Page 152 of Jesse's Girl

You were so fucking greedy. And I loved when you crawled into my lap afterward.

My heart seizes up at the memory: nuzzling into his neck, wanting to stay there forever. Following the little arrow once more, I turn the note over.

#7: Where you told me you weren’t wearing any panties. (Scandalous!)

I smile again, the memory of Jesse bending me over the table after we got home from the river still as vivid in my mind as the day it had happened. I remember his urgency to get in the apartment and the way I’d teased him with my little secret outside our front door.

Nearly crashing into the coffee table, I launch into the hallway. I don’t bother stopping to put shoes on—I just pull open the front door and stumble outside.

And then I can’t breathe.

Jesse’s asleep on the stairs, sitting up with his head propped against the railing on a folded-up sweatshirt. And, stuck to his chest, right above his crossed arms, is a yellow sticky note.

Still not Katie.

I’m spinning out, a million questions flooding my mind.

He’s still here? How long has he been waiting outside?

I take a step toward him and then freeze when I remember how I look. I squint at my reflection in the nearby window, taking hasty swipes at the remnants of my smudged makeup until it’s giving a bit less melted goth and a bit more smoky-eyed emo.

When I turn back to Jesse, I’m suddenly at a loss for what to do. With one foot, I nudge the toe of his shoe.

He stirs, a sleepy grimace playing on his features.

I smile and tap his foot again, harder this time, and he cracks open an eye. The moment he registers me standing in front of him, both eyes fly wide and he sucks in a gulp of air, his arms uncrossing as the sweatshirt pillow falls to the ground.

Before he can speak, I climb right into his lap, burying my face in his neck.

He pulls me in tight—cupping the back of my head with one hand and rubbing soft strokes up and down my back with the other. We speak strained words of relief and apology into each other’s skin, and he whispers my name like a prayer between uneven breaths. I nuzzle into his neck, my hot tears soaking the collar of his T-shirt.

I finally pull back, searching his tired face, and wipe at the wetness on his cheeks. “You missed your flight,” I whisper.

“Not missed.” His voice is rough as he wipes my own tears away. “Canceled.”

“Canceled? What about your job?”

“I quit.”

The twisted knot in my stomach dares to uncoil half a turn. “You what?”

“I quit,” he says again. “Emailed my resignation at three in the morning like some drunk teenager.” He’s smiling. The fucker is smiling at me. I don’t trust it.

“And Marcus?”

He shakes his head. “Talked some sense into me.”

“What?”

“Your brother, by the way, does a terrible Marlon Brando impression.”

I frown in confusion. “Wait, what? What the fuck are you?—”

“He gave us his blessing, Ada.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek.

“What?” I laugh-sob the word out, searching his eyes for confirmation that this is real.

“Helped me see what was right in front of me this whole time.” Jesse’s lips meet mine, soft and tentative at first, then deeper. The kiss is exploring, apologetic, drugging.

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