Page 33 of Run to Me

“Where are your buddies?”

My voice startles him. He jolts upright and sweeps the blond bangs off his forehead. “Um. They slept in.”

“They left you to do this alone?” I glance from him to the pile of cords and equipment. “How long will this take?”

He gives me a helpless shrug. “Maybe an hour? It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, kid. Hold people accountable.”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming red as he resumes his work.

Whether he’s affected by my short lecture or the embarrassment of being ditched by his so-called friends, I’m not sure. I heave a sigh, resigned to be stuck here all day. My to-do list is a mile long without adding everyone else’s jobs on top of it.

“Tell me how I can help you get this done faster.”

Relief floods his brown eyes when they meet mine. “Thanks.”

An hour later, Danny and I are still working when my phone rings. Pam Wakefield’s name flashes on my caller ID, and my gut delivers an ominous feeling. She has few reasons to call me, and none of them are good. I’m smart enough to put two and two together and conclude this phone call is about Tatum or Jake, likely both of them. And my bad day’s about to get a whole lot worse.

I’m sitting on the weight bench in my garage, wishing I could work out. Lifting weights or running on the treadmill helps me deal with stress, and I’m stressed out at maximum levels right now. Usually, I throw on a metal playlist and grind until my muscles tremble. Today, I’m sulking in the quiet because I can’t move my arms, much less lift them with added weight.

After Pam’s phone call yesterday, Jake kicked my ass. My little brother beat the shit out of me, and I lay there and took it because I deserved his wrath after betraying him. I’ve kept Tatum’s secret—the reason she disappeared from his life—for ten years. My silence cost him dearly, and he may never forgive me. I won’t blame him if he doesn’t.

Lucy patched me up, assuring me I don’t have any broken ribs, but my body screams when I move. And I can only see out of my right eye because the left one is swollen shut. For a man who’s never been in a fight, Jake unleashed his rage on me. Again, I deserved every punch and more.

Afternoon sunlight streams through the small windows in the garage door, providing the only source of light in the dim space. With slow, careful movements, I peel off the dressing covering the butterfly stitch on my eyebrow and toss it on the floor to deal with later. Lucy told me to replace the dressing each day for the first two days, so I’m following her instructions and being the perfect patient. However, I’m flying blind, attempting to nurse myself with one functioning eye and no mirror.

Javi’s managing the bar…again. After I limped out of Jake’s house yesterday, I called him, claiming I had a family emergency and needed him to cover for me. He pressed me for information, but I refuse to share Jake and Tatum’s story with anyone, even him. I didn’t tell him about my injuries either. If he saw me right now, he’d turn into a mother hen and try to sleep over or coach me through this ordeal. I don’t need or want his silver linings. For a day or two, I need to be left alone to wallow in my guilt.

When was the last time I had a vacation? Never.

As I’m poking around my face to determine where to place the fresh dressing, the doorbell rings. If it’s Javi, I’ll be pissed. I could wait the person out and pretend not to be home, but my Jeep’s in the driveway.

It takes a full minute to rise from the weight bench and limp to a window. A familiar silver car sits behind my Jeep. Any other day, Maisy showing up on my doorstep would excite me. She hasn’t been to my parents’ house since she was fifteen. But I prefer not to let her see me like this, and I damn sure don’t want her coming to me out of pity.

On my way to the front door, I remember I’m only wearing athletic shorts, barefoot and shirtless. I snag the T-shirt off the recliner and hold my breath through the agony of getting dressed. Slipping the shirt over my neck and left arm is a difficult feat, considering most of the damage occurred on my left side. I give up on trying to stick my right arm through the sleeve. With how long I’m taking to answer the door, Maisy might run away before I open it. Knowing her, she’ll get impatient, or regret coming here altogether, and bail.

To my relief, I spot her through the narrow window. I inhale as deeply as I can before opening the door. And what do I find? Her back, of course. Today, that back is cloaked in a cutoff sweatshirt above a pair of high-waisted leggings showcasing her perfect ass. I summon all my inner strength to suppress the moan building in my chest. The torture of having her close and not being free to touch her surpasses the physical agony coursing through my battered body.

She spins around and jerks back with a sharp gasp. “Holy shit! What happened?”

When she traces the bruises on my exposed ribs with gentle fingers, I’m forced to call upon every ounce of willpower I possess to keep from whimpering. Not only from the pain the mere ghosting of her fingertips causes, but because she’s touching me. Intentionally.

“Jake,” I say through clenched teeth, extreme longing, and the worst torment I’ve ever experienced.

She hasn’t directed the worried expression on her face at me in ages. And she doesn’t show sympathy often, reserving it for people she cares about. I’m overcome with relief that I’m still considered worthy of her compassion.

People think Maisy is cold-hearted and apathetic, but they don’t know her like I do. In truth, she’s an empath locked in a steel casing her parents forged. I witnessed the construction of that impenetrable casing over many years. In the end, my Maisy’s sweet disposition became buried under a sharp tongue and an allergy to vulnerability.

As she showers me with a moment of care, I close my eyes and revel in the feeling of my Maisy touching me. Her apathetic mask has slipped, and I’m grateful she doesn’t realize it.

“You didn’t deserve this,” she chokes out as those soft, shaky fingers hover near my eye and lip, like she’s willing my injuries to heal from her proximity alone.

Her despair hits me straight in the chest. What does it say about us that my physical pain causes her heart pain, which brings me heart pain because she’s hurting for me? It’s a vicious cycle we’ve been stuck inside forever because we’re so attuned to one another’s feelings.

Disregarding her comment about what I do or don’t deserve, I gingerly move aside as a gesture of invitation. For the first time in thirteen years, Maisy’s size five-and-a-half shoes step into my parents’ house, and her presence ushers light into the dark space.

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