8. Maisy
8
MAISY
My head protests the amount of alcohol I consumed last night. Lying on my back, I kick off the covers and stretch, allowing the cool air to wash over me. Goosebumps surface along my exposed skin, which is a lot considering I sleep in panties and a tank top.
Why did I drink so much? After all the years of tending to Tatum during her binges and cleaning up the trail of damage she left, I should know better than to get carried away.
“So stupid,” I whisper to myself.
“I agree.” The bed shakes when the man next to me with the smooth baritone chuckles.
My head lolls to the side, and I glare at Graham. He’s propped on an elbow—hair mussed and chiseled abs on display above turquoise boxers—like he’s in a freaking magazine spread.
“Good morning, my little starshine,” he coos.
“Did you sleep in here again?” Glancing at the window, I’m met with the grey haze of early morning. Too early. Either my alarm hasn’t gone off yet, or I forgot to set it.
“I did, but only because I thought you might puke.”
“Did you take off my makeup?” I ask, patting my face.
He cocks a haughty brow. “Do I look like an amateur?”
“Thank you.” I close my eyes to hide my vulnerability because I don’t like being seen without makeup. My closest friends may have seen the me underneath countless times, but I feel exposed and raw without foundation at least.
“You’re welcome. Now tell me why you drank so much and how long you’ve been in love with Jensen Holloway.”
My eyelids pop open. “Come again?”
“Don’t deny it. You took a twenty-minute nap in the car, then you prattled on about his sexy face and his mega dick for the rest of the ride home.”
“I’ve never seen his dick. It could be tiny for all I know.”
“You were the one grinding on it in a dark alley, so you’d know better than anyone.” Graham’s smug face begs to be punched.
Flinging an arm across my eyes, another groan escapes me. “Oh my god. I told you?”
“Yes. That and so much more. Drunk Maisy’s an open book, unlike my best friend, Moody Maisy, who tells me nothing.”
“Remind me to never drink again.”
“Done.” He scoots closer to me on the bed. “Spill the beans, toots. Tell me all about the man who wears the tightest jeans on the market.”
“You’re infuriating, and there’s nothing to tell. It’s history.”
“Your nipples have been threatening to stab me in the eyes since I spoke his name, so I’d say it’s recent history.”
“I’m cold, asshole,” I grumble, reaching for the covers and drawing them to my chin. Graham waits with an eager grin, so I curl onto my side and tuck my hands under my cheek. “Fine. If you must know, I had a crush on him growing up, but I grew out of it and moved on. The end and get the hell out.”
Lying down flat, he mirrors my position and softens his voice to a near whisper. “That was such a lovely story filled with lies and denial. Please continue.”
I bark a laugh, then wince at the hammering in my skull. Graham brushes the curls out of my face and strokes his knuckles along my cheek. The tender gesture forces my eyelids to shutter, and I’m grateful his teasing has come to an end. He knows where I draw the line between having my buttons pushed and being pushed too far. Any conversation veering toward my past is too far in my book.
“You can talk to me. Nothing leaves this room.” His earnest tone promises safety and silence.
As I contemplate opening up about Jensen for the first time, I hold Graham’s gaze and recall a strategy game I used to play with my Nana when I visited her. The game pieces were little glass stones stored in velvet pouches. His eyes remind me of the amber stones.
Now that I think of it, Tatum’s eyes are the same color as the blue stones. I picture Jensen’s eyes when I remember the rare, light green stones. My grandmother was a big believer in signs, fates, and foreshadowing, so maybe she was on to something. But maybe not. I believed in fate with regard to Jensen, and boy, was I wrong.
“I used to believe I was born just for him.” I whisper the confession, trailing my finger along Graham’s arm and pulling strength from him as I lay myself bare. “Like, why else would God give me to a crappy family in a crappy town? I had to have some reason for existing. And I truly thought I was made for him.” My sniffle clues me in to the fact I’m crying, so I attempt to laugh the pain away. “It was a stupid, romantic notion dreamed up by a stupid, silly girl.”
“Hey.” He laces our fingers together and squeezes my hand. “Please don’t call my best friend stupid. She’s not. She happens to be smart and funny and beautiful, inside and out. And more importantly, she’s in love.”
I scoff. “You can’t be in love with someone you don’t know anymore. I stopped talking to him thirteen years ago. We’re different people now than we were back then.”
“I think he would disagree. He asked if you and I are together, and he looked devastated when I said we are every night.”
My eyes go wide before I break into a laughing fit, making my headache worse. “Oh god,” I breathe. “I would’ve loved to see his face.”
Graham grimaces. “Nah. I felt pretty bad afterward. He was crushed. I’m all for weaponizing someone’s jealousy to give them a shove in the right direction, but this was different, Maisy. A lost man never knows which way to go. And judging by his face last night? That guy is a very lost man.”
His comments sober me up, chasing away the traces of amusement until all I hear are Jensen’s pleas.
“Haven’t you punished me long enough?”
“Spare five fucking minutes of your life for me.”
Unable to witness the sympathy for Jensen on Graham’s face, I roll to my back and rub my forehead to ease the tension building there. The question I should ask myself is whether Jensen is lost because of me or if he’s lost without me. For all I know, it’s neither. Something else could be going on in his life, and Graham is misreading the situation.
No matter the reason, I can’t risk finding out. Opening myself up to Jensen means opening the door to a world of heartbreak, and I won’t risk the fall again.
Done with this conversation, I change the subject. “How much time do I have to get ready?”
We returned to Austin after last night’s awful karaoke performances because we have to be on set early today. I wish I had followed Graham’s responsible lead and passed on the liquor.
“Not long.” He checks the time on his cell phone and rolls off the bed, landing on his feet. “Grab a breath mint and a bra. We leave in twenty.”
The skinny twenty-year-old in my makeup chair has a baby face and short brown hair parted neatly on one side. He’s likely never met a whisker, and I’m not surprised Graham cast him to play a young high school kid.
“You look like shit today. Ow?—”
Harmon Mahon, an unfortunate name, presses a finger to the corner of his eye. I’m not at all sorry for stabbing him with the eyeliner pencil.
“Never tell a woman she looks like shit.”
“Sorry. I meant to say you look tired.” He throws up his hands when I glare at him. “What am I allowed to say?”
“Saying nothing works well for most men.”
He runs his palms along the plastic bib he’s wearing to protect his plaid shirt from makeup powder. “Are you this nice to all the actors?”
“Only my favorites,” I say, keeping my hand steady as I touch up the corner of his lower eyelid.
He smirks. “So I’m a favorite.” When my sarcastic comment registers, he loses the smirk and grumbles. “I’d hate to see you when you’re in a bad mood.”
“Yes, you would. Now be quiet and sit still so I can finish.” I swap the pencil for a tube of lipstick and a lip brush.
“I hate lipstick,” he says without moving his mouth, unable to form the consonants. “It makes my throat scratchy.”
All of my makeup is hypoallergenic, so the scratchy throat is his problem, not mine.
“You’re not supposed to eat it. Pucker up and let’s get this done.”
As I’m putting the final touches on Harmon’s makeup, my cell phone buzzes. I turn my back on him, dismissing him from the trailer, and unlock the screen.
Tate
I’m doing the show.
Me
What show?
Tate
At Bruno’s in two weeks.
Dammit. She’ll expect me to be there, and I won’t be able to make excuses if Graham decides he wants to go. Fingers crossed, he won’t.
Graham
Yes! Comeback kid! I’ll be there!
GIF of screaming fangirl
Dammit. Again. And why is Graham texting from the set? He should be working right now.
Me
Sounds fun.
Tate
Uh oh. Maisy said the F-word.
She’s either lying or gravely ill.
Graham
I heard there’s a mega virus going around.
Tate
Really? I haven’t heard anything about it.
Me
neutral face emoji
I’ll be at your show.
Tate
Yay! Stay healthy, guys.
masked face emoji
I drop the phone on the vanity table and bend at the waist to rest my pounding head on my forearms. The door to my trailer pops open.
“Harmon, you’re up!” Graham’s assistant shouts before the door swings shut with a bang. The sound echoes in my throbbing brain.
Rolling my head to one side, I peek at the makeup chair to find Harmon staring at me. “You’re still here,” I say.
“Yep.” His knees sway lazily back and forth, as if he doesn’t have somewhere to be.
“Get out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says before rushing out the door.
I let out a long sigh, miserable from the hangover and wondering what deity cursed me with countless reasons to drag my butt back to Walford.