Page 59 of Jesse's Girl
When I finally confessed everything to Katie yesterday, she was so invested in our little domestic drama I could practically hear the popcorn popping in the background. I’d share in her amusement if this didn’t feel so… torturous.
I realize I’ve been hiding in my room a lot the last couple of days—ever since I cut Jesse’s hair, really—and it’s getting a bit ridiculous. This is my apartment and I shouldn’t have to live like a recluse. We’re friends. I can face him. I take a deep breath, psyching myself up to act like my usual aloof self, determined to make it clear I don’t want him.
Plastering on an expression I hope communicates how little I give a shit, I open my bedroom door.
Jesse’s stooped over, reaching into the fridge. He straightens when he sees me, pulling out a carton of milk.
“Hey,” I say casually, walking straight into the kitchen. Straight toward him. I have one of those intrusive thoughts, like when you’re up on the twelfth floor of a high-rise and think I could jump off this balcony. But, instead of imagining plunging to my death, I’m picturing waltzing into his arms and crashing my mouth into his—finishing what we started. Like with the twelfth floor, though, I know I won’t jump.
“Hey,” he replies after a long moment.
I open the cupboard next to him, hating that I’m hyper-aware of exactly how close he is, and busy myself preparing my bowl of cereal. Refusing to let on that he affects me, I force myself not to back away, and swipe the carton from his hand. I only risk looking at him long enough to catch the slight tick of his jaw—and the uneasy way he watches me move around him. When I’ve poured the milk, I shove it back toward him with a dry smile.
He narrows his eyes and takes it. “Thanks?”
I grab a spoon and tuck into the couch with my breakfast, pulling my sketchbook and pencil into my lap. I try to focus on drawing while I eat, but none of the ideas I had for this sketch are coming back to me. Sensing Jesse’s gaze on my skin, I lift my head.
“What?” My tone is almost bitchy.
“Nothing,” he says.
I take a bite of my cereal, returning my attention to my sketchbook. But I can feel him watching me again and I can’t help but glance up once more, careful to appear uninterested.
He quickly looks away and places the milk carton on the counter, rubbing his forehead.
I set my bowl down on the coffee table and sigh, suddenly impatient. “Okay, are we seriously gonna keep awkwardly dancing around this? Pretending like nothing happened the other day?”
He frowns. “Uh, I mean… I don’t see a point in talking about it.”
“Well, you’re staring an awful lot for a guy with nothing to say.”
“I’m not staring!” he says, sounding annoyed.
I give him a long look.
“It was obviously a stupid mistake,” he finally says. “End of story. Let’s just forget it ever happened.”
I almost laugh. Fuck, I wish I could. Wish I could forget how it felt to know the only thing between me and Jesse’s hard cock was a few layers of fabric.
“Okay, listen,” he starts, walking toward me. He slumps into one of the shitty folding chairs across from the couch, avoiding my eyes. “All I wanted to say is I’m sorry. I should never have… done that.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. “It didn’t mean anything, anyway.” I flick my hair to one side and pick up my pencil again, turning to an in-progress sketch that won’t require much brainpower. I will myself to sink into my art. To let it wash over me and carry this tension away with it.
It isn’t working.
In my peripheral vision, Jesse runs both hands down his face, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Right. I mean, obviously.”
“And obviously,” I echo, lifting my gaze with forced confidence, the lie already stinging the back of my throat, “I don’t think of you that way.”
Lean into it. Sell it.
Something wavers in his expression, but he quickly reins it in, regarding me coolly. “Same.”
“So, this is a just friends kind of deal.” Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll come true.
“Absolutely.”
“Right.”