Page 150 of Jesse's Girl

I narrow my eyes, still not letting myself believe it. He’s talking like Ada and I are together, when what we are is a mess. “What are you saying?”

“Oh, my God, Jess. You’re thicker than usual when you’re in love,” he deadpans, reaching over to deliver a rough swat to my knee.

“Fuck off,” I say, too tired to flinch. “I need to hear you say it, okay?”

“Look. If you make Ada happy, and she makes you happy, you should goddamn be happy together, alright? I’m saying you have my fucking blessing, dumbass.”

I hold my breath. If he’s really giving us the green light… I glance at our front door.

I need to tell her. Need her to know this could work…

“I’m saying”—Marcus says again, this time putting on his best impression of The Godfather, his voice strained—“welcome to the family.”

All the air leaves my lungs in a surprised laugh, a flood of relief and anxiety hitting me all at once. I should be jumping for joy, but I can’t forget the twist of pain on Ada’s face when she shoved me away at the wedding. I swallow past the knot in my throat.

“Now, the fuck are you doing still talking to me? You gonna cancel your flight, or what?” Marcus stands and pats my shoulder, then turns to leave.

Stunned, I watch him plod back toward the gate. He pulls out his phone, probably to call another cab.

“Hey, Marcus?” I call out quietly, not wanting to wake Mr. Wozniak.

He turns. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. You have no idea what this—” I cut myself off and press my lips together, not trusting my voice to stay steady.

He bobs his head thoughtfully, then walks back to me. Clapping a hand on my shoulder, he stoops down to look me in the eye. “Hurt her and you’re a dead man, Bailey.”

I only nod, breathing out a strained chuckle.

Fair.

I silently resolve to do my damnedest never to find out how Marcus would choose to murder me. Though, truth be told, I don’t know how to fix this—fix the hurt I’ve already caused. But I’m damn sure gonna try.

He turns to leave again.

“And hey,” I say again and he turns to me once more, walking backward. “Nice vocab, my guy.” At his confused face, I add, “Sturm und Drang? You been readin’? Like… something other than the smut you claimed was Renee’s?”

He shakes his head, although he can’t fight the smile. “Fuck off.”

“And your Brando needs some work,” I add.

He points a finger at me. “Thin ice, Jess… thin fuckin’ ice.”

34

ADA

The mirror above my dresser reveals an unrecognizable, raccoon-like creature. As I shift on my bare feet, a beam of morning light zaps straight into my retinas and I wince. I move out of the direct sunlight and lean forward to frown at my reflection. My black eye makeup is smeared and I’ve got hair sticking out in all directions. Like I’m moving in slow motion, I pull a loose bobby pin from where it dangles in front of my nose and toss it on the dresser. I drag my wild hair back into a messy ponytail and try to swallow past the raw lump in my throat. My lungs ache.

He’s gone.

Shoving one arm through the sleeve of Jesse’s hoodie, which he forgot to grab before he left, I gather the fabric against my face. I breathe in deep, like I can store him inside my chest cavity. I hate myself for doing it, but I don’t have the willpower yet to make better decisions.

Determined to at least pee before I start crying again, I pull open my bedroom door and yank the hoodie over my other arm. As I plod to the bathroom, I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. My makeup’s already a fucking mess, so I might as well lean into it.

I slump down on the toilet, making a clumsy grab for the mouthwash. It’s only when I go to spit and wash my hands that I catch sight of the sticky note on the mirror.

Turn over.

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