Jesse's Girl
Page 34
I snatch the phone out of Jesse’s hand and put it to my ear, giving him a look. He lies back on a cushion, dying of laughter. “Pay no attention to Jesse Scott. He’s ridiculous.”
“Girl, he wants to have sex?” Dave blurts. “Take your clothes off!”
I tell Dave I’ll text him later and hang up, setting my phone on the floor. It makes me happy that Jesse was willing to talk to Dave on the phone. Maybe Jesse’s not as closed off as he thinks he is.
The classical CD switches to a new song—a piano medley. It’s really relaxing, and I can see why Jesse loves writing in this loft.
And that’s when it dawns on me.
I’m lying next to Jesse Scott.
This is a far cry from when I used to lie on my bed at home and stare at the poster of him tacked to my ceiling.
I suck in a deep breath.
“So,” he says and props himself on an elbow, looking down at me—like a real-life-size poster.
“So.”
His eyes trail over my legs, and he softly sweeps a hand up my arm. It makes me shiver, even though the loft is nice and toasty and I’m feeling warm all over. A sliver of sunlight streams through the tiny window as I stare into his beautiful eyes and he looks back into mine, and I wonder how it would feel to dig my fingers into his silky brown hair that curls around his ears down to his shoulders. He slips his fingers in between mine and rubs my palm with his thumb. This feels even more personal than seeing him in his underwear, and that makes me laugh nervously.
His mouth lifts into its signature smirk. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, struggling for air.
He edges closer, tangling his boots with mine, and my mind goes to war with itself, wondering if I want him to kiss me—of course I do!—but also liking who he is as a person and not wanting to mess up something that might become a friendship, especially when we both need a friend.
“Jess, I told you you’re not my type.”
“You’re not my type either, Maya Henry.”
A voice calls from downstairs. “Jesse, man, the store’s starting to fill up. School’s out, you know?”
“Thanks, P.J.,” he calls down, then turns to me. “We should get out of here before people discover we’re up here and mob us.”
I let out a long breath, glad that the moment—whatever it was—is over.
We start to climb down the rope ladder. A few girls see Jesse and start freaking, but we rush out of the store and up the crumbling stone steps. As we walk back to his bike, Jesse asks how I got to be friends with Dave.
“In third grade at recess, this totally bitchy fourth grader, Shelley Cross, was talking to a bunch of the girls about how this guy liked her, but she didn’t like him. I asked a question, and she yelled in my face, ‘It’s none of your beeswax!’ I started crying, and Dave told Shelley that she had boogers, even though she didn’t.”
Jesse smiles sadly as we walk up to his bike. “I’ve never had a friend like that.”
I squeeze his hand. “You can have me. I’ll be your friend.”
His lips part, but he doesn’t respond, and I’m kicking myself inside for being so forward. I probably scared him off. Thank heavens my phone beeps and the moment is over.
“No more calls.” He snatches my cell from my fingers and pockets it. “This is our day, and I’m not sharing you.”
Our Song
“I have a surprise.”
“Oh yeah,” Jesse replies. “What is it?”
He straightens his cowboy hat, and I scan the boats lining the banks of the Cumberland River. Good, it’s there. “We’ve still got some time.”
“You’re not gonna make me swim in the river, are you? Like as therapy or something?”
I giggle. “Yup. To get over your fears, you’re going to meditate and become one with the water.”
“Smart-ass,” he says, his lips forming an amused smile. “What are we gonna do in the meantime?”
“Not sure.”
“Let’s go up to Gibson then.” We take the brick walkway toward Second Avenue. He doesn’t try to hold my hand again like in the loft, but our shoulders rub against each other. “So. You and Dave. You’re not together, right? From the way you talk on the phone, it doesn’t sound like you have chemistry.”
“I would hope not. Dave is gay.”
“I figured you weren’t with him. I can tell when people hit it off,” Jesse announces. “I have precognitive relationship skills.”
“Girl, he wants to have sex?” Dave blurts. “Take your clothes off!”
I tell Dave I’ll text him later and hang up, setting my phone on the floor. It makes me happy that Jesse was willing to talk to Dave on the phone. Maybe Jesse’s not as closed off as he thinks he is.
The classical CD switches to a new song—a piano medley. It’s really relaxing, and I can see why Jesse loves writing in this loft.
And that’s when it dawns on me.
I’m lying next to Jesse Scott.
This is a far cry from when I used to lie on my bed at home and stare at the poster of him tacked to my ceiling.
I suck in a deep breath.
“So,” he says and props himself on an elbow, looking down at me—like a real-life-size poster.
“So.”
His eyes trail over my legs, and he softly sweeps a hand up my arm. It makes me shiver, even though the loft is nice and toasty and I’m feeling warm all over. A sliver of sunlight streams through the tiny window as I stare into his beautiful eyes and he looks back into mine, and I wonder how it would feel to dig my fingers into his silky brown hair that curls around his ears down to his shoulders. He slips his fingers in between mine and rubs my palm with his thumb. This feels even more personal than seeing him in his underwear, and that makes me laugh nervously.
His mouth lifts into its signature smirk. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, struggling for air.
He edges closer, tangling his boots with mine, and my mind goes to war with itself, wondering if I want him to kiss me—of course I do!—but also liking who he is as a person and not wanting to mess up something that might become a friendship, especially when we both need a friend.
“Jess, I told you you’re not my type.”
“You’re not my type either, Maya Henry.”
A voice calls from downstairs. “Jesse, man, the store’s starting to fill up. School’s out, you know?”
“Thanks, P.J.,” he calls down, then turns to me. “We should get out of here before people discover we’re up here and mob us.”
I let out a long breath, glad that the moment—whatever it was—is over.
We start to climb down the rope ladder. A few girls see Jesse and start freaking, but we rush out of the store and up the crumbling stone steps. As we walk back to his bike, Jesse asks how I got to be friends with Dave.
“In third grade at recess, this totally bitchy fourth grader, Shelley Cross, was talking to a bunch of the girls about how this guy liked her, but she didn’t like him. I asked a question, and she yelled in my face, ‘It’s none of your beeswax!’ I started crying, and Dave told Shelley that she had boogers, even though she didn’t.”
Jesse smiles sadly as we walk up to his bike. “I’ve never had a friend like that.”
I squeeze his hand. “You can have me. I’ll be your friend.”
His lips part, but he doesn’t respond, and I’m kicking myself inside for being so forward. I probably scared him off. Thank heavens my phone beeps and the moment is over.
“No more calls.” He snatches my cell from my fingers and pockets it. “This is our day, and I’m not sharing you.”
Our Song
“I have a surprise.”
“Oh yeah,” Jesse replies. “What is it?”
He straightens his cowboy hat, and I scan the boats lining the banks of the Cumberland River. Good, it’s there. “We’ve still got some time.”
“You’re not gonna make me swim in the river, are you? Like as therapy or something?”
I giggle. “Yup. To get over your fears, you’re going to meditate and become one with the water.”
“Smart-ass,” he says, his lips forming an amused smile. “What are we gonna do in the meantime?”
“Not sure.”
“Let’s go up to Gibson then.” We take the brick walkway toward Second Avenue. He doesn’t try to hold my hand again like in the loft, but our shoulders rub against each other. “So. You and Dave. You’re not together, right? From the way you talk on the phone, it doesn’t sound like you have chemistry.”
“I would hope not. Dave is gay.”
“I figured you weren’t with him. I can tell when people hit it off,” Jesse announces. “I have precognitive relationship skills.”
