Page 115 of Jesse's Girl
“Sorry,” Claire says, glancing between the two of us. “It’s just… This might sound random, but have you ever thought about illustration? I work for a children’s book publisher. Like, if that’s what you can pull off in ten minutes… Wow.”
“Thanks,” Ada replies, then shrugs. “Uh, maybe? I hadn’t really…”
“Like, our art team is always considering new artists. If you want, I can connect you to submit your portfolio.” Claire fishes a business card from her purse on the counter. She hands it to Ada. “Gimme a call anytime.”
“Okay, thanks.” Ada takes the card with a polite smile.
Claire seems to finally pick up on Ada’s awkwardness and changes the subject. “Can I get you a coffee?”
Hazel and Sam are pressed up to the window over the back of the couch, their little hands leaving smudges on the glass. Waving goodbye, I realize I don’t know when I’ll see them next. I frown, once again toying with the prospect of being back here for good—and what that would mean for my family. I could be a better brother to Claire, a proper uncle to her kids, and be here for mom… who’s not getting any younger.
And Ada… I clench my jaw. Shit. Still not on the table.
We mount the bike and I let out a breath when Ada’s arms snake around my waist and she snugs herself against me. I press my gloved hand over hers for a long moment, squeezing once before I start the bike. The short ride to the art supply store with her at my back again makes everything feel easier—and seems to soften whatever tension was pulling tight between us.
A bell jingles above the door as I follow Ada into Different Strokes Art Supplies. I stuff my hands in my pockets and take in my surroundings, feeling a bit out-of-place in the tightly stocked shop. It’s one of those places where you have to watch your elbows everywhere you turn to avoid knocking something fragile off a display. Ada makes a beeline for the paints she needs, disappearing down a narrow aisle at the back of the store.
I loiter near the front counter until a heavily pierced employee starts to eye me warily and I go find Ada. She’s crouched at the end of an aisle, squinting at the labels on two nearly identical tubes of red paint.
“Shit,” she says. “They’re out of the color I wanted.” She huffs a resigned breath and stands, putting one tube back and tapping the other against her hand as she strolls toward the paintbrushes.
I lean over her shoulder, peering at all the options. “Wow… What’s the difference between all these?”
“It’s a lot of things. The size, obviously… but also the cut of the bristles, whether they’re synthetic or natural hair, how firm they are, what type of paint they work best with…”
I slide a hand over her lower back, pressing an experimental kiss to her temple.
“What are you doing?” she asks softly, withdrawing a bit. “We’re in public.”
“Okay.” I step away, not wanting to push her right now, and try to stuff down the sting of rejection that threatens. “But we’re also an hour from home. I don’t think we need to be that careful.”
She doesn’t answer, only lifts a brow in thought. Then she pulls down a package of three paintbrushes and opens the plastic flap, skimming her fingertips over the bristles. “Ooooh. Mink hair. These are fucking lush.”
I catch sight of the price tag. “Fifty bucks? For three paintbrushes?”
She sucks air through her teeth. “Yeah, that’s a bit steep. Too bad. They’re gorgeous.”
I study her in profile as she puts the brushes back, giving them a lingering touch before walking away. I want to pull her into my arms, make things right. I want to kiss her and feel her kiss me back, and I suddenly don’t give a shit about being in public.
She strolls down the aisle, poking absently at a few more items, lost in thought.
Checking to make sure she isn’t watching me, I pull the package back off the hook and tuck them out of view. Squeezing her arm as I walk past, I tell her I’ll meet her outside when she’s done.
The employee from earlier doesn’t seem impressed by the shady way I keep looking over my shoulder while she rings me through, but she seems to accept that your average shoplifter doesn’t drop fifty bucks on paintbrushes and hands me my receipt.
I step out into the sun and tuck the brushes into my back pocket. When I catch myself pacing the sidewalk, anxious about how Ada will receive the gift, I try to settle my nerves and lean up against the brick wall next to the shop.
When she finally emerges, she doesn’t see me right away. And in that split second—that small, insignificant moment before she spots me—time seems to slow. Her turquoise hair catches in the golden afternoon sun, glowing almost green around her face, and a slight frown worries her brow as she scans the passing faces on the sidewalk. It’s her eyes that get to me. Those eyes that glitter with challenge, that flare in a fight, that soften under my touch… Those eyes that can call me on my bullshit and bring me to my knees in a single glance. Those eyes that see me. Really see me.
Those eyes are everything.
And, as she searches for me outside the shop, I realize just how badly I want to be found. How I can’t deny it any longer.
I love her.
The corner of my mouth tugs up in a smile as I push off the wall, willing my heart to steady. “Hey.”
She turns at the sound of my voice. “There you are.”