18. Jensen
18
JENSEN
Trevor
Saturday morning. My place.
Javi
Can’t. I have a client session.
Me
What are we doing?
Trevor
Building the new deck. We’ve been talking about it for weeks.
Me
Right. I’ll be there.
Javi
I’ll join you for lunch.
Trevor
No work, all reward for the yogi.
Javi
middle finger emoji I’m not a yogi.
For an hour, I’ve been doodling on a stack of cardboard coasters stamped with a local brewery’s logo. With time to kill before the doors open for business today, I’m lost in my thoughts despite my long to-do list.
I can’t stop thinking about Lucy’s suggestion to show or tell Maisy what our future could look like. A speech is out of the question, but perhaps I could write down my fragmented thoughts. As long as I avoid viewing the effort as an assignment, I should be okay. My mind only becomes flustered when I’m put on the spot or being evaluated. Under pressure, I flounder, unable to convey coherent sentences and ideas.
In school, teachers awarded me low grades for essays or speeches, and I often failed the assignments. No one linked my communication struggles to performance anxiety, a self-diagnosis I made in my late twenties. By then, people had grown accustomed to my reserved nature and accepted that I’m a man of few words. Limiting my verbal communication is better than sounding stupid.
If I don’t think too hard about what I’m trying to say, words come easily. Like the other day when I delivered several truths to Maisy without becoming frazzled and tongue-tied. My thoughts and feelings poured out of me without conscious effort. If I could communicate eloquently all the time, I wouldn’t be doodling on this coaster, pondering the best way to tell a story.
My pencil halts mid-stroke as an idea forms. A genius idea. I’ll draw the future for her. How hard can it be to express through images what I could never succinctly describe with words?
“Knock! Knock!” Lydia shuffles into Bruno’s with a large bag hooked over her shoulder.
I set the coasters aside and give her my attention, adding extra pep to my voice. “What’s up?” I ask.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded piece of black fabric. “I brought the tablecloth you wanted.”
My mind draws a complete blank. “For?”
“Your setup at the festival.” My expression must be as vacant as my mind, prompting her to add, “For the table with sign-ups for stage time and the raffle.”
“Raffle,” I parrot.
“Yes.” She stretches the word, her eyebrows raised in question. “You agreed to man the raffle box this year, which is why you need a table.”
“Lydia, I?—”
She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t even worry about it. You can’t be expected to remember every conversation, especially one from over a month ago.”
Now that she mentions it, I recall a brief discussion about tables and raffles after we installed Tom’s muffin sign.
“I remember,” I say, taking the tablecloth from her and tucking it under my arm. “Anything else I may have forgotten?”
She chuckles, oblivious to the self-berating inside my head. “As long as you didn’t forget to sign up as a vendor, you should be good to go.”
I stare at her, grateful for the massive wood bar blocking her view of my clenched fists. My heart races, and my stomach twists into knots. By all appearances, I’m frozen solid and unresponsive, and her smile switches to a frown.
“If it slipped your mind, you better get over to the town hall. It’s April 1 st . The sign-up deadline is today.”
Things don’t slip my mind. In fact, it’s the opposite. My mind does the slipping. But I can’t let Lydia or anyone else know, and I can’t get my damn mouth to form words.
What if the wrong thing comes out? I could snap at Lydia—misdirect my frustration with myself and aim it at her. Shit, she’s waiting for a response. This is lighthearted chit chat. But my head is not in a light place. Sweat gathers on my forehead, and I need her to leave .
“I’ll head over there now,” I say.
“Perfect! I better get back to work. Have a great day!” She waves over her shoulder on her way out.
Perfect .
I’m so far from perfect right now, I could crumble to the floor under the weight of my collective blunders, which flash through my head like a highlights reel. The raffle, the vendor sign-up, and the thousand other oversights I’ve made in recent weeks. A sliver of reason nudges my brain, reminding me I’m allowed to make mistakes, especially when I’m preoccupied with other things—more important things—like catching Maisy and stressing about Jake. But that sliver of reason is no match for the internal voices.
Failure. Loser. A total disappointment.
I usually conquer the raging thoughts by physically fighting back. Unfortunately, tearing my office apart isn’t an option, and I don’t have time to run home for a quick workout in my garage. The bar opens in less than an hour, and I’m opening alone today.
In search of a reprieve, and to stop the spiral before it gains momentum, I sneak upstairs and pray no one comes looking for me. I unlock the door and climb the steps three at a time. The tension in my body dissipates the moment I enter the room and absorb the sights, the smells, the comforts. All the reminders of her . Without Maisy around to keep me from spinning out of control, this room is the next best thing. This room, where all my memories of her come alive and soothe my tormented mind.
I sink into the papasan chair and drop my head in my hands, threading my fingers through my hair but suppressing the urge to rip the strands out of my scalp. On repeat, I tell myself I’m overreacting to the situation. People forget things—it happens—and there’s a simple solution to my current predicament. As Lydia said, I merely need to walk down the street and fill out a stupid form.
If I were mayor, my first initiative would be to switch all documents and records from paper to digital, allowing citizens to conduct their business with the town online. Not everyone wants to wade through discussions about the weather or who has the best zucchini bread recipe just to fill out a form with less than ten fields of information. But I don’t want to be mayor, so paper it is.
With thoughts of Maisy lulling my mind, I pull up my big-boy pants and trek to the town hall. Gloria Mu?oz, who has worked at the front desk for longer than I’ve been alive, greets me with a warm smile, kind eyes, and coiffed hair with enough hairspray to withstand gale-force winds. I’m firmly in the camp of people who believe she single-handedly manages the town. Officially, she’s the receptionist, but her job responsibilities extend well beyond greeting citizens and filing paperwork.
“How are you, Jensen?” she asks.
I bury my restless energy and force an easy grin. “I’m well. How are you, darlin’?”
Despite her blushing cheeks, she rolls her eyes at me. “Good, thanks. What can I help you with today?”
“I’m here to sign up for the festival.”
She tuts and wags a finger. “You almost missed the deadline.”
“Almost.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t mess around with further teasing. She slides a pen and a stack of papers across the counter, and I complete the vendor form before flipping to the packet underneath it. My stomach clenches.
“What’s this?”
“The paperwork to get your name on the ballot for mayor. I heard you plan to run?” Her big, hopeful eyes make my skin prickle with heat.
Fuck.
“Uh…” Shit. I squeeze the back of my neck. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Don’t worry, you still have some time. Take the forms with you and bring them back when you decide. Be sure to complete and sign every page.” She leans forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I think you’ll win. You’re exactly who this town needs.”
Needs.
With a nod, I rap a knuckle on the counter. “Thanks.”
Crushing the packet in my fist, I exit the town hall with my ears ringing so loud that it drowns out Gloria’s goodbye. A migraine is coming on, and I’m in no state to talk to anyone. Unfortunately, I get no say in the matter when I find Jake waiting outside Bruno’s. He stands taller when he notices me, and wariness settles in his eyes.
We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since before he left for California to chase after Tatum. He was broken after their fallout, and I tried to support him despite his anger toward me.
“Hey,” he says, his body language hesitant. Then his eyebrows crease with concern, and he grabs my shoulders. “Whoa. You okay?”
“Yeah. I have a bad headache.”
“You look pale.”
My voice sounds sluggish in my head when I speak. “I’m good. What’s up?” I ask, unlocking the door.
He follows me inside the empty bar and says, “Let’s go to your office.”
Once we’re settled with the door closed, I plant my elbows on the desk, massaging my temples to ease the tension pressing against my skull. On the inside, I’m thrumming with impatience, annoyance, and anger at myself. No one understands how difficult it is to keep these feelings from spilling over and causing a fiery path of destruction. I need to get this energy out of me before I do something I’ll regret, like snap at my brother.
“Jensen?”
Leaning back in my chair, I attempt to appear relaxed and give Jake my attention. “Yeah?”
“Did you hear anything I said?” he asks.
Shit.
“Sorry. This migraine is messing with me. What did you say?”
His features soften, and pride graces his lips. “I said Tatum’s pregnant, and we’re getting married at the end of the month.”
Several reactions crash into me at once, and I sort through them in a hurry. I’m thrilled for Jake and Tatum because they deserve happiness after everything they’ve been through. However, I’m heartbroken that my relationship with him is so fractured, he didn’t share the good news with me right away. They returned from California days ago. In the past, I would’ve been the first person he called with good news.
Doing what I do best, I force a grin. “That’s great, Jake. I’m happy for you both.”
Being the astute man he is, he assesses me. Too close for comfort. “You don’t seem happy.”
“I am. Truly.” I round the desk and reach out a hand, pulling him from the chair and into a hug. “You deserve this, Jake. All the good things.”
“Thanks.” We give each other a solid squeeze before letting go.
“Let me know what I can do to help with the wedding.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’ll definitely be putting you to work. And your first job is to stand beside me as my best man.”
My eyes widen. “Really? After everything?”
With his hands on my shoulders, the sincerity and hurt are clear in his eyes as they hold my gaze. “You’re my brother. You’re allowed to make mistakes, and I’m allowed to be pissed at you. But in the end, we’re all we have as far as family. That means we forgive each other for what we can and leave the rest to our conscience. I don’t plan to hold anything against you because I know you. You’ll carry the burden of your regret for longer than you should. So what good will come from me adding weight to it?”
I clear the ball of relief burning a hole in my throat. “You’re a good man, Jake.”
“I was raised by a good man.” He grips my shoulder harder, fighting back his own emotions as he gifts me a dimpled smile. “The best man, some would say.”
Unable to help myself, I laugh and yank him into a hard hug I wish would never end. “Love you, dork.”
“Love you too, man.”
Sniffling, we end our embrace and wipe our teary eyes. “I needed this today. Thank you.”
“You gonna tell me why?”
My pursuit of Maisy, the pressure to run for mayor, the countless bar-related tasks I forget to complete, the mental spiral over the festival…these confessions sit on the tip of my tongue. But I’ve never burdened Jake with my problems because he had so many of his own. I’m the older brother, the bearer of responsibility, and I refuse to drop my worries into his lap.
“Lots of shit going on that I’m sorting through. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m here if you want to talk. I’m not as wise as you, with good advice and long lectures, but I’m pretty to look at and know a lot of funny jokes.”
I point to the door. “Get out. I have work to do.”
“Always so serious,” he grumbles while leaving my office. “I’ll call you about the suit fitting.”
“A suit?” I shout. The only response is his raspy laughter fading into the distance. Welcome, familiar laughter that soothes my soul just enough to make it through the rest of the day.