Page 8 of Run to Me

She gathers her long, honey-brown hair into a messy knot on top of her head. “When are you coming to see me again?”

An obnoxious sound echoes from my plastic cup when I suck the last of my strawberry slush drink through the straw. “I saw you three days ago.”

Tatum persuaded me to attend the festival Walford hosted on the Saturday after Christmas. I suffered through the nightmare to please her, and now I’m recovering from the festivities, which included another encounter with Jensen. I didn’t speak to him, reclaiming my vow of silence.

Yet, when he stared at me with his unrelenting gaze, all the sounds of merriment faded away, leaving only his voice in my head calling me birdie.

When I was nine, I went through a phase of wearing cute barrettes and headbands to keep my hair out of my face. The ones with birds were my favorite, so I wore them the most. Jensen gave me the nickname, which made me feel special even though he only used it in secret.

Hearing him call me by the old nickname a few weeks ago affected me more than it should have. Something quieted inside me, giving way to a long-lost sense of belonging. He felt too familiar. The drawl of his deep, gruff voice. The spicy, musky scent of his cologne. His intrusive presence overwhelms me. He’s too much, yet a small part of me craves more.

Tatum drags me from my thoughts and back to the topic of my next visit to Walford. For added effect, she throws in a pouty bottom lip and makes puppy-dog eyes with her baby blues. “You’re on a break from filming until next week, so you should spend it with me. It’s not like you’ll have to see your mom if you stay at Pam’s.”

I let her assume my mother’s the sole reason I avoid Walford. She knows nothing about me and Jensen. I’ve never told anyone about our secret friendship or how I used to believe in love because of him. I thought he viewed me as someone important, the same as I felt about him. However, after a few contentious minutes on a rickety porch—when he stomped all over my heart and proved my faith in him was misplaced—I no longer believe.

“I have things to do.” I ditch the straw, pop the lid off my cup, and gulp down the ice in the bottom.

“Like what? It’s not like you have a social life. Or a sex life.” She says the last part in a dramatic whisper.

I offer her a teasing smirk. “How would you know?” When she rolls her eyes, I add, “You have an unhealthy obsession with other people’s carnal activities.”

Her button nose crinkles with a quick shake of her head. “Ew. Carnal.”

“Let me rephrase. You have an unhealthy obsession with other people fucking.”

A blush surfaces on Tatum’s pale cheeks, and I chuckle at her discomfort. Sex talk embarrasses her, and I get a kick out of her prudishness.

In truth, tumbleweeds have been rolling through my deserted sex life for far too long. So there’s nothing to report to Tatum on that front. She believes I have an exciting, salacious love life, and I haven’t set the record straight.

I’ve never been in a relationship, and casual flings aren’t my thing. I prefer a partner with no strings attached, but those are hard to come by. The men I meet tend to cling to me before the first kiss, and I have zero tolerance for emotional entanglements when all I’m after is a decent tangle between the sheets.

Other than a years-long booty call with the roadie who claimed my virginity—just to get the deed over with—on Tatum’s first tour, I haven’t allowed a man to get past first base. My arrangement with the roadie was ideal. He never expected more than a hookup, and we had no contact between tours. Unfortunately, he didn’t join us on the last one, so I haven’t seen him in almost two years.

“I’m a curious person. And best friends are supposed to talk about stuff.” Tatum waves a hand, but honestly, I think she’s fanning her heated face. When I don’t respond, giving her a blank stare, she shifts onto her stomach and grumbles. “Fine. What are your plans tonight?”

This is my first New Year’s Eve alone since high school. With the recent changes in my life, I should prepare for long periods with only myself as company. I’ll count this week as a practice run.

I hold up the TV remote and say, “Partying like a rock star,” then wince at my insensitive choice of words.

Tatum’s pop star life got the better of her, and she’s dealing with the fallout. Thankfully, she’s unbothered by my comment and lets it skate right past her.

“You used to be fun,” she complains, resting her chin in her hand.

I scowl, offended by the accusation. “When have I ever been fun?”

“In Rio?”

“We swore to never bring up Rio. What happens at Carnival stays at Carnival.”

“Your naked boobs happened at Carnival.” In a classic Tatum move, she grins and shimmies her narrow shoulders.

“I honored the meaning behind the festival: overindulgence.”

“You overindulged everyone with your big boobies. I thought Marcus’s carotid artery was gonna burst open.”

Marcus is Tatum’s head of security. Translation: he’s a stick-in-the-mud and wouldn’t know a good time if it hit him in the face with a baseball bat. I adore him regardless.

My cell phone pings with a text message. I glare at its location on the coffee table, so far out of reach, but retrieve it anyway.