, his tone thick with annoyance. “When’s the last time you saw me with a woman, Jake? Huh?” There’s a pause before he continues. “You can’t answer that because I haven’t had sex in six years.”
I don’t make a move, frozen with a roll of packing tape in my hand and my jaw on the floor. I’m shocked by both his bitterness and the admission he just made.
Jake splutters while searching for a response. “Wh—what are you talking about?”
Brody’s laugh is far from humorous. “Yeah. Walford’s biggest slut is abstinent. How’s that for a surprise?”
“Brody—”
“Forget it, Jake.” Brody cuts him off as he rises from the recliner. “I’ll just load these boxes and go.”
As soon as he leaves, Jake and I stare at each other with identical poses and expressions. Hand on hips. Eyes wide. Mouth open.
“What the fuck?” he whispers.
“Who the fuck?” I ask. Because the man who just stormed out of my house is not the Brody we know.