Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6)

by Miranda Kenneally

  “Being on the yacht made you think about all this?” He nods, so I add, “And this isn’t what you wanted out of life?”

  He shakes his head. This must be what he was talking about earlier, how you can end up leading a whole life you were never meant to lead. For me, it was letting Nate take over my band that landed me on the wrong path. But I don’t buy that Jesse wasn’t born to showcase his talent.

  “Jess, you were meant to perform. Other people would kill to have your voice—”

  He interrupts, “I’m about to turn nineteen. I can’t go to the grocery store without getting mauled—Grace has to do everything for me, or I have to have stuff delivered. You saw what happened earlier—I couldn’t even go to lunch without being interrupted for an autograph. My manager basically raised me. I have no friends—”

  Suddenly he picks up a rock from the shore and hurls it into the water. He watches the surface ripple and wave until it smoothes. Then he sits down next to me on the grass. “I just sat there on the yacht that night, thinking all I wanted was to perform on the Belle Carol Riverboat. Now no one I used to know from school will talk to me anymore, ’cause I won’t give them money and record deals…not that I wanna talk to them anyway. And my parents were still angry with me because my girlfriend blabbed about our sex life.”

  “So you were lonely?” He nods, and I swallow hard and ask with a shaky voice, “You weren’t trying to die or anything, right?”

  “Of course not.” Jesse bends over and drops his forehead onto his crossed arms. “I drank, like, half a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and slipped and fell off the boat.”

  “Half a fifth?” I exclaim.

  “I’d never actually drank before—or after—that night.”

  “Wait—why did you ask if I wanted to get drunk earlier today?”

  He tousles his wet hair, peeking up at me. “Maybe I was testing you a bit.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “You sure know how to do things up the first time. You practically get a record deal during your first singing lesson, and then you totally wipe out during your first alcoholic experience.”

  “I always say go big or go home.”

  I stretch out my legs and wiggle my toes, drying them in the sun. “Do you still love singing and playing guitar?”

  “More than anything.”

  “So what are you gonna do when you retire?”

  He looks to the opposite shore. “No idea.”

  “Then why would you quit?”

  “I don’t have a choice, Maya. I can quit or never have a real life. Right now, I don’t have anything but my music. Not friends, not family.”

  “Haven’t you ever tried to make friends with other people in the industry?”

  He nods. “It’s hard though. You never know if someone likes you for you. I used to spend time with Candy Roxanne, you know, the country singer? Then I realized she never wanted to hang out at home, watching a movie or listening to music. We always had to be seen somewhere together, like at a party or a restaurant, and people were always taking pictures that ended up in People and Us Weekly. It was never about friendship. She just wanted to be seen with me. And you know what happened with my ex, Stacey.”

  “But not everybody will use you. Some people are good, Jess…”

  We sit, listening to birds singing, to wind blowing through the trees. To the beautiful song of Tennessee.

  “Marco,” I say.

  “Polo.”

  I tentatively scoot his way. “Marco.”

  “Polo.”

  I crawl over next to him, touch his forearm. His brown eyes look so pretty and warm in the late afternoon sun. He touches my dress, twisting the black tulle in his hand. “I ruined your outfit.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve liked getting to talk to you today. You’re different.”

  “So are you.”

  His lip upturned, he leans back onto his hands, squinting at me, and I pull my eyes away from the line of water trickling down his flat stomach into places I still shouldn’t be thinking about.

  He catches me looking. “Sure you don’t wanna have sex?”

  I slap his arm. “Would you behave?”

  He grins. “So what’s up next?”

  “As soon as our clothes are dry, I’m driving your Harley.”

  • • •

  Jesse tells me that his favorite part of being a musician is writing. It makes him feel calm and excited all at once. Calm, because it’s quiet, and he gets the opportunity to think. Excited, because he never knows what might come out of his pen onto the paper. I’ve never been much of a writer, but I love that feeling of success, like when I figure out how to play a particularly hard transition.

  “So you do all your writing at your Pa’s fishing hole?” I ask.

  “I’ve got a few other places too. My studio is one. The other is a secret.”

  “Tell me!”

  He grins. “Are you serious about driving my bike?”

  “You better believe it.”

  “I trust you after seeing you drive that red car earlier. You know the way back to Second Avenue in Nashville?”

  As I climb on his Harley, I feel like I’m hitting a high C, the note that, as an alto, I always have problems singing. With Jesse securely behind me, I kick-start the bike and carefully steer it back onto the road. It’s a lot bigger than my Suzuki, but I manage it okay. I head toward downtown Nashville at seventy miles per hour. Jesse clutches my hips as I speed through yellow lights.

  Zooming down Franklin Road, we pass by Vanderbilt University and the Frist Art Museum. I honk and wave at the NashTrash Tour’s Big Pink Bus as I drive down tree-lined stretches of road, passing by Music Row and heading for the waterfront.

  At Second Avenue, I pull over and park. Jesse takes off his helmet and sits on the Harley, panting for several seconds. “Good God, woman. Never again!”

  “You’re just jealous I’m a better driver.”

  He leads me to a Chinese restaurant, and I’m about to ask if he’s craving dim sum when I see a small sign with an arrow pointing down to a place called the Underground.

  Is he taking me into the sewer? When we reach the bottom of the mossy, crumbling stone steps, he pushes open a door, and I gasp. A used record store. It’s totally hidden away. How has it stayed in business?

  I feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Band posters and magazine articles coat the walls, and tables filled with used CDs, DVDs, magazines, records, VHS tapes, video games, and cassettes stretch the length of the room. Cardboard cutouts line the aisles: Eddie Vedder, Mariah Carey, John Lennon, Cher, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Jim Morrison.

  Jesse nods at the guy running the cash register. The boy salutes Jesse, then goes back to plucking away at his bass. The place is empty except for a few customers who are digging through stacks of magazines and DVDs. I wonder if they’re looking for something in particular or just browsing, because I could spend my whole life looking through everything that’s here.

  Jesse wanders over to the classical section as I beeline for the rock. In a relaxed silence, he and I dig through milk crates and boxes full of cracked CD cases and old records coated with dust. I discover a Queen Christmas album that I might buy.

  “Got it,” Jesse says, slapping a CD against his palm.

  He’d been fishing around in a milk crate for a couple of minutes. With his gaze fixed firmly on mine, he grabs my hand and leads me to a rope ladder in the corner. It goes up to what looks like a loft.

  “That’s the listening room,” he says. “You can take records and CDs up there if you want to relax and listen to music. I write there when I need to get out of the studio.”

  “This is your special place?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  We climb up into a cozy crawlspace with a low ceiling. I scoot across
the floor and rest on an elbow. The loft is dark, only lit by black lights and a glimmer of sunlight streaming through a peephole. It smells like patchouli and incense. Patterned pillows and velvet cushions are everywhere.

  “Do you like it?” Jesse asks, taking off his hat.

  “I might have to steal your secret spot. I would love to hole up in here with my guitar.”

  He puts the CD in the stereo while I take a look at the case: The 50 Most Essential Pieces of Classical Music. The first song is Adagio in G Minor.

  I relax onto a purple quilted cushion and listen to the violin as Jesse writes in his notebook. It’s insane to think he could be composing the next Grammy-winning song of the year right next to me. I’m glad he’s getting a chance to write, since this is what he likes to do on his day off. He’s taught me so much today, I want to do something for him.

  I swipe my cell screen and check the details for the Belle Carol Riverboat online, then find a text from Dave: Saw pics of you on Access Hollywood!!!!!!

  There are pictures of me online? Dr. Salter is going to kill me. I won’t just get a detention; I’ll be in detention until I graduate. I scroll through the rest of my messages. My sister sent no fewer than twenty texts reminding me to get Jesse’s autograph for her.

  I hold my breath when I read a text from Hannah, asking if we can talk. I don’t know what there is to say. She just stood there while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe. Not to mention that she’s with Nate now. Granted, she didn’t know I had feelings for him and we’d been fooling around, but still. I don’t feel like talking to her.

  I text Dave back: Best day ever.

  Today really has been the best day. We’re getting to be real friends. But what if that feeling is one-sided and I never see him again? What if he cuts off all contact with everyone after he quits the business? It’s not like people will suddenly stop mobbing him just because he doesn’t record albums anymore. How will he feel when he’s no longer playing music full time, after he’s given up his heart? He loves singing and playing guitar and loves being onstage, but that’s being drowned by all the drama offstage.

  Maybe all he needs is a real good friend.

  And then my cell buzzes. Dave is calling.

  “Is it okay if I take this, Jess?” I ask, and he nods. “Hi,” I answer.

  “Hey. I saw you almost got arrested for jumping in a fountain with Jesse Scott. There’s a video of you running from a cop.”

  I cover my mouth. Yup, detention is definitely in my future. “Yeah. Jesse’s kind of crazy. How’d working at the Donut Palace go?”

  “I learned how to make a bear claw!”

  “Would you shut up about the bear claw already?” I hear a guy say in the background. It must be Xander, Dave’s college boy he met at Taco Bell.

  I take a peek at Jesse. He’s very interested in the purple cushion all of a sudden. Is he sad?

  “How’s it going with you, My?” Dave asks.

  “It’s been a great day,” I reply, and Jesse looks up at me.

  “Tell whoever it is I said hi,” Jesse whispers.

  “Tell him yourself. His name is Dave.” I pass the phone to Jesse, who takes a deep breath.

  “Hello?… I’m not gonna lie, she’s pretty nuts. She hijacked our whole day. We were supposed to go on these educational tours, and then Maya kidnapped me and made me go test-drive a sports car, and then she made me play hopscotch and go shopping for boots… Yeah, I’m being totally serious… Oh, and she won’t have sex with me either.”

  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.”

  I snort. “And who have you used your so-called precognitive relationship skills on?”

  He pauses outside the door to Gibson. “Holly and her husband, Jay. And I just know Uncle Bob has a thing for Mark.”

  “Get out! Dr. Salter is gay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m cool with it; I just had no idea. No one at school knows that.”

  “My parents know.” Jesse’s body deflates as he leans against the store’s brick wall. “They reacted badly when they found out. My dad hasn’t spoken to Uncle Bob in almost five years.”

  Poor Jesse. And poor Dr. Salter.

  But jeez—if anyone at school finds out that Dr. Salter is gay, I bet some closed-minded parents would storm the school carrying torches like in some kind of medieval crusade. I hate that about our town, that a lot of people are so closed-minded.

  “My parents and grandparents stopped talking to him when they found out,” Jesse says. “And I told my grandparents I wasn’t coming back for Christmas or Thanksgiving until they let Uncle Bob come, and well, I haven’t been over there in years.”

  “Wow,” I say, shaking my head.

  “It hasn’t been the same since Pa died anyway.”

  “Good for you standing up to your grandparents like that. But it must be hard not being part of their lives.”

  Jesse nods. “It’s complicated.”

  If his parents are this judgmental, I have no idea why he values their opinion so much. He must really love them if he’s willing to retire from the music business so he can rebuild their relationship. But then again, I stuck with The Fringe for a whole year, even when I didn’t want to play metal. I just wanted to belong, to be a part of something.