Page 12 of Run to Me

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?”