Page 126 of Run to Me

His voice is raw and shaky, barely audible. “By your hand and at your feet. You’re hurting me, Maisy.”

“We aren’t supposed to hurt each other, remember? You said that to me once.”

At my reminder of the day on the porch, he buries his face in my lap and moans, a weary and mournful sound. “I’m so sorry, my beautiful birdie. I’m so sorry I couldn’t say the words you needed to hear. I was scared of saying the wrong things—scared I’d ruin what we had—and I ruined it anyway.”

“It’s time to stop being afraid of everything. The world won’t fall apart around you if you let some things go. But your life will fall apart if you keep holding on to everything. You’ll lose it all, Jensen.”

“What about you? Am I losing you again?” The groan he lets out is long, dragging miles of agony behind it. “God, this feels like it did before, but so much worse.”

An ache builds in my throat, but I suppress the encroaching sob, knowing I need to ease his worries with soothing lies and more strength than I feel. “No, J. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be around to keep an eye on you, but I need to figure some things out for myself. Alone. And you need to work on you—find your footing. And when your feet hit solid ground, you run to me, okay? As fast as you can.”

He looks up at me, all flooded eyes and devastating, beautiful wreckage. “I love you so much, birdie. More than I’ve loved anyone who’s ever walked the earth. Please don’t give up on me. Please.”

Leaning forward, I press my tear-soaked lips to his, trying to absorb a tiny fraction of his pain before I pull away. “Love yourself for a little while, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Sniffling, he nods and rests his head on my lap again. Neither of us move, our desire to hold on to each other unwavering, until he reminds me, “You have a plane to catch.”

“I’m finding it really hard to let go.” My words stumble over the sob that breaks free.

“You have to. I don’t want you to be here for what comes next.”

“Jensen—”

“Go, Maisy. I’ll be fine.”

He won’t be fine, but he needs me to be the strong one here, and I can’t fail him. With one more kiss to the top of his head, I drag myself away, each step toward the door a grueling trek in the wrong direction. I cast one last glance at him on his knees with his head bowed, arms hanging at his sides. The perfect silhouette of a broken man.

Every instinct tells me to stay, but staying won’t help him when it’s clear I’m the reason he reached this breaking point. For once, I admit to myself I’m incapable of fixing him. I never could. In the past, I offered him temporary relief, a distraction to keep him grounded until he needed me to come to his rescue again. How naive was I? And how much damage did I cause us both with my misplaced confidence? I now understand Jensen can only get better if he rescues himself.

The soft click of the door closing echoes like a cannon’s blast in my bones. Halfway down the stairs, I sink to my butt and wait. In less than thirty seconds, the roars and crashes begin. They continue for four minutes. Four excruciating minutes of listening and doing nothing as he causes maximum destruction to the room and himself. The ancient door fails to muffle the sounds of shattering glass and self-deprecating insults. Each sound cuts me deeper.

When he quiets down, I wipe my cheeks and send a text to Tatum.

Me

Jensen needs help. He’s in the room above the bar.

Don’t bring anyone but Jake. Please be gentle with him and don’t judge.

She immediately calls, but I decline to answer, shutting off my phone so I can have a minute to process everything I’ve witnessed—everything I thought I knew about us both. Maybe he’s not the only one who needs professional help. I’m shattering too.

45

JENSEN

“What the hell?”

Lying in the middle of Maisy’s childhood bed, staring at the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers, I ignore Jake.

A loud gasp pierces the brief silence. “Oh my gosh,” Tatum whispers. “Is this⁠—”

“Maisy’s old bedroom,” he answers.

A pause hangs in the air. I assume they’re taking everything in. The twin bed with neon purple and yellow bedding. The zebra-print papasan chair. The white dresser covered in cosmetics. And the most alarming sight to someone who doesn’t know our history—Maisy’s dolls. Twenty-seven of them in perfect alignment on her bookshelves.

“She saw this.” Tatum’s strained voice sounds appalled. Disgusted.

Jake shoves my feet. “Jensen, you need to explain this to me.”