Jesse's Girl
Page 20
Jesse points a finger at her. “Yes, that’s the one. I’m Tommy Smith.”
“You had such a tough loss against the Jets last Sunday,” I say. I only know the Titans lost because my brother and Jordan whined about it for hours.
“Don’t you worry, darlin’. We’re gonna bury the Dolphins this weekend.”
The hostess raises her eyebrows at me, giving me a once-over and turning her nose up at my outfit. She grabs two menus and leads us to a table by a window overlooking the Cumberland River. The best seat in the house, just like at the concert last week. Getting the best seat seems to happen a lot when Jesse Scott is involved.
The hostess hands us our menus, winks at Jesse, and says, “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Sco—I mean, Smith.”
“Thank you,” we say, and I dissolve into giggles. Jesse gives me his half-cocked smirk, the one on his most recent album cover.
I place a red and white picnic-patterned napkin in my lap. The tablecloth is made of paper, and a cup of crayons sits on the table.
“You and the owner of the Titans eat at a restaurant where you can draw on the table?” I ask.
“Wait till you try the brisket.”
The smell is definitely making my mouth water.
Jesse chooses the brown crayon and starts drawing a horse.
“So why’d you pretend to be the owner of the Titans?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s something to do, you know?”
No, I don’t know.
He switches to a blue crayon, and I scan my menu. Should I get ribs or brisket? “So who’s Ferris Bueller?”
He looks up from doodling a truck. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is a great movie. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it since you’re so into eighties music. It’s about this guy who skips school and does all these crazy things.”
“Like what?”
“He, like, commandeers a float during a parade in Chicago and sings ‘Twist and Shout.’ You know, by the Beatles?”
“I know who the Beatles are. I wasn’t born in a barn.”
“Oh, do they not have barns in Antarctica?”
“Stop.” I laugh again. Jesse hasn’t truly smiled once, but I haven’t laughed this much in a while. “So what else did Ferris do?”
“He went to a fancy restaurant and stole somebody else’s reservation like we just did. Oh, and he convinced his best friend to steal his dad’s hot red car for the day.”
“What kind of car?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!” I exclaim.
A server drops off a bread basket, and Jesse digs in. “I think it was a Ferrari.”
“Nice. Go on then. What else?”
He rips into a roll with his teeth. “Um, Ferris went to a Cubs game and to an art museum.”
“Sounds like a nice day.”
He speaks as he chews. “You having a nice day so far?”
I loved sitting at the piano with him and just singing my heart out. And don’t even get me started on how great it was to ride that Harley. But he’s so guarded and on edge, I don’t feel completely comfortable around him. He seemed so much happier in the studio, surrounded by music.
“It’s been good,” I say.
Jesse picks up a straw, tears off the paper from one end of it, puts it in his mouth, then blows the paper at me. I snatch the paper in midair and wad it up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older man glaring at Jesse’s straw paper antics. Is this why Mr. Logan wanted the publicists to come? To make sure Jesse doesn’t play with his food?
Two ladies wearing Easter-colored dress suits, pearls, and heels saunter over and ask for Jesse’s autograph. He tips his hat and fishes a black Sharpie out of his jeans pocket. “Who do I make them out to?”
The first woman speaks so quickly it comes out garbled and she has to repeat herself. “To Nicole. My daughter.” The other woman wants an autograph for her niece. He reaches over to an empty table near us, snatches two white napkins, unfolds them with a flourish, and starts signing.
He seems completely bored by it all but acts like a gentleman the entire time, including when a waitress gets our drink order and the Finger Licking Good manager comes over to thank Jesse for “dining with us.” Everything feels like a production, as if his life is stage-managed. Then he excuses himself to go to the restroom.
While he’s gone, the two paparazzi guys from outside Jesse’s house rush up and snap pictures of me. Where did they come from? Have they been following Jesse this entire time? I cover my face with a hand.
“You had such a tough loss against the Jets last Sunday,” I say. I only know the Titans lost because my brother and Jordan whined about it for hours.
“Don’t you worry, darlin’. We’re gonna bury the Dolphins this weekend.”
The hostess raises her eyebrows at me, giving me a once-over and turning her nose up at my outfit. She grabs two menus and leads us to a table by a window overlooking the Cumberland River. The best seat in the house, just like at the concert last week. Getting the best seat seems to happen a lot when Jesse Scott is involved.
The hostess hands us our menus, winks at Jesse, and says, “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Sco—I mean, Smith.”
“Thank you,” we say, and I dissolve into giggles. Jesse gives me his half-cocked smirk, the one on his most recent album cover.
I place a red and white picnic-patterned napkin in my lap. The tablecloth is made of paper, and a cup of crayons sits on the table.
“You and the owner of the Titans eat at a restaurant where you can draw on the table?” I ask.
“Wait till you try the brisket.”
The smell is definitely making my mouth water.
Jesse chooses the brown crayon and starts drawing a horse.
“So why’d you pretend to be the owner of the Titans?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s something to do, you know?”
No, I don’t know.
He switches to a blue crayon, and I scan my menu. Should I get ribs or brisket? “So who’s Ferris Bueller?”
He looks up from doodling a truck. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is a great movie. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it since you’re so into eighties music. It’s about this guy who skips school and does all these crazy things.”
“Like what?”
“He, like, commandeers a float during a parade in Chicago and sings ‘Twist and Shout.’ You know, by the Beatles?”
“I know who the Beatles are. I wasn’t born in a barn.”
“Oh, do they not have barns in Antarctica?”
“Stop.” I laugh again. Jesse hasn’t truly smiled once, but I haven’t laughed this much in a while. “So what else did Ferris do?”
“He went to a fancy restaurant and stole somebody else’s reservation like we just did. Oh, and he convinced his best friend to steal his dad’s hot red car for the day.”
“What kind of car?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!” I exclaim.
A server drops off a bread basket, and Jesse digs in. “I think it was a Ferrari.”
“Nice. Go on then. What else?”
He rips into a roll with his teeth. “Um, Ferris went to a Cubs game and to an art museum.”
“Sounds like a nice day.”
He speaks as he chews. “You having a nice day so far?”
I loved sitting at the piano with him and just singing my heart out. And don’t even get me started on how great it was to ride that Harley. But he’s so guarded and on edge, I don’t feel completely comfortable around him. He seemed so much happier in the studio, surrounded by music.
“It’s been good,” I say.
Jesse picks up a straw, tears off the paper from one end of it, puts it in his mouth, then blows the paper at me. I snatch the paper in midair and wad it up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older man glaring at Jesse’s straw paper antics. Is this why Mr. Logan wanted the publicists to come? To make sure Jesse doesn’t play with his food?
Two ladies wearing Easter-colored dress suits, pearls, and heels saunter over and ask for Jesse’s autograph. He tips his hat and fishes a black Sharpie out of his jeans pocket. “Who do I make them out to?”
The first woman speaks so quickly it comes out garbled and she has to repeat herself. “To Nicole. My daughter.” The other woman wants an autograph for her niece. He reaches over to an empty table near us, snatches two white napkins, unfolds them with a flourish, and starts signing.
He seems completely bored by it all but acts like a gentleman the entire time, including when a waitress gets our drink order and the Finger Licking Good manager comes over to thank Jesse for “dining with us.” Everything feels like a production, as if his life is stage-managed. Then he excuses himself to go to the restroom.
While he’s gone, the two paparazzi guys from outside Jesse’s house rush up and snap pictures of me. Where did they come from? Have they been following Jesse this entire time? I cover my face with a hand.
