20. Jensen
20
JENSEN
Jake
Wedding decorating party at my house on Friday.
Brody
As chairperson of the Walford Decorating Committee, I approve this message.
Rock
I don’t decorate.
Jake
Dress comfortably because we’re getting dirty.
Rock
Don’t celebrities hire people for this shit?
Brody
Define dirty.
Jake
We’ll feed you.
Rock
I’m in.
Me
thumbs-up emoji
Brody
What kind of dirty, Jake?
Answer me, bro.
Maisy shared a win with me, and that, in itself, is a win. A small one, but I’ll take whatever scraps she tosses my way.
“You’re whistling.”
I glance up from the notebook in my lap. Trevor’s standing in the middle of the half-finished deck in his backyard, hands on his hips, rocking his khaki shorts and white crew socks with athletic sandals. We spent the morning installing the substructure and laying part of the decking, but now we’re taking a lunch break.
I smile at his baffled expression. “Can’t help it, Trev. It’s a beautiful day.”
He shakes his head on his way inside the house and calls out, “Want a beer?”
“Nah. I’m good,” I say, adding more details to the picture on the page.
“Is that a dragon?” Parker yells directly in my ear while leaning over my shoulder. The six-year-old, smaller version of Trevor has one volume: loud. “Dragons are cool!”
Tilting my head away from the line of deafening fire, I study my drawing from his point of view, not seeing a dragon. “It’s a dog with his tongue hanging out.”
His excitement deflates. “Dogs are boring.”
“Parker, go wash up for lunch,” Trevor says when he reappears.
“Okay,” he whines before running off without further complaint. He’s a good kid.
Trevor drops into the lawn chair next to mine. “What are you working on?”
“A vision board.”
He peers over my arm for a better look. “With hand-drawn illustrations?”
“More like visual aids.” I pause my sketching as an idea pops into my head. “Maybe I should add a few graphs. Or a pie chart.”
“Is this for work? You haven’t mentioned plans to change anything at the bar.”
“Not for work. But it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Thirteen years, but who’s counting?
The good news is Maisy reactivated the countdown clock, each tick bringing us one second closer to reconciliation. I’ll finally get to apologize for hurting her and say—or show—everything I held back that day on the porch. The bad news? I don’t know when the countdown ends. Other than the text message about her makeup gig, I haven’t heard from her all week. I’m respecting her space, giving her no reason to run. However, the waiting game tests my patience, and I have little patience left in my tank when it comes to her. At this point, I’m running on fumes.
“Not to burst your bubble, but your artistic skills suck. What is that ?” He points to the drawing at the bottom corner of the page.
“A rose bush.”
Maisy loves roses. She wanted to plant a rose garden when she was in middle school, but Vera told her they couldn’t afford a higher water bill. I’ll make space in my backyard for Maisy to plant all the roses her heart desires—bills, droughts, and water restrictions be damned.
“It’s some kind of bush,” he mutters.
“You’re a prick.” I flip the notebook shut and tuck the pencil behind my ear. “It’s called concept art.”
“Art is clearly a concept you haven’t mastered. Parker draws better than you, and he’s in kindergarten.” Trevor has the uncanny ability to smirk without moving a single facial muscle, a skill he executes while bringing the beer bottle to his lips.
Gina appears just in time to save her husband from the daggers in my glare. “Lunchtime, guys,” she announces, setting a tray of food on the patio table.
The couple’s two-year-old daughter, Eloise, toddles behind her. Like Gina, Eloise has dark red hair and brown eyes, but the little angel has Trevor’s calm temperament.
I spring to my feet and toss the notebook into my vacated chair. “Need some help?”
“Sure,” she says. “Grab the plates and napkins from inside?”
“On it.”
We settle around the table for lunch and friendly conversation while Parker plays battleships with his pizza rolls and Eloise pokes at her food with one finger, careful not to get the others messy. The lighthearted conversation takes a nosedive when Gina attempts to push one of her single friends on me.
“Megan Reynolds. She got divorced a couple of years ago and has a son Parker’s age. You may not remember her from high school since she was a grade below us and left Walford right after graduation. She’s back now and living with her parents until she gets her own place.”
“I remember her,” I say, only halfway paying attention while constructing a second sandwich. “But I’m not interested in dating.”
My comment floats right past Gina as she exclaims, “Oh! And guess who else moved back to town. Maisy Donovan.”
“Logan’s little sister?” Trevor asks. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
“She’s staying with Pam Wakefield, but no one knows why.” Gina snorts and adds, “Typical Maisy. She was always a mystery.”
“Remember her wild outfits? Crazy Maisy.” Trevor chuckles at the old nickname Logan’s friends—apart from me—used when they teased her.
“Don’t call her that,” I say.
He squints at my biting tone, but Gina doesn’t notice our subtle exchange and prattles on.
“She had so much confidence. That’s why girls were jealous of her and boys drooled over her, but she didn’t give anyone the time of day.”
Much of Maisy’s confidence was fabricated. She struggled with low self-esteem as a teenager, but like the other challenges in her life, she rose above it.
Thoughtfulness wrinkles Trevor’s forehead. “I don’t remember any guys drooling over her.”
“Logan wouldn’t stand for any guys going after Maisy. Remember when he locked that kid in the janitor’s closet to keep him from asking her to homecoming? That poor kid wasn’t found until late at night. And didn’t he choke Peyton Riggs in the hallway senior year?”
Squirming in my seat, I witness the realization hitting Trevor. His eyes burn a hole through my head. He assisted me in the closet escapade by acting as a lookout, though he believed the kid bullied someone and earned a little payback. He also stood nearby when I pinned Peyton Riggs to a locker, but he didn’t hear the vile words Peyton said about Maisy.
“That’s right,” Trevor drawls. “ Logan was ruthless about keeping boys away from his sister.”
Gina continues. “Well, Lydia said Maisy’s more beautiful now than she was back then, if that’s even possible.”
“Oh, it’s possible,” I murmur under my breath.
“Girls are gross!” No sooner does the declaration leave Parker’s mouth than he gets little heart eyes and screams at the top of his lungs, “Astrid!”
With pizza sauce covering his face and shirt, he flies out of his chair and races toward Javi, Clementine, and their four-year-old daughter, Astrid. Parker grabs the little brunette’s hand and tows her toward the play set in the yard.
Clementine lets out a wistful sigh while watching the kids play. “Those two are adorable.”
When Javi began his world tour in search of his ideal wife, he brought several women to Walford to show off his hometown. They weren’t impressed, expecting a well-traveled Zen master to live some place more exotic than a Podunk town in central Texas. Turns out, his dream wife lived in a similar small town about an hour away. Clementine meets all of Javi’s requirements: she’s taller than him, curvy, blonde, and she prefers beaded jewelry to gemstones.
“They’re cute for now,” Javi says, grumbling. He falls into the empty seat beside Trevor, who’s eyeing me like I’m a subject in a criminal lineup. Javi’s scrutinizing gaze bounces between us. “What’s up?” he asks.
Trevor tilts his head and crosses his arms. “We were just talking about Maisy Donovan.”
“What about her?” Javi adds his laser-focused stare to my head, and sweat gathers on my neck.
“She moved back to town,” Gina supplies. She’s unaware of the three-way staring contest between the men at the table while she frees Eloise from the highchair.
Javi sinks back in his chair and curses, “Shit,” under his breath before looking away.
“Is that a bad thing?” Clementine didn’t attend school with us, but she’s heard stories of Logan and, by association, Maisy.
“No.” My firm voice dares Javi to meet my gaze so I can reiterate how her return is not a bad thing despite what he thinks. Her being back in Walford offers me hope for the new beginning I’ve been waiting for.
Gina picks up on the tension around the table. “I feel like we’re missing something,” she says.
Lucky for me, a sweet voice whispers, “Potty,” diverting Gina’s attention. She lifts Eloise into her arms and rushes into the house. I never gave much thought to their recent foray into potty training, but I’m grateful for it now.
“How long is she staying?” Javi asks. Apparently, he’s incapable of remaining in my good graces and feels the need to provoke me.
I raise an eyebrow in challenge. “Why don’t you ask her?”
With any luck, she’ll stay forever if I prove myself to her. I’ll show her I’m honest in my feelings and mean every word I say, and she’ll trust me again.
“You can also ask her if she likes to read illustrated books,” Trevor quips.
I’m a master of self-control because I don’t remove the pencil from behind my ear and stab my friend with it. Trevor’s ghost smirk appears as if he can read my violent thoughts. Clementine changes the subject and saves his life, but it’s not a welcome change.
“Javi says you’re thinking about running for mayor,” she says, addressing me.
The gentleness in her tone suggests Javi isn’t supportive of the idea. Rather, he’s concerned. Regardless of his opinion on the matter, I slide a scathing look his way. Mentioning my potential candidacy to anyone feeds the rumor mill. The more people become convinced I’m the future mayor of Walford, the more I’m pressured to step into the role.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, offering my standard response. Since I’m among friends, I also confess, “I don’t think politics is for me.”
Unable to read the room or my tanking mood, Trevor argues, “It’s more leadership than politics, and you’re a natural leader. It’s the perfect job for you.”
Perfect .
Fending off the stress the word conjures, I focus on Parker and Astrid as they run toward us. I imagine my and Maisy’s curly-headed kids trailing behind them, trying to keep up.
Parker stops in front of Clementine and says, “Astrid’s mom, I have a question.”
With Clementine’s attention diverted, I respond to Trevor. “I know what my perfect looks like, Trev. And it doesn’t come with the title of mayor.”
The only titles I want listed before or after my name are the ones linking me to a certain woman.
Maisy’s husband.
Father of Maisy’s children.
Maisy’s home.