50. Maisy
50
MAISY
“What about this one?” I ask, holding up a yellow paint swatch in Menchy’s Hardware Store.
Graham’s eyes light up. “I have boxers that color.” He’s said that about the last six paint colors I’ve considered for Jensen’s kitchen.
“Don’t you think you should ease him into your preferred color palette?” Tatum asks, her nose scrunched in disapproval.
She has a point. I may plan to move in with Jensen after our six-week separation ends, but he’s going through enough changes without me splashing bold, primary colors all over his life.
Part of his therapy involves updating his house and wardrobe. Jake and Tatum keep me apprised of his progress and what changes are on his list, then I go shopping. I’m okay with Tatum taking the credit for my contributions because I’ll do anything to ensure he remains on an upward trajectory. That includes hiding my involvement in his healing.
I huff at her and say, “Fine. We’ll go with the boring beige you chose.”
“It’s more of a taupe.”
“Cream, beige, tan, taupe. The only feeling any of those stir inside me is boredom.” I grab a gallon of matte paint and heave it into the cart, shooting Graham the stink eye for wandering off to try on hard hats instead of helping me.
“I can’t wait for their house to be built,” Tatum says with a squeal of excitement.
Graham and Miguel bought the creepy property on the outskirts of town. Once they remove the run-down mobile home, they can start building the home Miguel is designing.
“I wish Marcus and Judge would move here, then we’d all be together again.”
Her grin falters as sadness dims her eyes. “They’re Cali boys, through and through, and they’re growing up. We’re all spreading our wings, so let’s enjoy each other while we can.”
“They’re older than us, Tate. Fully grown men. And you and I are doing the opposite of spreading our wings. We’re nesting.” I wave a hand at my paint can and her swollen belly—her baby’s due in October—to emphasize my point.
“Speaking of grown men,” she murmurs as Graham and Miguel dance a waltz in front of Menchy’s cash register. The old man doesn’t look impressed. With his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he scowls at their antics.
The door swings open, aided by a gust of wind, and Marcus and Judge hustle through like they’re being chased. Judge looks downright frazzled as sweat drips from his brow, the August temperatures in Texas unforgiving. He moves away from the front windows, hiding from someone’s view.
After everything that happened with Jensen, my friends gave me some time to process before flying to Texas to support me. I sobbed in each of their arms, and we embarked on a week-long slumber party, spending some nights at Tatum’s and other nights at Pam’s house, much to her delight. She enjoys any chance she has to dote on the Cali boys.
Tatum waddles over to Judge, who’s red in the face, and fusses over him. “What happened?”
“Judge was accosted by a handsy old lady with a vibrating poodle,” Marcus says, gritting his teeth. “We barely got him away from her.”
“Evelyn Truman,” Tatum and I say in unison, her with pity and me with amusement.
Judge grimaces and waves a hand in front of his nose. The only thing worse than Ms. Truman’s inappropriate advances is the stench of her strong perfume.
“This town is full of crazy people. I don’t get why any of you want to live here,” Marcus says, eyeing Graham and Miguel in disapproval as they continue spinning around the store.
I used to feel the same about Walford, but not anymore. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. “You’re welcome to join us,” I say, wrapping an arm around his waist.
He shoots me a perplexed look because I’m hugging him in public, so I quickly detach myself. “Not a fucking chance,” he says before pushing open the door and barking, “Judge! Let’s go.”
The guys and Tatum leave with promises to meet up with me later. I have one more errand to run—one more wound to close—before I can move forward with the future of my choosing.
There’s a happy gleam in Menchy’s eyes when I hand him my credit card and confirm the delivery of the tiles I ordered for the backsplash in Jensen’s kitchen. He gives me the receipt and says, “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay.”
I look around the empty store to make sure he’s not talking to someone else. “Um…thanks.”
He produces a toothpick from his apron and wedges it between his lips. “Have a nice day.”
Paint can in hand, I leave Menchy’s and prepare myself for the next stop. My mother’s house.
It’s been two months since I was last at Vera’s house. She hasn’t contacted me, not even to ask why I went into Logan’s room, which proves she doesn’t need me. She can get by on her own. Her failure to reach out also proves, since returning to Walford, I’ve wasted my time and energy caring for the wrong person.
Today, my second attempt at a final farewell, I don’t linger in the yard or reminisce. Without hesitation, I unlock the front door and drop my house key into the bowl on the entryway table. A spoon clinking against a ceramic mug signals Vera’s location, so I raise my chin and take confident strides toward the kitchen.
Papers are strewn across the table, medical bills and other documents that look important. Her eyes land on me, greeting me with their sad, empty gaze. I give it right back, my stare dead and facial expression devoid of emotion. For once, I don’t have to fake it. I’ve spent weeks evaluating my one-sided relationship with her, and I can’t be bothered anymore.
Before she has a chance to speak, I say, “I’m done.”
“Done?” She sets her mug on the table and straightens in her chair.
“I’m done putting in all the effort between us. If you want me in your life, you’ll have to earn me.”
Stuttering noises catch in her throat. “I-I don’t understand.”
Same thing my dad said.
My hardened posture withers on an exhale. “You and Dad gave one hundred percent of yourselves to Logan when he was alive. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back. But I’m here. If y’all really love me, both of you need to step up. If you make an effort to know me, I’ll consider meeting you halfway.”
With her brow pinched, she shakes her head. “Effort? I’m confused.”
She hasn’t moved from her seat, and the thought she could be having one of her bad days crosses my mind. Before I know it, I’m standing by the table with my hands on the back of an empty chair, closing most of the distance between us despite what I said seconds ago about meeting halfway.
“Show up for me like you did for Logan. Until then, I’m done showing up for you.”
Her mouth opens and closes, failing to capture the right words. “Parenting is hard, especially when you have more than one child. Logan’s football kept us busy, and I thought we were all a team, supporting him together.”
“But don’t you see? You never supported me.” When she stares like I’m speaking a made-up language, I sigh, exhausted from trying to get my message across. My parents need to do some deep soul searching if they ever hope to see things from my perspective. “It’s not my job to help you understand why you haven’t been a good parent to me. You’ll have to look back and figure it out on your own.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re acting like we pushed you aside or something. Where is this coming from?”
I unclench my teeth after being called silly and tighten my grip on the chair to rein in my anger. “I wasn’t pushed aside, Mom. You just forgot I was there. And please don’t ever call me silly again. Every time you say it, you belittle my feelings, not that you’ve ever cared about how I felt.”
Tears well in her eyes, but I find it hard to believe they’re meant for me. “I’m sorry if it seems like I don’t care. I do. I’ve just been going through a difficult time.” In a panic, she shuffles a few papers around and clears a space at the table. “Do you want to sit down and talk about this? I don’t want to lose you too.”
My jaw drops open, but I snap it shut. Ignorance must be bliss if she believes our relationship has any substance, any value that makes it worth salvaging in its present state. The “difficult time” she mentions has lasted twenty-nine years on my end. It’s too late for her to make excuses now, and she can’t blame a lifetime of negligence on her recent health problems.
In my gentlest tone possible, holding back my sass and snark, I ask, “Can you call someone walking away a loss if you didn’t cherish the person in the first place?”
She sniffles and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “I’m sorry, Maisy.”
My wilted smile is sympathetic, resigned. “Me too, Mom. Take care of yourself.”
Shutting the front door with a soft snick, I glance at the wooden bench and nod once, satisfied with my new never . I never have to look at this damn bench again. It’s a reminder of the day I cast aside the person who loved me most, same as my parents did to me. How lucky am I that Jensen kept loving me regardless?
Back in my bedroom at Pam’s house, I open the banker box Tatum delivered to the bed-and-breakfast when everything crumbled. At least a dozen journals are packed inside. I flip through a few of them, seeing page after page of Jensen’s neat handwriting.
Nestled under the covers with the sunlight pouring through the window, I read every letter he wrote to me during the thirteen years we were apart.