4. Jensen
4
JENSEN
Jake
Are you helping me install floors tomorrow?
Me
Yep. I’ll be there at 2:00.
Jake
Bring beer.
Me
thumbs-up emoji
I set my phone on the table at the Noon Moon Café, where I’m having breakfast with my buddy, Trevor. He works from home but likes to relocate his workspace to the library, the coffee shop, or the café. Because my cooking skills begin and end with cereal and spaghetti, I join him for meals when I can.
“Gina has a friend,” he says without glancing up from his laptop. His job has something to do with software, which sounds boring as hell.
“I don’t want to meet Gina’s friend,” I say between bites of scrambled eggs. His grey eyes drift upward to meet mine, and I shrug. “I’m not interested in dating.”
Trevor and his wife, Gina, have been setting me up on dates for years. I indulged them for a while, but put my foot down after one woman proposed marriage on the first date.
He adjusts the ball cap covering his brown hair and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “How long has it been? A year?”
I offer him a blank stare instead of an answer.
Despite his expression of disbelief, his voice lacks intonation. “Longer than a year?” He shakes his head. “You’re not getting any younger, man. And I know you want the wife, the kids, and the dog. You can’t have that life if you don’t get out there and date.”
“Maybe that life isn’t in the cards for me. I’m too busy for dating or relationships. I have the bar,” I lie.
The last and only relationship I had ended because my ex-girlfriend complained about me working nights. She knew going in that I owned a bar. After seven months of her subtle digs at my choice of career, I ended things between us. Partners should build each other up and support one another, not take cheap shots to destroy each other’s foundations.
As a witness to my parents’ loving and supportive marriage, I set the relationship bar pretty high for myself at a young age. Yes, I want the wife and the kids and the dog, but my standards are damn near perfection. An unattainable goal for any woman, save one. Gina can throw all the available women in Texas at me, and it won’t make a difference. I met my damn near perfect years ago, and she’s perfect for me.
Trevor studies me with narrowed eyes, but I don’t falter under his scrutiny. It takes someone far more threatening than a brainiac who wears practical sweaters and sneakers with his jeans to ruffle my feathers.
“Who is she?” he asks.
Like me, Trevor isn’t a big talker, so silence is a comfortable third wheel when we hang out together. That is, until he catches the smallest hint of deception, at which point he becomes relentless in his pursuit of the truth. The man is too smart for his own good.
“There’s no one.” I pluck a napkin from the moon-shaped holder and wipe a drop of ketchup off the table.
The café has an astrological theme, with dark blue and gold decor and a mural of the moon phases painted on the wall. Despite the name, the owners only serve breakfast and lunch.
“Then go on a date with Gina’s friend,” he says. “One date.”
“Nope. I don’t have the time.” Because I’m too busy chasing Maisy.
“You’re a terrible liar, Jenny. Who’s the girl? I need her name, age, and occupation.” He rests a finger on the touchpad of his laptop, poised to conduct an internet search.
“Don’t call me Jenny. And there’s no woman . If I ever find one, you’ll be the last person to know.”
Sighing, he returns his focus to his beloved keyboard, clacking the keys at a ridiculous speed and ending our morning chat. I finish my last strip of bacon, wash it down with a second glass of orange juice, and throw some cash on the table. Trevor and I tip our chins at each other, and I leave him to his boring computer job.
After spending the morning in my office, paying bills and ordering stock for the bar, I move on to my next task on today’s list. The frigid January air bites at me as I hustle to my Jeep parked behind Bruno’s. Because my body temperature runs hot, I refuse to wear a jacket over my T-shirts, but the recent cold front tests my limits.
“Hey, Jensen! Got a minute?”
I glance over my shoulder when Lydia, owner of The Drip, calls out to me. She’s bundled up in a puffy coat and gloves, stuffing a trash bag in the dumpster behind her coffee shop. Cursing to myself, I shove my hands deep in my jeans pockets to keep them warm and head her way.
“What’s up?”
“I heard you’re running for mayor. Please tell me it’s true.” The blinding-white smile on her face is the only reason I suppress an annoyed groan.
I swear the old men in this town are the worst gossips, spreading rumors they hope will become truths. Everywhere I go, someone makes a comment about me being the next mayor, and the pressure weighs on me.
Fighting a shiver against the cold, I force a grin and shake my head. “No guarantees. The fellas were just tossing around ideas.”
“Well, you have my vote.” She squints when a gust of wind blasts her face and flattens the tips of her spiky, bleached hair.
I draw up my shoulders against that same wind assaulting my bones. “It’s a big job. Not sure if I’ll have the time.”
She flaps a gloved hand. “Oh, phooey. Being mayor is the easiest gig in town. All we need is someone we respect who can settle disputes and show up at places sober. You’re perfect for the job.”
Need.
Perfect.
“We’ll see,” I tell her, walking backward to escape the cold and the temptation to say yes. “Hey, I’ve gotta run. Stay warm, okay?”
“Alright. Tell Vera I said hello. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
My smile tightens. “Will do.” Leaving her with a curt nod, I jog to my Jeep before I freeze to death.
Does everyone in town know my schedule? I check on Vera once a week after lunch since we both work night jobs and sleep late. In the early years, I swung by her house more often because she was alone after Maisy left. However, when Vera began erasing signs of Maisy’s existence, I lessened the frequency of my visits, unable to watch the memories of my girl fade to black.
My girl .
Our recent interactions suggest Maisy has never been and will never be my girl. When I saw her at the Christmas festival, she outright ignored me. Wouldn’t even look in my direction. It’ll take drastic action on my part to shock the stubbornness out of that woman if I want back in her life.
Maisy may not want to admit it, but she’s meant to be mine. If I can find an opening, I’ll crash through that iron will of hers and get her to talk to me. Then we can build the future we’re meant to have. One with us together.
I bound up Vera’s porch steps and rap on the door, but she doesn’t answer. Her car sits in the driveway, which means she’s home, so I check the door and find it unlocked. I’m not one to let myself into people’s houses, but she’s been sick off and on for a while. My gut tells me something’s wrong, and I always listen to my gut.
She’s napping on the couch with a blanket covering her, and the screen of the muted TV flickers. I pause in the entryway, wondering if I should leave, but a mess on the kitchen floor catches my eye. I frown at the shattered mug and pool of liquid. Vera’s intolerant of messes, and it’s unlike her to not clean up a spill.
Hovering near the couch, I hesitate before whispering her name. She doesn’t respond, but she’s breathing, so I leave her alone. Once I’ve cleaned up the mess and put away the broom, I flip on the hall light and proceed with the ritual I carry out whenever I visit. With Vera sleeping, I can take my time for once.
Dozens of photos in mismatched frames line the hallway. Most of them show Logan at different stages of his football career, ending with him holding the trophy when he led his college team to a championship title. I’m in several of the photos, along with Javi and Trevor, but my eyes linger on the handful of frames displaying Maisy’s face.
Her baby picture. Her kindergarten graduation photo, where she gives a shy smile to the camera. There’s one of her sitting alone in the stands at a football game. She’s focused on her cell phone, uninterested in the game, but the stadium lights capture her glow. The last picture of Maisy is her high school graduation portrait. I found it stashed in a box when I organized Vera’s garage, so I had it framed and hung it on the wall.
Four photos. That’s the measure of Maisy’s importance to Vera.
If Logan wasn’t my closest friend, I would’ve given up on the woman long ago. The part of me that sticks around out of guilt shrinks with time, but another part of me holds firm because she’s my only link to Maisy. So I visit every week, hoping one day I’ll catch a break that leads me back to my girl.
A long groan draws my attention to the living room. Vera rests one arm on the back of the couch as if to pull herself up, but her eyes remain closed.
“Hey, Vera,” I say, shuffling closer. “Came to check on you. It’s Tuesday.”
“Jensen?” Her groggy voice cracks. “I can’t…” She lies back in defeat, shoulders sinking into the cushions. The tears trickling from the corners of her eyes put me on alert.
I sit on the coffee table I repaired not too long ago. “Vera?”
When she opens her eyes, her unfocused gaze drifts in my general direction but doesn’t fix on me. My level of concern rises even more. Something worse than the seasonal cold she claims to be battling is at play here.
“Vera, do you need help?” I ask.
Pursing her lips, she summons the courage to relinquish her stubborn pride, then nods once. God, she’s just like Maisy.
“What can I do? Do you need an ambulance?”
“I can’t lift my legs. And I—” A whimper escapes her as embarrassment pinches every corner of her tired face. “I wet myself.”
Fuck. I’m not equipped to handle this situation, but I’ll find a solution. I always do. “I can call an ambulance for you, or I can call Lucy Harrison, Rock’s wife. She’s a nurse.”
“No ambulance,” she says, closing her eyes again. An ambulance means contacting emergency dispatch, and her coworkers and boss will learn about whatever’s going on here.
“I’m calling Lucy then,” I say, sliding the cell phone from my back pocket.
Twenty minutes later, Lucy knocks on the door with her infant daughter, Marcella, in tow. I explained the situation over the phone, and between ending the call and her arrival, Vera managed to sit up with my help. Both of us were careful not to shift the blanket covering the source of her shame.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell Lucy as she peers around the inside of Vera’s tidy house.
Outdated furnishings decorate the space, similar to my parents’ house where I live. The difference between our homes is that mine shows evidence of my parents’ life and love. Vera’s home reminds me of a cold mausoleum, devoid of love’s warm remembrance.
“Is she in any pain?” Lucy whispers. Her family moved from Mexico to Texas when she was young, and her voice carries a faint accent.
“Doesn’t seem to be, but she’s not saying much.”
Her dark brown gaze holds mine for a beat before she nods, understanding she’s about to face a patient with wounded pride. She hands Marcella to me and drops a diaper bag to the floor. I take Lucy’s coat with my free hand while her daughter tugs at my beard.
Gathering her black hair into a low ponytail, Lucy enters the living room in nurse mode. “Hey, Miss Vera. I’m Lucy. Let’s get you freshened up.”
With Marcella settled on a padded mat with toys, Lucy and I help Vera into the bathroom and get to work. She tends to Vera’s needs in private, and I load the soiled linens and clothes into the washer. I send Javi a quick text message asking if he can stay at Bruno’s until I return. Thankfully, he can.
An hour passes, and I’m relaxing in a burgundy armchair with the auburn-haired Marcella asleep on my chest when someone pounds on the front door. I check my watch, noting the school day has ended. With football season over, I know who’s on the porch.
Rock’s nostrils flare when I open the door with his daughter in my arms. “Where’s my wife?”
Because he’s never been a fan of my friendship with Lucy, I seize this opportunity to goad him. “In the bedroom, getting cleaned up.”
His head turns a dangerous shade of red, more pronounced atop the solid white Walford Bulldogs tracksuit he’s wearing. The man has trouble finding clothes to fit his huge thighs, so he defaults to athletic wear.
Rock lived with me after he graduated from college and until he married Lucy, which is how she and I became friends. They’re opposites in every way imaginable. She’s a petite sweetheart with compassion and a ready smile. He’s a six-foot-five ginger giant with no personality, and the only things that put a smile on his freckled face are bloody mayhem and his family.
Smirking, I pass Marcella to her fuming father. Despite her being eight months old now, he tucks her into one long, muscled arm like a football and shoulder-checks me as he enters the house. I chuckle and close the door as Lucy wanders down the hallway, stopping to study the photos on the wall.
“This is Maisy’s house?” she asks. At my obvious confusion, she gestures at a photo and explains. “I met her at the festival, and Tatum showed me pictures of them together on tour.”
I forget Lucy and Tatum are getting to know each other now that Tatum’s home. It’s strange having all these different branches of my life intertwine.
“She grew up here,” I answer.
“She’s so beautiful.” Lucy’s expression is full of wonder.
I’m filled with the same wonder whenever I look at Maisy. Her beauty paints the soul with vibrant colors and shimmering light, impossible to ignore. Ever since she left me, my life’s been dull and colorless.
Because I can’t talk about her without emptiness overtaking me and ruining my mood, I stick to the matter at hand. “What’s the verdict with Vera?”
Lucy joins me in the living room where Rock posts up behind her like a sentinel guarding his queen. “I helped her to bed, so she’s comfortable for now.” She glances at Rock, who hasn’t taken his angry eyes off me. “Can you give us a minute alone, big guy? I’ll be right out.”
“No,” he says. The breadth of his vocabulary is narrower than mine.
Lucy crooks a finger at him. “Come here.”
She whispers in his ear, and a red flush creeps up his neck from whatever she’s telling him. I’m sure I don’t want to know. These two are freaks in the sheets and everywhere else. I’m aware of their preferences because Lucy spent many nights with Rock when he lived with me.
“The double-ended one?” he whispers hopefully, but he’s incapable of whispering with his deep bass voice, so I hear everything.
When Lucy nods, the corners of his mouth twitch, his face’s equivalent to a kid hyped up on sugar at the county fair. He bundles up Marcella in her tiny coat and blanket, then tosses me the middle finger on his way out the front door.
“You’re a saint,” I tell Lucy, shaking my head.
A grin lights up her face. “He’s not so bad if you know how to handle him.”
I raise my hands, throwing up a barrier against her ongoing efforts to treat me like a bestie. “Keep it to yourself.”
She giggles, but the humor fades when she brings us back to the topic of Vera. “Losing control of bodily functions is never a good sign, and I have a feeling it’s been going on for a while. I also think she has trouble seeing.”
“I noticed that earlier. It’s like she was looking through me.”
Nodding, she chews the corner of her lip. “She should definitely see her doctor. From what little I know of her symptoms, she may need to see a neurologist too. I can call my dad and find out if he has any openings for a consultation, depending on what Vera’s primary doctor says.”
Lucy’s dad owns a neurology practice in San Antonio, a two-hour drive from Walford, which means the time spent driving there and back, plus the appointment, will take up most of a day. A day I don’t have.
“Should Vera be driving?” I ask.
If her legs don’t work, and her sight is failing, anything could go wrong if she got behind the wheel. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take after my own parents died in a car crash.
“No. Someone will have to take her.”
Shit. I rest a hand on a hip and scratch my beard, running all the options through my head while meeting Lucy’s sympathetic stare. She’s never voiced her opinion on the issue, but she’s aware of my tendency to spread myself too thin.
My schedule is the least of my problems though. Long ago, Vera shut herself off from Walford to wallow in grief. She doesn’t have any close friends or a support system. Aside from me and her coworkers, she hardly interacts with people, and she won’t allow just anyone to know her business. She’s too damn stubborn and proud. Just like Maisy.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say.
“Okay. Let me know what else I can do to help.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
We bump knuckles because I hugged her once, and Rock threatened to dig my grave. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s watching us through the window as we speak. There’s possessive, and there’s James Rockford Harrison III. But Lucy revels in his behavior, provokes it even, so I keep my mouth shut.
After she leaves, I remove the cushion covers from the dryer and situate the living room. On the end table, Vera’s phone vibrates with a text message. I can’t read the entire conversation, but the part displayed in the notification is enough to get my heart racing.
Maisy
I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon.
Finally, my weekly visits with Vera have paid off. Ever since Maisy moved away from Walford, I’ve tried catching her when she sneaks into town, but she evades me every time. I usually don’t learn about her appearances until she’s long gone. But tomorrow, I’ll be watching and waiting.
Reading the text again, I smile to myself as a triumphant voice declares victory in my head.
Caught you, birdie.