Jesse's Girl

by Miranda Kenneally

  “I miss you too.”

  “Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

  “Definitely,” I say, trying not to sound overeager, but it’s impossible. I’m anxious to see him.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven. And I’m deciding what we’re doing this time. No more sappy movies.”

  “You loved it!” I tease, and I stay on the phone with him until another customer comes in.

  At lunch the next day, I can’t stop dancing in my chair and smiling to myself, but Dave isn’t talking. He’s poking at his pizza with a fork.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is everything okay with Xander?”

  “Everything’s good—we went back to his dorm after homecoming! I ended up sleeping over.”

  I throw a french fry at him. “Get out!”

  Dave dishes up all the details, and while I’m happy for him, I’m also jealous. Jesse was still out of town on Saturday night, and I had no date to the dance, so after cheering for Jordan at the football game and watching them win, I went home and practiced guitar.

  “If everything’s so great with Xander, what’s wrong?”

  “I have something to show you.” Dave reaches into his backpack and removes a magazine: a shiny issue of Us Weekly. He flicks through a few pages and passes it to me. A picture of Jesse and Natalia Naylor—a famous model—stares back at me. Natalia is clutching his elbow and smiling at something he’s saying as they walk down the street. Or should I say stumbling? How can she walk in those four-inch stilettos? The caption says they’re in Santa Monica. I flip to the cover and check the date. It’s this week’s issue.

  “He didn’t mention anything about her,” I say quietly, rolling the magazine into a tight coil.

  “Didn’t you say he was in California?” Dave asks.

  I nod. “He was in LA for a few days at the American Music Awards and shooting a music video.”

  It’s not like we’re official, but it hurts seeing him with another girl. While he wasn’t ready to dive right in, he wants to see where this goes, and to me, that means we are starting to explore a relationship.

  “What should I do?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Just ask him about it,” Dave says. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “But what if the explanation is that he’s dating somebody else?”

  “My, I saw the two of you dancing at the fair and at my house that night. I doubt Jesse looks at any other girl the way he looks at you. Are we sure he’s not bi? I want him to look at me that way!”

  I throw a baby carrot at Dave’s face.

  My cell beeps. Jesse sent a text: Can’t wait to see you tonite. I’m dying here.

  Part of me wants to play it cool. Play it hard to get. But I decide to be honest. I text back: can’t wait to see you too.

  • • •

  Jesse picks me up on his motorcycle and somehow survives meeting Mom, Dad, and Anna. My mom and sister are all over him like white on rice, and Dad is channeling Sam, looking like he wants to kill Jesse or at least put him in a headlock. Men.

  We climb on Jesse’s bike, I wrap my arms around his waist, and we zoom to Nashville. The whole way there, I think about how I’ll raise the subject of the picture of him with Natalia Naylor. Do I even have a right to ask?

  He parks in front of a restaurant called the Spaghetti Factory, and we head inside.

  “I’m gonna wash my hands,” I tell him, and he agrees to get the table.

  In the bathroom, I examine my outfit to make sure nothing is out of place following our ride. It’s totally me, this sleeveless, purple tartan minidress covered with leather accents and silver zippers. I’m wearing a cropped leather jacket over it. I look good. Take that, Natalia Naylor, you silly supermodel, you. I inhale deeply. Who am I kidding? She’s a supermodel! How can I compete with her?

  After I’m done using the bathroom, the hostess leads me to the back of the dark restaurant, past a classical pianist, to a cushy, circular red booth. Jesse is signing autographs for a bunch of younger girls. He scribbles his name on a white cloth napkin with his black Sharpie and hands the napkin to a little girl.

  “Thank you,” she squeals.

  I slide into the booth next to Jesse. The girls recognize me from the YouTube video and beg for my autograph. Ever since Jesse started following me on Twitter, lots of random people have been talking to me online, but this is a whole new level.

  “Can I use your marker?” I ask Jesse.

  “Get your own Sharpie.” He passes it to me with a smile. Taking a deep breath, I sign my name on two cloth napkins and hand them back to the girls. A photographer snaps pictures of us before the restaurant manager chases him out.

  Will I ever get used to being out with Jesse? I’m not jealous of the attention he gives other people or that it takes away from our time together, but I want to help him lead the normal life he wants so bad. How will that ever happen if we can’t go to dinner without being disturbed? Before I can feel too down about the situation, a waiter pulls a thick velvet curtain around our booth, leaving us in candlelit privacy.

  The second we’re alone, I can’t help it—I have to be near him. I scoot over and burrow against his side, expecting him to pull away like he did at Dave’s house that night. Instead, he gently traces my jaw and kisses my cheek.

  “How are you?” he asks, searching my eyes.

  Much better now, after that kiss. “Things are okay,” I say slowly.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  He doesn’t even look at the menu. “We’re splitting the Spaghetti Vesuvius. I’m addicted to it.”

  I clutch his hand. “You seem happy.”

  “I am happy.” He drags a fingertip from my wrist to my elbow, making me shiver. “It’s really good to see you, My. Uncle Bob and Mark took me out for lunch today. The concert in Memphis last night went well. Just finished writing a new song. I’m working on a secret project too.”

  “Oooh, what is it?”

  “I can’t tell you until Mark gives me the go-ahead,” he says, shooting me his famous half-cocked smile. “Besides, why should I tell you my secret if you won’t share yours?”

  When Jesse asked why I’ve been working so many hours, I told him I’m saving money for something, but it’s a secret. I will not put him in the position of feeling like he has to offer me money. Also, since he won the show as a kid, I don’t want him to feel obligated to help me in any way. I am doing this on my own. Plus, what if he thinks I’m asking for favors? I don’t want to be somebody who takes, takes, takes.

  “I’m not sure if it’s gonna work out after all,” I say slowly. I leave his arms and choose a piece of bread from the basket.

  “Why not?”

  “My plans have a lot of moving parts.” Specifically, I haven’t made enough money to buy plane tickets. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it happen…at least not without help.” And my family can’t afford to help me.

  “So you’ve got a decision to make then.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Decide if you wanna give up and move on to something else, or if you wanna make it work.” He picks up a straw, rips the paper off the end, and blows the straw paper at me. I catch it. “If I want something, I tell people. Even if I don’t end up getting what I want in the end, at least I’ve put myself out there.”

  “But you’re Jesse Scott.”

  “And you’re Maya Henry.”

  I tap the table with my fork. I already asked my mom and dad for help, and that didn’t work out. But I do have other people in my family. My older brother, who I love so much, even if he is an overprotective ass. He doesn’t have money either though.

  Mom always complains about Sam living in sin and wishes he’d propose to Jordan already, but I know the real reason he hasn’t. It’s pride. I find it hilarious that Jor
dan has asked him to marry her several times, but he always says no. He wants to buy Jordan an engagement ring she’ll love first, but he’s still working to save up for one. He’s nearly there.

  To ask him for help would just set his plans back even further. I can’t do that, certainly not for something so selfish, something that’s all about me. I guess Jesse is right in a way though—I could at least tell Sam what’s going on.

  Our food arrives, and we dig into our spaghetti. Jesse even tries the Lady and the Tramp move, you know, where we’re both eating the same strand of spaghetti and kiss? It doesn’t work out so well—we end up with spaghetti sauce all over our faces.

  Jesse nudges my nose with his. “I missed you so much. It seemed like everywhere I went, I heard a Queen song that made me think of you.”

  “I thought about you too,” I say. “My sister will not stop playing ‘Ain’t No City Boy’ on repeat. I can’t stand that song.”

  He laughs, and my body aches for him to take me in his arms, but I can’t get the Us Weekly photo out of my head. Every time I think about it, I wince.

  “You okay, My?”

  “I’m all right,” I reply. “You?”

  “I’d feel better if you’d kiss me already.”

  He edges closer and rubs my cheek with a thumb. Then we’re kissing like crazy. His lips become my lips. They’re warm and soft—slow, but hungry. And his hands—rough and calloused from playing guitar all the time—feel nice against my neck.

  “You’ve got spaghetti breath,” I tell him, burying my fingers in his wavy brown hair.

  “You too.”

  One hand drifts downward as he rubs my stomach through my dress. The piano music crescendos. I keep kissing him, but his hand is making me tremble all over. I don’t want to mess this up, but I don’t want to go any further, at least not without knowing what we are to each other. Last time we were together, he didn’t want anything physical, and now he’s all over me. And that’s confusing. I suck in a deep breath, my body tensing all over.

  “It’s okay,” Jesse mutters, biting my earlobe. “Relax.”

  “I saw the magazine,” I blurt. “Us Weekly. There’s a picture of you with Natalia Naylor.”

  “Who?” he mouths, scrunching his eyebrows together.

  Great. He can’t even remember his conquests. What am I even doing here?

  “The model? You were walking down the street with her. She was holding your arm. Wearing a tight jean skirt and white halter top…”

  Suddenly his eyes light up. “Oh! Nat. I haven’t seen her since we worked together on a Levi’s campaign last year. Us Weekly printed a picture of us together?”

  I nod.

  He goes on, “They’re probably just trying to get some gossip going. They know I’m interested in you, and since neither of us is talking to the press about it, they’re trying to bait us.”

  “Oh. So you’re not seeing Natalia?”

  “No. I’m sure my publicists would love that, but I’ve never been into her. I’m glad you asked me about the picture.”

  “I’m glad you’re not dating a supermodel.”

  “Me too. Because then how could I go on dates with a mean, sexy punk girl?”

  We kiss, and he clutches my dress with both fists as the pianist begins playing a new song.

  “I love kissing you.” He leans into me as he peppers me with kisses that make my whole, and I mean whole, body buzz. But the guy’s about to go on a six-week tour. That’s a long time, and we haven’t even talked about what’s happening here.

  I gently push a hand to his chest to stop him.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Can we get dessert?” He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  I leave his arms and open the dessert menu, pretending to read it.

  After dinner, Jesse insists on paying the bill, and even though it wasn’t expensive, he leaves a fifty-dollar tip. A few photographers take pictures of us as we walk over to Gibson. Turns out Jesse actually had the store shut down this time, because he wants to play his new song, “Waiting for Christmas,” for me, and he’s been thinking about buying that archtop Citation, the one that’s worth more than my house. A guitar of the gods.

  “I want a special guitar for my last tour,” Jesse explains with a wobbly voice.

  Max greets us warmly, paying just as much attention to me as to Jesse.

  “I’ve already got her set up for you,” Max says, ushering me over to the Les Paul section. “I knew you’d come play this guitar again.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I throw the strap over my shoulder, running my fingers up and down the neck. My hips swaying to the beat, I begin to pluck out “Eye of the Tiger,” an eighties song that has one of my favorite guitar riffs. I pretend I’m playing this guitar in front of thousands of fans. Fans who’ve bought my single from iTunes.

  Max’s face grows brighter than the first time I played here.

  “Hey, hey,” Jesse calls out, cradling the new Citation. “What about me?”

  I wave a hand at him. “Would you hold your horses?”

  Then Jesse starts playing his new song. He closes his eyes, plucking out a beautiful melody. He sings,

  Meeting her was Christmas, on a sunny September day.

  Her lights, her smile, I want to celebrate her every day.

  I waited for her, for her twinkling voice.

  Waiting for her, waiting for Christmas.

  By the time Jesse finishes the song, a tear is rolling down my face.

  “Max,” Jesse says, drumming his fingers on the bridge with one hand, touching the tuners with the other. He finds my eyes. “I think I’ll take her.”

  • • •

  I take a deep breath and knock. A few seconds later, Sam opens the front door.

  “Hey, My, what’re you doing here?” He peers over my shoulder into the driveway. “And why are you driving Mom’s car? Where’s your bike?”

  “Long story. Can I talk to you?”

  He gestures for me to follow him inside to the dining room, where I find Jordan, her brother Mike, and a pretty lady sitting at the table playing the loudest game of war ever. Each time they slap down a card, the house rattles. Jordan slams down a king to beat her brother’s four, winning the game. She jumps to her feet and dances while Mike grumbles.

  “Do you want in the next round?” Sam asks me. “Maybe with four of us, we might have a chance at bringing Jordan down.”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back tomorrow.”

  “Maya wants to talk,” Sam tells Jordan.

  “C’mon, we’ll talk in the living room,” Jordan rushes to say, and she pulls me and Sam out of the room and to the couch.

  “Seriously, I can come back—I didn’t know you’d have company.”

  “It’s totally fine,” Jordan says, and in a low whisper, she adds, “I’m trying to fix my brother up with our friend, and I want to give them some time alone. So let’s have a very long conversation about whatever you need to talk about. Please tell me it’s about Jesse Scott.”

  “It better not be,” Sam warns.

  “It’s not,” I say, and Jordan deflates.

  “I saw in Celebrity Examiner that you and Jesse were dating, but now he’s interested in a Greek shipping heiress,” Jordan says. “And now you’re heartbroken and possibly pregnant with Jesse’s triplets!”

  “You’d better not be pregnant with triplets,” Sam warns.

  “That’d be news to me,” I say, laughing.

  “So are you dating Jesse?” Jordan asks.

  “I’m not sure. We’re still figuring things out. Jesse wants to take it slow.”

  “I understand that,” Jordan says.

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Looking back, I’m glad Sam and I
took things slow, even if it drove me crazy at the time. And even though it sucked, I’m glad we spent a year apart in college.”

  Sam nods. “Being single just made us realize we need to be together.”

  They stare at each other, very much in love. I hope to feel that kind of love one day.

  “So you wanted to talk?” Jordan asks.

  I reach into my back pocket, pull out the wrinkled letter from Wannabe Rocker, and pass it to Sam. He looks at the envelope for a long moment before pulling out the letter and unfolding it.

  “This is amazing!” Sam shows the letter to Jordan, and then they dance around the living room like they’ve won every football game ever. My brother pulls me into a big hug.

  “When do you leave?” he asks.

  “I can’t go,” I say quietly.

  “Why not?” Jordan asks.

  “I thought I could save enough money, but it’s just not happening.”

  “Pffft, money,” Jordan says, grabbing up the letter and scanning it again. My brother glares at her. With her former NFL player father, Jordan grew up with all the money in the world, and she’s never understood what it’s like to eat the free lunch at school or buy your clothes at Walmart.

  “I’ll give you the money,” Jordan says, and Sam places a hand over hers. Their eyes meet and go to war.

  “How much do you have?” Sam asks me.

  “About eight hundred dollars. I can buy two plane tickets for that—I need to take a guardian. But I won’t have enough money left for food or a hotel. They’re just too expensive in New York. They’re even expensive in New Jersey. I check online every day, and there’s nothing cheap.”

  “Did you talk to Mom and Dad?” Sam asks.

  I slowly nod my head. “Dad thinks he can get me a couple hundred, but I hate to do that to him. I would drive instead of flying, but Mom says her car won’t make it, and we can’t afford to buy another carburetor and go to New York too. I wanted to see if I could borrow your truck, maybe.”

  Sam clutches Jordan’s hand and stares at her again. “So you have to take a guardian?”

  “That’s what the rules say, since I’m not eighteen.”

  “I know somebody who lives in Hoboken, New Jersey. A guy I played ball with in college.”