Jesse's Girl
Page 55
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“Jesse!”
“Hey, My.”
We’ve barely spoken since that night we went to the movies, and it’s good to hear his voice. I jog in place and grin. “How are you?”
“Good. I get home tomorrow. This was a hell of a trip.”
“You did great on SNL.”
“I’m never doing that again. It was way past my bedtime,” he jokes, and I smile into the phone. “I’ve missed you,” he says.
“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.
“Hey, My.”
We’ve barely spoken since that night we went to the movies, and it’s good to hear his voice. I jog in place and grin. “How are you?”
“Good. I get home tomorrow. This was a hell of a trip.”
“You did great on SNL.”
“I’m never doing that again. It was way past my bedtime,” he jokes, and I smile into the phone. “I’ve missed you,” he says.
“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.
