Page 66 of Jesse's Girl

“You’re… you.”

She smiles cautiously at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.

“Uh… You’re my friend too?”

“Okay,” she says, our gazes lingering a moment too long. She seems to snap out of it and glances toward the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll get you some ice.”

Ada cracks the ice cube tray over a tea towel, then fills a small plastic bag with ice. She wraps it in the cloth, then pulls a chair over to sit across from me—close enough that our knees brush.

“Let me see,” she says, reaching for my swollen hand. A bluish-purple bruise is already forming around my knuckles. She runs her fingers gently along my heated skin, her expression tinged with concern. “You sure it’s not broken?”

“I don’t think so. Everything still moves okay,” I say, opening and closing my fingers with a wince. “Just sore.”

She gingerly presses the bundle of ice to my knuckles, holding my palm in her other hand. Her skin is soft and warm, and for a moment, there’s that magnetic pull between us that I’ve been working so hard to resist.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the ice pack from her and shifting back in my chair. “I got this.” I tip my head at her bedroom door. “You should go to bed.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Probably should.”

She gets up and heads to the bathroom, patting my shoulder on the way by. “Night, Jess.”

“Night.” Realizing I need sleep, too, I let out a long breath and stand, then plod to my own room. I’m more wired than I was before, so I switch on the lamp, deciding to read a bit more. My right hand throbs as I peel off my clothes, but I climb into bed with the ice pack and awkwardly arrange my book on my lap.

I’m not expecting the knock on my door ten minutes later.

“Come in,” I call out, putting my book face-down on the bed beside me. I’m only in my underwear—but the blankets are up, so… I guess this is fine?

Ada slowly opens the door and stands in the doorway. She’s changed out of her tight black work clothes and scrubbed off her makeup. She’s pulling at the hem of her oversized Ramones T-shirt, which hangs down over a pair of green pajama shorts.

She looks perfect.

I smile. “Hey.”

“Can I—?” She asks only half the question, gesturing to the bed. The set of her shoulders and the way she tucks her hair behind her ear is almost… sheepish.

Swallowing, I nod and sit up a bit. I’m not sure she should be here—not even sure what I’m agreeing to. But I don’t want her to go.

She sits on the edge of my bed and stares at the floor.

What’s she doing here?

I sit up fully and lean forward, hooking my arms over my knees, careful to keep myself covered by the blanket. When I catch my gaze sliding up her bare thigh to the hem of her shorts, I tear my eyes away.

I wait for her to speak, but she stays quiet.

“What’s up?” I finally ask.

“I was just wondering,” she starts, “how your mom’s been doing lately.”

What?

I straighten, frowning. “Better.”

“Good.” She picks at a piece of lint on my blanket. “Is she glad you’re home?”

“Uh, yeah… Is this really what you wanted to talk to me about at two in the morning? My mom?”

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